This article appears in Vol. 24: The Slow Issue.

I

I
am catching crabs on a crooked wooden dock when I suddenly
hear the ice-cream motorcycle approaching and Lorenzo shouting
“Helados!” Dropping the net, I run to my mother to ask for 100
pesetas to buy my favourite chocolate ice cream. I remember
Lorenzo’s crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt, his hat, even the
smell of the fuel as he drives away. It is 1984 and roughly five
years beforehand my parents had fallen in love with the small,
bohemian seaside town of Puerto Pollença on the island of Mallorca.
The town saw the happiest years of our lives as we spent our
summers in a flat overlooking the bay. How my parents managed to
wrangle three children up several flights of steps is still a
mystery to me, but I suppose they favoured charm over
convenience.

Puerto Pollença in the 1980s was bohemian in a way that seems
outmoded now. Artists sat by the calm turquoise waters to paint the
seascape on their easels, my parents’ and siblings’ English and
French friends constantly dropped by to recount fascinating stories
of their travels, and sand was all you felt underfoot as you left
home in your bathing suit. It took us hours to sail across the bay
in a tiny, traditional llaüt boat.

In later years my parents bought a small piece of land close to
Pollença, eventually building a house that took years to complete.
My father, a naval engineer by trade but an architect and designer
in his heart, had a very specific modern-rustic vision that was
well ahead of its time and, as I recall from walking the
construction site with him, made every single column and arch a
nightmare for the builders. It didn’t matter. To him it had to be
perfect – and it was. Can Tunal (named after the prickly pear trees
in the Canary Islands where my mother is from) became our family
home in the late 1980s. Barely a few years later my father passed
away. The house my parents had spent most of their savings on was
left without its creator, so it became my mother’s task to instil
in us children both a love for the property and for the island.

In this she undoubtedly succeeded. Those heady summers growing
up in Mallorca formed the beginning of an enduring love affair with
the place – as well as with Spanish creativity and hospitality –
and was part of my motivation for starting Españolita, a website
celebrating traditional Spanish artisans. This year I decided to
take the concept a step further by creating a series of
Mediterranean retreats inviting others to embark on their own
Spanish romance. For each one I seek out soulful collaborators who
follow traditional production methods, as well as places that seem
somehow in balance with nature. I feel it is my duty to shine a
light on the authentic “Spanishness” that is so different to my
other life in Los Angeles, where I have lived and worked since
2008.

This is how I come to be sitting on a stone bench overlooking
the Mediterranean Sea in Son Rullán, the finca I have rented near
the coastal village of Deiá. Ancient olive trees surround the farm
and sheep roam freely through the house. The smell of spring
flowers and humid stone fills the air and I know that the lopsided
walls and pebbled floors will make our stay magnificently cosy. In
the kitchen my creative partner and culinary ambassador for the
retreat, Mallorcan native Deborah Piña, is putting the finishing
touches to an alfresco brunch of aubergine cake and beetroot salad.
When the guests – a creatively minded mix of music producers,
stylists, architects and photographers – arrive we sit down at the
long table in the golden afternoon light, open a couple of bottles
of local wine and celebrate with pa amb oli, our own upscale
version of Mallorcan peasant food. It consists of thick brown bread
with cut tomatoes spread on top, olive oil and a huge assortment of
local cheeses, pickles and charcuterie, including sobrassada, a
cured sausage from the Balearic Islands which is impossible to find
in the US.

The days that follow are filled with simple pleasures. We visit
the ceramicist Dora Good and learn how to shape our own pots and
plates in imitation of her raw and beautiful pieces, and drop by
Con Alma Design, the family wood workshop run by Maria Antònia and
Álvaro, who left their lives in London and Barcelona to create
beautifully rustic, wood-turned pieces ranging from furniture to
chopping boards out of fallen trees on their property. During
avisit to the farmers’ market in Sineu we replenish our pantry with
fresh fruit before settling down for a meal of artichoke rice in
the vineyards, patiently cooked on an open fire on the same ground
where the wine we are tasting was grown. We have an ensaïmada – a
kind of local flaky, sugary pastry – for dessert, heavenly when
combined with sweet wine and the smell of burnt wood.

One day we hop on an llaüt boat very similar to the one my
family owned and head south. Out at sea the tiny melons we bought
at the market get sliced up to enjoy with jamón. As everyone swims
we talk through the vermouth culture on the island and serve drinks
alongside canned seafood from the local delicatessen
beforefinishing with bocadillos, a simple form of Spanish sandwich.
On our way back to port, gin and tonics are passed around just in
time for a well-deserved siesta.

There is a feeling I want to convey with each retreat that is
difficult to explain through words alone. It lies in the confluence
of hospitality, the connection to the food we eat and prepare, and
the simplicity with which we enjoy it. On the final night a
flamenco guitar softly plays in the background of the farewell
dinner to which we have invitedthe local artisans who have
contributed to our stay. It takes me back to those early years on
the island and stokes the flames of my lifelong love affair with
Mallorca – something I hope has been kindled in all those whom we
invite to pass through.

Deborah Piña’s Slow-Food Guide to Mallorca