The Great Southern Migration

It seems every self respecting Swede (or should that be sensible Swede) escapes the long winter for somewhere south as least once during the winter. How far south? Well that depends. Some go to Thailand, I hear that Thailand is full of Swedish people in February, Australia seems to be a good bet for many too, however the really sensible ones just go to New Zealand I hear… just saying. Many stay closer to home, heading for the southern shores of Europe where, although colder, the winter doesn’t really affect to the same to degree as up north and you are likely to see the sun for more than five minutes over a three month period.

Our first November in Sweden was reasonably grim and at the time we were facing up to 2 months over the coldest period (where temperatures of -20 degrees centigrade are not uncommon), with no running water or bathroom due to the ‘repairs’ in our apartment block. Well we escaped that depressing thought by moving, but in November we figured it would be a good time to escape anyway, bathroom aside, to somewhere were it wasn’t -20 degrees and somewhere we could expose our lily white skin to some sun for a few minutes everyday.

The options, at first, sounded grim, well to us anyway. Canary Islands, Mallorca, Rhodes, Corfu... etc. Theses names to us, simply conjured up the two words ‘charter tourism’ and were simply hot sunny destinations where plane loads of England’s and Germany’s finest are dumped into mega complexes for several weeks of binge eating chips and sauerkraut, and consuming large volumes of cheap lager while undertaking lobster tanning sessions simultaneously. Would we like it? Probably not, but I guess anything was worth a shot, the Swedish winter was getting to us... and it was only November!

Tickets were booked to the Spanish Island of Mallorca and the accommodation was left to Tina’s parents – Karin and Michael. That in itself was a good start. Yes they are German, yes they like to drink bear, and hang on a second I’ll just ask… yes, they like sauerkraut, however they have never been to Mallorca, or for that fact any other of the lobster tanning destinations in Southern Europe. Like us, it simply isn’t their thing. We knew we were unlikely to end up in an ‘all inclusive’ fattening up clinic.

A bit of research ensued. Mallorca was a great place for road cycling. In fact, many of the top European trade teams base themselves in Mallorca during February due to the great climate and nice riding. Things were looking up and as February closed in and the fickle Swedish winter was… fickle, we eagerly counted down the days to our departure.

 

From winter....

...to summer in 4.5 hours of flying.

 Arriving at Palma de Mallorca Airport was a bit of a surprise. Mallorca is not big, about 3’500 square kilometres, however the airport seemed bigger that all the airports in New Zealand put together. After landing, the plane taxied around a surprising number of gates for what seemed an eternity. Nearly every plane sitting on the tarmac was of the Berlin Air variety, the lobster complexion seeking British seemingly not have arrived this early in the year. However, I could nearly smell the sauerkraut being lifted out of the holds of the Berlin Air planes!

The luggage halls were immense, but surprisingly empty of luggage. Ana’s car seat and her backpack arrived. This was a good omen for my cycling plans as in Ana’s backpack was all my cycling gear and nothing else. The suitcase containing everything else was missing. I mentioned to Tina that we needn’t worry as at least we could 1. Put Ana in the rental car and drive to our accommodation as we had her seat, and 2. When I picked up my rental bike, I would be able to go cycling. Tina didn't seem to think this was too great news though and after questioning an official looking baggage man, our missing bag miraculously popped out onto the conveyer.

Picking up the rental car was another eye opener. The rental car car-park was massive and it was overflowing with cars. It began to dawn us after seeing the size of the airport and the number of rental cars, and as soon as we had arrived on the other side of the Island to Porto Pollenca – the huge number of holiday apartments, just how many people actually come to Mallorca… a lot. Fortunately for us, they don’t come in February. Our holiday apartment was surrounded by other holiday apartments except they were practically all empty, like a huge global financial crisis had swept over Europe and only we could afford to go on holiday. The large roads that swept around the back of the town were, empty. The larger resorts were closed, the beaches were lucky to be occupied by more than a handful of people and we felt a little like we had the whole of Mallorca, if not at least Porto Pollenca all to ourselves.

The bike was delivered that night and I wasted no time in putting it to use early the following morning. I was up at six and was disappointed to have to wait for the sun to rise at 7.30 am to wheel it out of the apartment and give it a thrashing. Well, thrashing is a little bit of an exaggeration; a cruise is probably more apt. The last 3-4 months had been very quiet on the bike for me. But that didn’t worry me, I just wanted to ride. And conditions were perfect. With blue sky up above, I forgot how blue the sky could be, very little wind and daily temperatures between 10 and 20 degrees, the winter of Sweden seemed a lot more that 24 hours behind us.

I headed straight for the hills, which started practically outside our apartment. In the other direction was the flat, but I have never been too interested in cycling on the flat. I rode out the Formentor, a narrow Peninsula that ended in a lighthouse, before turning around and riding back into time for breakfast. Not a big ride at 40 km, but 100 % climbing or descending through a stunning coastal landscape. With a smile on my face it was time to face the day.

 

My favourite ride out to Formentor

Of course, this wasn’t a cycling holiday, but we couldn’t come here without at least dabbling in it, and the ability to go out early on some of the most beautiful roads I have ever ridden on before breakfast was too good to miss. The rest of the day we spent walking along the coast, dipping our feet into the freezing Mediterranean and trying to soak up as much of the suns powerful rays as possible. Except for Ana that is, who only been two and not having seen the sun since September could obviously not remember what it was. She spent most of the holiday with her sun hat pulled down to her neck, complaining “Sonne, sonne (German Sun)” whenever the strange object happen to be shining directly on her. Her hat as a result, is now so stretched, it is bordering on being too big for me to wear!

Teaching Ana the delights of shorts!

The town of Pollenca

The next day followed a similar pattern. Early morning jaunt to Formentor followed by sightseeing in the local villages. Then the dodgy stomachs started for Tina and I. The dodgy stomachs soon developed into full blown fevers and took the wheels out from underneath us both for a few days. Day 3 saw me roll out of bed at 3 pm. Yes, 3 pm! We couldn’t believe it. Sick again. It was my third descent sickness this year. Cycling aside, we continued to explore the beautiful inland villages, seemingly reasonably untouched by the mass tourism of the summer coastal towns. We also happened to stumble upon, by complete chance, the first large race of the European professional cycling road racing calendar. There is a series of fours races in Mallorca that I discovered were being held while we were there. I wasn’t particularly interested in going to watch them, but as we practically drove past the start line one day, we parked the car and wondered over to have a look.

Potentially the worst named Professional Cycling Team ever.

The spectators consisted of the local ring-ins, which were seemingly all the school children from the surrounding area and the start area literally consisted of them running around the village centre screaming with excitement and asking for anyone which visually resembled a professional cyclist (ie. Anyone in lycra much to the amusement of several spectators) for their autograph. It was very low key, therefore I was somewhat surprised when the riders eventually started rolling in to sign in. Bradley Wiggins (2012 Tour de France winner) and Rui Costa (Current World Road Race Champion)  were just two big names in a star studded field. That’s one thing I really love about road cycling. It’s out there in the open. There is no need for any special facilities, your ride on existing roads. There is minimal security, I could have gone over and pushed Wiggins off his bike if I so wished. I was a little surprised at how low key the event was though as it was ranked a 1.1 on the International Scale (which in effect made it a key race on the world calendar). There wasn’t even enough room behind the start line to fit all the riders so several dozen started around the corner and tagged on as the bunch went by.

 

The local fans

The last professional cycling bunch I had seen was in 1998 during the Tour De France. At the time I was shocked by the look of the riders which included the infamous Lance as the ascended the Col’de’Galibier. They looked like they were on drugs. Well they were actually. The riders in Vuelta Mallorca didn’t look anything like that. They actually looked quite normal. Whether this was because it was February at the start of the season and not many people have heard or care about the Vuelta Mallorca, compared to midway through the Tour De France in the middle of one of the hardest Alpine stages, I don’t know. But I’d like to think things have been cleaned up substantially, it definitely looked promising.

For the rest of the holiday we concentrated on our own cycling efforts, which despite still suffering stomachs survived several beautiful rides into the surrounding hills. We also focussed on getting as much sun onto our white bodies as we could while reacquainting Ana with the joys of grass between her toes, sun and shorts.

Back in Sweden, we were surprised by the mild climate and sun… yes we seem to have bought some home with us. It was also no surprise to hear that Stockholm had a miserable 14 hours of sun for the entire January, a record not outdone for the past 30 years apparently. I can believe it, it was grim. Anyway, despite several descent snow falls in the last week, spring definitely seems to be here, the days are stretching out, buds are forming and bulbs rising from the ground, the temperatures are even in the positives. Could this be the shortest winter Sweden has ever seen? We will see.

As a side note, one day after our return from Mallorca, I hopped on a plane and flew an hour north of the Arctic Circle to the Norwegian town of Tromso. There was snow on the ground, but not much, I was told they usually have two metres during February which makes Stockholm seem rather tropical but also a reflection of the rather mild winter that seems to have hit continental Europe this year. I was hanging out to see the northern lights – which would have been a rather big bonus tagged onto a work trip, but alas it was cloudy. Next time maybe? At least the hotel there made me feel special (see photograph!).

Tromso... back to winter

The Smart Hotel in Tromso. Makes you feel good when you wake up in the morning...