On a hot summer’s day in Majorca, the usual scene would be busy beaches and Irish bars playing football on repeat whilst men drink cheap, fizzy beer and the women-bright blue cocktails with cherry sticks. However, I prefer those quiet spots on the cliffs where the sea is to yourself and the site of TV screens are far, far away. So, I wandered away from the town and along rows upon on rows of houses in search for somewhere to climb down to the sea. As I wondered past affluent rows of vibrant villas and modern architectural forts, a rusty old gate with a sign ‘no trespassing’ bewildered the perfect scenery. Behind the gate was a beautifully paved drive leading to what I can only describe as a house you would see in a James Bond movie. The door was within a large archway, the windows stretched high above the trees and the crumbling statues of greek mythology surrounded the borders.
I wanted to explore further as there would almost certainly be steps down to the sea. So I climbed over the wall, ignoring the sign and made my way over to the building. The door was open slightly so I crept in. The floors were like a glassy sea of black marble, and the white grains were like sea foam dancing in a gentle breeze. To my left was a grand white staircase meandering to the first floor, greeted by yawning crevasses. The banisters were no longer there, just the empty holes that once would have held them. As I walked further into the house I was mesmerised by what I saw next. I was faced with a blue wave horizon as the house opened up to the sea, light engulfing the empty rooms and the feeling of opulence and grandeur for-filled the senses.
I walked onto the veranda, the bare wood patinated with grain and age, contrasted beautifully with the deep ink blue of the sea. I thought to myself, this is where they would have sat and sipped their morning tea listening to a crackly old record whilst watching the waves lap against the cliffs. As I walked down the steps I could hear the tapping of my feet echo in an empty pool. Instead of being filled with inviting cool water, it was now just broken turquoise tiles and graffiti.
Walking around the rugged, unloved remains of the house, I was reminded of the scene in the film Titanic when the memories of people dancing, eating and playing appears through the now sunken hallways. I could see the parties that were held in the grand dining hall, the quiet nights watching the myriad stars, the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen. However, as I brushed past the wall that fell to rubble, so did the images of what once may have been.
I followed a path away from the house that disappeared down the side of the cliffs, twisting and winding down to a bathing area by the sea. Cautiously, I made my way down, stretched out my towel and lay there for a while in complete peace and tranquility. On my return, I scrambled back over the wall in my flip-flops and salty beach towel and wondered past the rows of villas and forts and thought to myself, how wonderful it was to find a hidden gem, lost in the past.
Words and Photography by Flynn Hunter
Creative Stories 