Valldemossa

The morning bell strikes nine and suddenly the village shifts. Coach doors hiss open, tour leaders raise umbrellas, and within minutes Valldemossa's single high street feels like Oxford Street in miniature. Yet slip left into Carrer de Jesús, duck under a dangling wisteria, and you'll hear only your own footsteps on 700-year-old stone. That's the trick here: the crowds advance no further than 200 metres from their parking slots, leaving the upper lanes to residents who hang washing between balconies and water geraniums the colour of British postboxes.

Four hundred metres above the Mediterranean, the air carries a pine tang you don't expect this close to Palma. The Serra de Tramuntana ridge blocks the midday heat, so even in August the shade feels genuinely cool. Winter mornings can drop to 5°C—pack a fleece if you're travelling between November and March—while summer afternoons hover around 28°C, several degrees kinder than the coast.

The Charterhouse and the Cold Piano

The Real Cartuja isn't one building but a walled hamlet within the village. Monks farmed these terraces from 1399 until 1835; then came a tubercular Polish composer and his lover, George Sand, seeking sun and finding only draughty cells. Chopin's piano—an upright Pleyel lugged over the mountains—still sits in what was the prior's pharmacy, its wood cracked like an old sailor's face. Entrance is €13.50 and you should allow ninety minutes: walk the echoing cloisters, peer into the tiny garden where Sand tried to grow potatoes, then read her withering diary extracts in the final room. ("A place more detestable, weather more odious, population more odious still.")

Sand wasn't wrong about the weather. The Tramuntana wind can rip through for days, rattling shutters and sending cats scurrying. Local farmers call it the "snow-eater" because it dries the high pastures so fast. When it drops, the silence feels almost theatrical.

Stone, Steps and the Sunday Trap

Valldemossa's builders worked with what they had: honey-coloured limestone flecked with fossilised shells. Every house grows from the slope, so the narrow lanes double as staircases. Count on climbing the equivalent of fifteen storeys even if you "just wander". Wear trainers; flip-flops on polished cobbles are an A&E advert. The prettiest stretch is the lower flight of Carrer de l'Hospital where green shutters frame olive-tree pots and the stone glows amber at dusk.

Market day is Sunday. Stalls sell olives the size of squash balls, wheels of sheep's cheese wrapped in woven palm, and bunches of camomile that smell like Granny's cupboard. Arrive before ten and you'll share the square with locals gossiping over cortados. Arrive at eleven and you'll queue behind cruise passengers for €3 orange juice. Traffic wardens patrol even on the Sabbath; ignore the blue zone and the fine is €40, payable instantly. The free car park beside the poliesportiu saves both money and stress—five minutes' uphill walk to the centre.

What to Eat, What to Skip

Ca'n Molinas has baked coca de patata since 1920. The bun is sweet, feather-light and disappears in three bites—buy two. Locals dunk it into morning coffee; Brits usually just inhale. For lunch, S'Estret hides down an alley barely wider than a Tesco trolley. Order garlic prawns and a glass of Premsal Blanc, the local white that tastes like Sauvignon without the nettles. Prices stay sensible: €14 for two tapas and wine.

Most terrace restaurants along the main drag charge €18 for reheated paella. Walk fifty metres higher to Es Taller where the menu lists grilled chicken, veggie risotto and other safe choices inside a 16th-century former workshop. The cooking won't win Michelin stars but the stone walls are genuine and the bill is 30% less than the tourist strip.

The Port That Isn't Quite

Seven kilometres of hairpins drop to Port de Valldemossa, really just a cliff-edge anchorage and a pebble beach the size of a cricket pitch. The drive terrifies anyone who has ever complained about single-track Highland roads: stone walls on both sides, buses coming up as you go down, no passing places for 3 km. If your hire-car excess makes you sweat, give it a miss. The reward is a salt-water pool carved into rock and a tiny chiringuito serving beer so cold it hurts. In July you'll share with yacht crews; in October you might have it to yourself apart from the resident gulls.

Walking the Windy Ridge

The old mule track to Deià leaves from the top of the village, signed "Camí de Mules". The first kilometre climbs 200 metres—think Snowdon on a hot day—then the path levels and follows an irrigation channel through holm oak and wild rosemary. Allow three hours to Deià, another hour down to the coast, and either bus back or face a 500-metre climb in reverse. Winter walkers should carry a waterproof; storms appear over the ridge faster than a Ryanair turnaround.

If that sounds too hearty, stroll the monastery's back gate to the Mirador de Miranda. Five minutes uphill delivers a stone balcony suspended above olive terraces and, on clear days, the sea shimmering 15 kilometres away. Sunset here is 7 pm in May, 5.30 pm in November—time your visit for golden light and you'll understand why Chopin kept composing even when the locals spied on him through the keyhole.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and late-September give warm days, cool nights and parking spaces. August is doable only if you arrive before nine and leave after six; midday is a furnace of coach exhaust and selfie sticks. January can be magical—almond blossom froths white against stone, cafés light log fires—but check the weather forecast; snow is rare but not impossible and the village has no gritters.

There are no grand hotels. Small guesthouses offer double rooms from €90 in low season, €150 in July. Book ahead; Valldemossa has fewer beds than a single Majorcan beach resort block. One night is enough unless you're hiking the full GR-221 long-distance trail. Two nights lets you see the monastery at opening time, walk to Deià, and return for a quiet beer while day-trippers fight for the last coca de patata.

Leave before the final bell rings and the coaches lumber back to Palma. The village exhales, shutters close, and the stone turns rose in the last light. For a moment you might agree with Sand—"odious" is too strong—but you'll still glance backwards as you drive away, half expecting to hear a nocturne drifting down the empty lanes.