Palma.
Arrive in style.
We arrive in Palma as we arrive everywhere: Rich with a colour-coded itinerary laminated in quiet desperation, Brunhilde in an outfit specifically curated for Mediterranean disembarkation, and Oliver already asking where the ice cream is. The city obliges on all fronts. Es Princep receives us with the hushed reverence it reserves for guests who have chosen correctly. The old town is toured by tuk-tuk at a pace that even Oliver cannot complain about — though he tries. Dinner at El Camino at 21:30, because this is Spain, and nothing worth eating happens before dark, and because Brunhilde has already identified the most expensive item on the menu from the taxi.
Es Lombards.
The Finca life.
Five days at the Finca, which is either a holiday or a masterclass in strategic relaxation depending on who you ask. Brunhilde asks for nothing. She requires only a sun lounger, a good Wi-Fi signal, and the knowledge that the pool is heated. Oliver requires ice cream at intervals that a nutritionist would describe as “clinically concerning.” Rich requires the calas — Calo des Moro, Cala Mondragó, Cala Santanyí — each one an argument for abandoning all ambition and simply floating. There are bees. We meet them. There is pétanque. Oliver wins by accident and is insufferable about it.
Deià.
Where time slows.
Deïa does not so much welcome visitors as quietly judge them for having taken so long to arrive. And La Residencia — a Belmond property of such breathtaking, almost offensive magnificence — receives us accordingly. Clinging to a hillside above the village, hewn from 16th-century stone, draped in olive groves older than several nations: this is a hotel that knows exactly what it is and charges accordingly. We will not be complaining. We will be drinking cocktails on the terrace while Oliver — our beloved son, our joy, our reason for being — is dispatched to tennis lessons. He will thank us. Probably. We dine at El Olivo. We ride the vintage Sóller train. We lunch at Ca’s Patró March with our feet practically in the sea. Brunhilde has an outfit for all of it.
London.
The grand finale.
And so to London, which has the audacity to be extraordinary while pretending it’s perfectly normal. Five nights at The BoTree, Marylebone — a hotel so quietly excellent you’ll want to tell absolutely no one about it. We mark Canada Day at the Embassy with the pride of people who have just spent a fortnight in Spain. We make the pilgrimage to the Emirates — thirty years of devotion, finally rewarded with a league title and a stadium tour — while Oliver asks if there’s a hot dog stand. There is. He is delighted. Afternoon Tea at The Ritz at 3:30, because some clichés are non-negotiable. Bluebird brunch. Borough Market. Notting Hill. Dinners at St. John, Tigermilk, Darjeeling Express, The Devonshire. Brunhilde nearly walks into a cab on the Strand. We survive. We always do.
