Muzzle up a Writer's Nose by Geoff Nelder
You know what it's like, when in spite of your story plan, events take the next location of the action to somewhere unexpected.
Erica had the misfortune to get herself brutally captured and imprisoned in a converted watchtower on Mallorca. ‘But why Mallorca?’ asked my wife. ‘Why not have her stay on mainland Spain?’
‘Because that's just the way the story goes. It sort of led me there and you have to follow instincts.’
I was putting the case for a quick field trip, not a holiday, to Mallorca. We'd been to the Costa del Sol but as I explained, as an island there's bound to be differences. It might be fiction but there has to be an element of authenticity. Anyway, with out-of-school holiday flights and me being on the sick it shouldn't be too expensive.
‘But why do you need to go? Can’t you find out from the Internet?’
‘I've tried that but although I have photos of the watchtowers I can't find whether they're made of sandstone or limestone, what aromas fill the atmosphere, the feel of the place.’
‘Go then, but don't expect your key to work in the lock when you get back!’
I found an English-speaking Estate Agent who found me a cheap apartment in Santa Ponsa and a cheap flight mid-morning saw me sweltering in a Mallorca heatwave.
My first surprise was the high proportion of Germans on the island. In addition, most of the apartment blocks were German-owned, with many occupied by Scottish holidaymakers. I found myself saying ‘Bitte’ rather than ‘por favor’.
My second surprise was the sight of so many Christmas trees on the beach. Well, they were pines but I was intrigued enough to want to know what sort and why they replaced the usual palm trees. No. The information office and everyone I asked either hadn't noticed or didn't care. I began to think perhaps authenticity didn't matter if the locals weren't bothered, but I persisted. Back to the information office: ‘I tried to find the library as indicated on the map you gave me but it isn't there.’
He shrugged. ‘Probably closed.’
I had the impression that most tourists don't ask directions to the library. I found a German couple - long-term residents - who recalled a library based in a school. I found its door ajar even though it was inside a school enjoying their summer break. The willing librarian spoke less English than my pathetic Spanish.
‘What sort of trees are those on the beach, por favor.’
‘Platja?’
‘Yes, platja is a beach. What sort of trees grow on the platja?’
‘Plantes.’
I gesticulate the shape of a tree.
‘Ah, Pinus!’
It didn't even sound rude the way she triumphantly said it. ‘Si, si. But there are muy Pinus!’
I'm sure she looked at my crotch: ‘Pinus, specifico?’
‘Si, which specific type of pine tree?’
Hands went into the air as if why does this stupid man want to know that?
‘Only one Pinus in Mallorca.’
I wish I could stop thinking she was looking at my trousers when she said it. ‘No, you have Cedar, Cypress, Spruce...’
‘All Pinus?’
‘Si, Do you have a book on Mallorca flora?’
‘Ah, si, here it is!’
That would've saved a lot of Pinus talk if I'd asked the right question earlier.
It's Pinus helepensis and it didn't arrive on Mallorca until 1753 if anyone else wants to know.
For the main purpose of my fact-finding trip I needed to get up close to a watchtower, a torre, of which there are dozens on the island built to look out for pirates and invaders. Ironically, in my book, Hot Air, I have the Gorda, a local Mafia, using one to look out for the police authorities. I had to scramble up a mountain to reach the torre. Hooray, I could see it. Oh no, there was a new fence to stop me reaching it. Traversing the top I discovered a gap in the fence. So hands on the tower was achieved along with lunch in its shade. This was rewarded by the sight of a gun barrel up my nose. It belonged to a security guard demanding to know what I was doing there. He said the mountain was privately owned and he had to arrest anyone trespassing and taking photographs of the villa below. The police came but when they saw I only had a disposable camera let me off with a caution. Apparently Claudia Schiffer owned the villa, and being troubled by telephoto lenses, bought the mountain overlooking it. Just as well they didn't see the binoculars I had in the rucksack, or the rock sample. I was arrested again the next day for photographing the different types of policemen and their vehicles. After confiscating my disposable camera and letting me go without charge, again, I had to buy another camera and do the same photos from behind one of their Christmas trees.
So what did I find out by being there in person that I couldn't from browsing the web?
The locals are German.
The English are Scottish.
The sheep wear cowbells.
The beach grows Christmas trees.
The sage and wild lavender fill your nose with heaven when you climb hills.
The police arrest you if they catch you photographing them.
The rich buy mountains but the riffraff still climb them and, yes, the watchtower was made of limestone.
Please let me in the house. I'll take you next time
