Majorca

• On the Ship where every one knows your name
• Paris is perfect, if you ditch the men! - France
• An appetite of Venice - Italy
• Party time in Tapas Central - Spain
• Croatia uncovered! - Croatia
• I'll have the state room please - Portugal
• Seeking Spain's hidden gems - Spain
• Let's tryst again - Sicily
• Dallying with Delia - Majorca
• Wax gets the works - Majorca
• B&B at the Palace - Italy
• The Golden Oldie - France
• Amazing Amalfi - Italy
• Follow the Stars - Europe
• Tuscany - Italy

THE DAY I ARRIVED IN MAJORCA so did David Bowie, Anna Ford and Fergie, all hot-footing it to their respective holiday hideaways while I sped off in the tour company’s complimentary taxi to my own favourite haunt, the mountain village of Deya, on the west coast.

Picture pine woods, olive trees, terraced hillsides, steep cobbled streets, an ancient church perched on top of the hills and a winding track down through dusty terraces and fields to the sea, and you have my idea of holiday heaven.

To this idyllic picture add Es Moli hotel with 87 air-conditioned rooms (with tea-making facilities, a rare treat in Spain) and balconies overlooking the terraces, Deya village itself and the sea.

My first move, after unpacking was to wander through Es Moli’s exotic gardens, past profusions of luscious shrubs, through orange and lemon groves and bag a sunbed by the fabulous pool.

And here was a marvel. For the first time, in Majorca, I did not have to spend my entire week racing the Germans to the sunbeds. There were more than enough to go around, some even scattered discreetly around the lawns in the shadow of fig and orange trees.

As I applied my factor 25 I noticed the person snoozing on the adjacent bed - and that person was Delia Smith.

Crawling with Celebrities

No kidding, fashionable upmarket Majorca is crawling with celebrities, they pop up everywhere. And no, I am not going to reveal what Delia looks like when her pinny’s off - other than to observe that all those famous, little sticky toffee puddings and so forth have definitely made their mark.

But back to Deya village. A two minute walk from the hotel are two rickety little open-air bars where expats and glitzy visitors rub sun bronzed shoulders and a cheap restaurant called J’aime where you can enjoy delicious Majorcan treats such as sopas (thick bread and cabbage casserole) and frito (a fry-up of liver and Mediterranean vegetables).

A steep walk up the hill brings you to the churchyard where the English poet Robert Graves would be resting in peace were it not for the camcorder-toting pilgrims beating a path to the simple tombstone.

Earwig at the open doorways of the old style houses and you’ll hear German, French and English chatter, tourists having ousted most of the locals.

I met only two Majorcan women, elderly and wearing black, scrubbing clothes at the open-air wash place by the footpath to the sea. Their huge old-fashioned knickers and bras were flapping on the fence to dry.

I also met long-term resident Patrick Meadows, famous for organising Deya’s wonderful annual summer music festivals. A highlight this year is a prize-winning Spanish pianist playing Bach, Beethoven and Chopin in the stunning San Marroig Palace overlooking the sea just outside the village.

In this spot you certainly don’t need a car. The local buses are cheap and punctual. A 20-minute ride brings you to Valdemossa’s gift shops and monastery where Chopin and his mistress, George Sand, once spent a terrible wet winter with Chopin’s piano getting covered in mildew and the locals being scandalised by Sand smoking cheroots and wearing trousers.

A 30-minute ride in the opposite direction brings you to the port of Soller.

Sea front cafes offer paella and prawns sizzling in garlic, and the old town itself is a labyrinth of lovely little shops, offering rustic pottery at bargain prices.

Best of all, if the return walk to Deya’s shadeless shingle beach is too much, the Es Moli provides free minibus transport to its own bathing cove.

This is a spectacular 20-minute drive along the hairpin bends of the coastal road, and has sunbeds, shady trees, snack bars and steel rungs down into deep, clear water. It’s great for snorkelling but watch for jellyfish.

Unforgettable moments

The most unforgettable moment for me (apart from bumping into Delia Smith) was the discovery, across from the hotel, of a baby donkey. Three days old, it stood on wobbly legs in the shade of an olive tree with its parents, the result of a government scheme to bring back Deya’s donkeys.

Within living memory, these animals were the main form of transport, and today little groups of them are once again hee-hawing to each other across the terraces.

To sit listening to their braying, mingling with the twilight sounds of sheep bells, squeak of swallows, rustle of palms, twang of distant guitars, shrilling of cicadas and of course my pre-dinner glass of chilled cava, was a magical way to end the day.

This is what getting away-from-it-all is about. And what’s good enough for Delia is definitely good enough for me.