Returning to the Scene of our Times #2


Over the intervening 25 years, I’d been back, alone, several times, for short periods, never longer than a week. And leaving was always a wrench. But this time, and late last year, De and I returned to the valley and stayed for ten days.

We stayed, not in Fornalutx (and upon reflection were relieved we hadn’t) but in a comfortable apartment in the heart of Soller, with views down to the torrente – which runs through the town, fed by the melting snow off the Tramuntana. In times past, the torrente ran thick with garbage and discarded household goods. I once rode an old mattress with a friend down to the Port one winter when it was raging. But today’s Soller has acquired civic pride, and the torrente outside our window was alive with noisy ducks of many varieties, which we fed daily with stale bread.


The craggy peaks of the Tramuntana, with dark green vegetation scrambling up their sides above the olive groves, were also visible from the window of our apartment, as they are from practically every building in town, a reassuring reminder of the human scale of the town.

We were there in early November, which means, in a small town with a large tourist population in season, that many restaurants were closed. But this suited us. We had a well-stocked kitchen and we knew where to go to stock the larder. To the deli in Calle Luna, still run by Pep, who taught me about Jamón so many years ago. It’s the gastronomic centre of town, selling the best sobrasada, a raw pork sausage cured with pimentón, which holds a similar status on the island to Vegemite in Australia, except that it is an artisanal and not an industrial product: the finest cheeses from the island and further afield; a wonderful selection of local wines and much more to please the palates of two Australian gastronauts.

I recall years ago when I first noticed the scungy looking legs of jamón on the carving rack. Pep offered me a slice. I’d never tasted anything like it. He told me the price, even then something like $150 a kilogram. I blanched. He said, ‘Señor, who eats a kilogram of ham?” I bought 100 grams. This time, we visited daily for wine and other delicacies.

I loved that Pep was still there, his shop was still there. Coming from a city where food is dictated by fashion and fad, I love that I can return here in 5,10 years time and know that I will always be able to get the dishes I love and remember. In a Spain currently obsessed with what the author and journalist Xavier Domingo called ‘the scourge of creative cuisine’ on the island of Mallorca the time-honoured dominates.

We also renewed our acquaintance with the butcher in the market, another Pep who still made wonderful sausages and sells scrawny, flavoursome chickens. It was winter, and although the vegetable stalls were limited, wild mushrooms were abundant. We ate well at home.

I have always had a thing about the little pies they call empanadas de guisantes or sometimes empanadas de xixols, a local word for peas. Having tried them from several bakers in Soller, I’ve chosen this one from a a little baker behind the cathedral, Forn de Can Frau, as the best. Moist, crusty pastry. Now you know.


We had come to the island after 15 days on the mainland, mainly in Andalusia, and had eaten there both well and very badly ­–­ the worst meal the most expensive. But the very best meal we had was in Palma at Celler Sa Premsa which has been there since 1958. I first ate there in the early 1970s. This time I had as a main what I would have had then. How do I know? I have it every time. Lechona, baked suckling pig, with perfect crackling and moist, sweet meat. To start, plump preserved white asparagus on a large plate with a large handful of pimientos de pardon, and a dollop of allioli.


Another memorable meal was the pamboli at S’Hostal in Montiuri. What’s pamboli? Literally bread (pa) and (amb) oil (oli). Another Mallorquin culinary cultural touchstone. When first we lived in Fornalutx, a young girl from the village took to visiting us, ostensibly to practice her English, but always at lunch time. Lunches were a feast of leftovers from the fridge, cheese, olives, left over meat, left over dishes, fruit…everything. After a few meals like this she said to us “you eat something different every day for lunch,” We replied “yes, what do you eat?” “Pamboli” she replied.


We had our pamboli at S’Hostal with a friend from those days, Tomás Graves and his wife Carmen. Tomás’ book Bread and Oil examines every principal ingredient, and all the ways that pamboli can be embellished: with seasonal vegetables, cheese, jamón and other embutidos (cured meats). Tomás, along with his late brother Juan and others, had a rock and roll band, the Pamboli Band. We couldn’t have had better companions for this meal in this small town in the centre of the island, known everywhere for its – pamboli.


During our first stay on the island, a plan was announced to build a tunnel through the Tramuntana to open up the Soller Valley to Palma. This plan was vehemently opposed by many in the valley, including me

At the time, to get to the valley was not easy. You could come by boat to the port, or drive the coast road through Deía, a precarious journey skirting precipitous drops to the sea, or drive over the mountain, an equally precarious and difficult road involving some sixty switchbacks. Or you could catch the small and very slow train from Palma.

These natural barriers meant that you really had to want to go to Soller and the villages of the northwest, as you really had to want to go to Shangri La. And while it was not the mysterious place described in Lost Horizon, Soller was a haven, a bubble cocooned from the outside world.

In August of1 990, the second year of our migration to Mallorca, the talk of war with Iraq was on every front page.

I recorded in my diary a conversation at that time.

“They say the war will start tomorrow.”

“Oh really? (pause) I wonder if you can buy soy sauce in Soller?”

The inaccessibility of the valley added to the unreality of such a thing as the invasion of Iraq although, in reality, Iraq was not that far (and the war didn’t start until January 1991). We worried, those of us against the tunnel, el tunel, that when finished it would burst that bubble.

The tunnel was built, but the bubble remains intact. Whether that is a good or a bad thing, I’ll leave to one side. But it does go some way to explaining the way we immediately sank back into life in Soller. It took only two days. We wanted to stay. It was as if we had never left.

Yes, the streets and the villages were filled with the ghosts of dead friends. And yes sometimes the changes were overwhelming ­ – there was yet another tunnel on what had been the old road to the Port – but in essence it was the place that we had grown to love 25 years ago. Let me leave you with one story.

We were walking through Soller one day, past the railway station. ­There’s a lovely old train to Soller which is priced out of reach unless you’re a resident or a wealthy tourist, it used to be much cheaper. The extra money earned has been spent on upgrading the station and adding an art gallery. That day, there was an exhibition of Miró graphics and Picasso ceramics. In a railway station.

To go back to that question, can you go back? In our case, most definitely yes. But would we want to live there again? Alas, no. You can only migrate once. But we will most certainly go back as often as we can. It is still in our hearts.



Returning to the Scene of our Times 1


(The clearest map I could find is, not surprisingly, in German. They’re taking over)

The question is, can you go back? If you’ve had a sublime experience somewhere, what happens when you return? This is how it was for us.

In 1989, my wife of three years, our daughter of eighteen months and I migrated to the island of Mallorca. Migrated. That’s how we saw it. We weren’t running away, we were deliberately turning our backs on what we saw as a dull and bland country.

There were other reasons, but I won’t go into them here. Enough to say that we were over the country of our birth, and I persuaded De (my wife) that a fresh start in the country with which I’d conducted a long term love affair (and many short term love affairs) was our best bet for a future. She didn’t need much persuading. She too had fallen in love with Spain, the island of Mallorca and the house I’d bought there long before we were married when I took her there for our honeymoon.

The island of Mallorca is much maligned. In England it is a joke. Somewhere to go to take a holiday from the bad English weather, to lie on the beach and drink too much every night. To arrive home sunburnt and not quite knowing where you’ve been. I’m pretty sure that many English tourists don’t even know that it’s a part of Spain.

But to damn the entire island for that would be like damning Queensland because of the Gold Coast. There is much more. Take our little corner, the northwest, the largest town there, Soller (pronounced Sol-yeah).


‘We’ll go to Soller — Papa always says it is the finest place on earth,’ said a child character in Loup Durand’s novel Daddy. Those who know it well wouldn’t argue.

The little city of Soller could have been used to illustrate the assertion by historian Fernand Braudel that ‘the Mediterranean is a …sea ringed by mountains.’ Those mountains certainly shaped Soller and the Soller Valley by guaranteeing insulation from the rest of the world. Soller and its port, before the advent of buses and trucks, before the tunnel, offered the easiest access to the markets of southern France for the produce of the Soller Valley, mainly oranges, olives and olive oil. Little ships would cross from the port to Marseilles, and with them generations of Sollerenses (as the natives are called) with two results. One, there were and are many families from the valley in Southern France, many in the produce trade, and two, French is the second language — after Mallorquin — of many Sollerenses.


And above Soller, the village where once we owned a house, Fornalutx, a village of some 400 inhabitants which swells to at least twice that in the summer. A cosy blanket of a village with its mix of nationalities, still predominantly Mallorquin, but with an increasing number of Germans and a small handful, when we lived there, of Australians, English, Swedes and Spaniards from the mainland: a very different lot from the locals.

The honey–coloured stone cottages of Fornalutx – some of them, like the one I bought, 700 years old – tumble down the hillside which leads eventually to the Tramuntana, the mountain range that forms the north western spine of the Island whose peaks are covered in snow in Winter. So hilly is it that there is still work for a man with a donkey to lug building materials up the steep paths no mechanical workhorse can handle.


Two crops still dominate the valley, oranges and olives. The orange groves lower down on the valley floor, the olives growing up and down the hillsides, planted on dry stone terraces, a feat of man-made engineering (they encircle the island) often compared to the pyramids. Their construction points to them having been built by Arab and Berber settlers in the tenth century.

So there we were, fresh from the cutthroat world of advertising (literally in my case, cutthroat I mean) and the ‘open all hours everything on tap’ life of a big city plonked, after considerable difficulty with customs, in my funny old house in a tiny village on a mountainside, with a wife who didn’t speak the language and an infant daughter who had been ripped from her home. What could possibly go wrong? Well, over time, everything. ‘ I Pity the poor immigrant’, wrote Dylan, ‘Who wishes he would’ve stayed home’ he added. Eventually, we didn’t.

It took six months to adjust. Six months during which there were tears, fights, and a real danger of the marriage breaking down. I don’t know about the experiences of other migrants, but I would assume not much different. And we had it a lot easier. We weren’t entirely stranded. I had friends I had made over the years. There were other English speakers, and I had some Spanish. Gradually, we settled into what we (De and I) agree were the best three and a half years of our lives. Curiously, our daughter Laura who was four and a half when we left, and who was fluent in Spanish and Mallorquin by then, remembers virtually nothing of that time.

Even my own memories are vague and selective. I remember people, I remember incidents, but as I read through my old diaries, I am surprised by how much of what were obviously important events and people with whom I was close I have completely forgotten. Entries like ‘Gerald to dinner. Religious waffle.’ Who was Gerald? What religious waffle?

But also, reading through those diaries, I’m reminded of the intensity, richness and variety of our lives. There, as here, the life of a writer is essentially sitting all day in front of a machine, and squeezing words and sentences and chapters and stories from the brain. But there, surrounding the hours spent at the machine we fostered deep and abiding friendships with people we could never have met in Australia (the poet Paul Roche, the illustrator Paul Hogarth, the painter George Sheridan among many), were intertwined with our community in ways in which I certainly never had been in Sydney. When it was all over I realised that we had spent a good twenty per cent of our time working for that community in various ways.

But in spite of that, and tending to our almond trees and planting a flourishing garden, I finished (and sold) my first novel and began and almost finished a second (also later sold). We left, not because we wanted to but because we had to. With heavy hearts.


When the rope snaps.

When the rope snaps, when the long story’s done.

Not for you only but for everyone

These praises will continue fresh and true

As ever, cruelly though the Goddess tricked you,

And lovers (it may be) will bless you for

Your blindness, grieved that you could praise no more.

(From Across The Gulf, Late Poems, Robert Graves published by the New Seizin Press in

Bob,Cala Deya,70s (Medium)[1]

Bob Jones left the planet on January 1st 2016

It is very difficult for me to write of my friend Bob Jones. Not because I can’t remember much about our times together, but because I can remember too much.

As I said in the post on his death, we were partners in mischief. An honest account of that mischief would be interminable. And one other thing.

The death of a close friend, only a few years younger than I am, brings mortality and the finite into sharp focus. As another old Mate Mark Lang said after a little health scare, it reminds you that life is a finite boogie and not an infinite doddle.

Bobby and I met when it seemed that life was an infinite doddle, back in the last year of the sixties, when I joined J Walter Thompson for my first job ever as a copywriter.I had, up to that point, been driving cabs and smoking way too much dope.

Bobby was my designated art director, an incredibly cool surfie from the northern beaches who could draw like an angel, sing and play the guitar. We were under the eagle eye of group head Tony Moon and his art director Jules Sher. Moon was brilliant, mercurial and a bloody hard to work for.

And Jones and I were not as much into work as we were into dope and booze. And sex. Moon endeared himself to us with one hard and fast rule. “If you get pissed at lunch don’t come back to work. You’ll only make a dick of yourself.” But we did work hard and we both learnt how to make ads that worked.

Bobby had a girl friend, Sandra Maddocks (Sam) who he later married. I was married to Sue. But in the tenor of the times this did little to stop our extramarital activities. And while Sue and I divorced after 12 years, Sam was with Bob until the day he died. A remarkably resilient relationship with both partners wandering off along other paths from time to time. What kept them together was a strong and  deep seam of love that wouldn’t die.

But back at JWT, living in the seventies, Bob and I bonded at work and outside work. Dope was smoked, a little acid was dropped, young women were loved and lost or at least mislaid,  but amidst all the frivolity much work was done. There were many times we worked the whole weekend through, day and night, to finish a campaign for the dreaded Moon.

Three years later we left together, and Bob and Sue I went to Singapore where we worked in the world’s craziest agency,  then Indonesia. Sam had already gone to Europe and was, if I remember correctly, doing secretarial work for Robert Graves in Deià

Bob loved Indonesia and especially Bali. He spoke often of wanting to return to trade in antiques, rugs, batiks. He loved the bartering process, loved the antique markets.

In those days the markets in Jakarta were stuffed with treasures from colonial times. We talked of organising shiploads of furniture and sending it back to Sydney. Of course he and I never did, but later, he and Sam did become traders in Indonesia.

The three of us then went to London, Bob went to Spain, and then sent me a postcard. That postcard changed the course of my life.

It was a hand drawn postcard. I wish I still had it. I’ve searched all over. It’s lying in some forgotten pile of letters, notebooks, other postcards. Or else it’s been tossed. What is remarkable about it is not just the deep — and often devastating — effect that it had on my life, but that I can still see it so clearly in my mind’s eye. That postcard cost me peace of mind, maybe a marriage. But it gave me Spain.

Bob had drawn himself lounging in an arched window, strumming his guitar, a wine glass on the sill. Behind and below him were gentle hills, a palm tree, beyond that olive trees, and finally, the sea, the Mediterranean. It was drawn with one of those fine black pens beloved of art directors of the time (when they drew rather than raided web sites for scrap), a Rapidograph, which delivered a fine, spidery, black line.

And although it was only a black and white drawing, the sun shone out of it, the sea was a seductive blue and the palm tree waved in the gentle breeze from Africa. We — Susie and I — were about to enter our second winter in London when that card arrived, a city that I have never liked and then actively loathed (I was almost shot there). A second winter of pushing coins into the slot of the rattling gas water heater, walking to work over rain slick pavements, wrapped in a tatty black fur coat, living with a damp cold that penetrated to the bone marrow, and trudging to Soho daily to earn just enough to keep the whole sordid process ticking over. Bob’s card promised sun, fun — and adventure.

He’d spent the first winter with us in London, before heading south to the island where Sam had lived and worked for several years before going back to Oz. The island was Mallorca, and the drawing on the postcard depicted the view from Son Rullan, a 14th century possessió, just outside Deiá on the north western coast of the island. A possessió was a county estate, a self contained farmhouse which had once housed the workers who picked the olives, pressed the olives and was a in reality a small village. By the time Bob got there, it was in disrepair and, in exchange for free rent, Bob and the others living there were supposed to be repairing it. But I knew none of this. Just that this postcard offered a way of escaping another London winter.

Suddenly, as is possible when you’re young and childless and resplendently irresponsible, we weren’t there, in our crummy flat in the Fulham Road, but on a train rattling through the south of France to the Spanish border.

And then we were living in this huge old wreck of a house and having more adventures than a boatful of Barbary coast pirates. A lot of those adventure, for Bob, were with a beautiful Spanish woman, Remedios. Check out the bottom left hand corner: someone – could have been me – toking on a pipe.Bob and Reme,70s (Medium)[2]

Here’s a shot Bob send me taken during that time,  of Sam, in the background, and in the foreground one of the genial villains of the village, the actor Del Negro, also departed.

F1000007 (Medium)[1]

And finally, another of Sam, as an ethereal hippy in a field of wild flowers, by local photographer Heiner Schmitz.


I’m not going to go on about those times. I’ve written about them (only the names have been changed et cetera) in my book Grazing, but let me sum up my dear old friend.

He was a romantic, from his long blonde hair to his toenails. Facts were not his forte. He lived for beautiful women, beautiful music, beautiful images and beautiful places, especially islands. And although, sadly, he never kept up with his music – he had the talent to have made a career of it – the life he lived had much beauty in it. He and Sam lived in Deià, opened a shop called Islas and once a year, in winter, they travelled to Bali to stock the shop and then toured around the Islands of South East Asia. At least in the early days, Deià was very congenial village set amongst spectacular countryside.

I once called Bob the man who was always somewhere else. He was restless in one place, always ready to move on. Well, to a great extent, that’s what his life was: two places, two lives. And many dreams.

In our last conversation Sam told me she’d be planting a palm tree over his ashes. Which goes full circle back to that postcard that sent us to Spain. It’s the right tree to contain a romantic soul. She was with him, as I said, when he left, as were their two sons, Asher and Aden

Adios Bobby. I am just realising I’ll never sit opposite you at Sa Fonda, talking bullshit and drinking wine – well I’d be drinking wine, you’d be drinking beer. You’d remember your old Mate John T Fisher who’d bellow across the bar “I would kill my father rob my mother rape my sister break a blister for a San Miguel!”

Nothing left to say but vaya con dios or, as is more likely for both of us, the other bloke.