How the literati discovered Magaluf

Sprawled out across the kerb, exhausted and inebriated as we split boxes of 20 McDonalds chicken nuggets with old friends and new drinking partners, our faces dancing with the coloured florescent lights of the strip and hair streaked with sickly-sweet flecks of alcohol. That’s how I remember my first time in Magaluf, celebrating my A-level results at 18.

Almost a decade on, I found myself back there ­– except this time, I was chatting to Trainspotting author Irvine Welsh at a rooftop bar during a literary festival. So far, so highbrow. We were both in Mallorca for the inaugural Festival Literatura Expandida a Magaluf, which took over INNSiDE Calvià Beach by Meliá, an imposing but reasonably-priced hotel on the seafront, over the first weekend in October.

‘I like the idea that you can just dance on the tables and sh*t and then come over here [to the festival] and do this,’ said Welsh, jovially addressing the disconnect between the town’s international reputation as a breeding ground for lewd behaviour and its tentative steps towards becoming a cultural hub for the island, promoted by the likes of LEM and its partner Rata Corner, a well-known – but small – bookshop in Palma, Mallorca’s capital. Most Brits who find themselves in the infamous party town have gone there for one reason: to get drunk on the cheap. It’s known as a haven for stag and hen do’s and lads’ holidays – a shorthand for debauchery in our national consciousness with the success of reality TV shows such as Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents and The Magaluf Weekender. But at the festival’s opening, Alfonso Rodríguez, the mayor of the Calvià municipality, stressed its importance in ‘breaking the stereotypes’ around the town and boosting it in the eyes of the world to a cultural destination, rather than a boozy one. The festival played host to an impressive line-up of Spanish authors, artists and musicians over the weekend including Antonio Muñoz Molina, a celebrated novelist in the country. The atmosphere was informal, with musicians playing concerts in bedrooms, temporary tattoos being given in the hotel’s lobby, and a pop-up bookshop greeting guests at the entrance, which also hosted book signings and talks across the event.

In between the various interviews and panels Welsh was booked for, he sunned himself by the rooftop pool which hangs out over the edge of the building, nothing but thick glass partitions separating swimmers from the pavement five storeys below. Rejoicing in how refreshing it was to escape the seemingly relentless downpours in the UK and the depressing monotony of the past 18 months, I asked if lockdown boredom had ever driven the author to sourdough-making. ‘No, but I learned to boil an egg!’ came his breezy response. Welsh spent lockdown in Edinburgh to be close to his elderly mother ‘in case she had a fall’, although he’s owned a property in Miami for ten years. While back in his home city, he stuck to a routine of waking up early, selecting a record (always vinyl) to listen to in full that evening, and settling in for a day of writing. It was clearly an effective strategy: he churned out two books and aTrainspotting musical featuring 14 original songs (‘we’re going straight to the West End, no messing about’) as well as working on a spin off series based on another novel of his, The Blade Artist, which focusses on the moustachioed nutcase Begbie, with the inimitable Robert Carlyle reprising the role that catapulted him to fame.

Outside the hotel, Magaluf is strangely beautiful – especially in October when it’s all but devoid of tourists. The light here seems to hit buildings, trees, faces with a purity that warms the soul as well as the bodyl. It’s the sort of light directors would kill for, in which it’s impossible to take a bad photo. In the daylight, the main strip looks almost like a film set: almost deserted, neon signs shouting ‘gentlemen’s club’, ‘British pub’, ‘kebabs’ standing out in the sun against a backdrop of rolling earthen hills speckled with greenery. Taking a catamaran trip from the beach out to a cove called Playa del Mago – where Michael Caine’s 1968 film The Magus was shot – gave a glimpse into another side of Magaluf. Passing laughably large, luxurious properties dotted along the top of the rugged, beaten cliff faces that mark the sea’s edge, it’s easy to see the attraction of the town for a different type of tourist ­– especially with such beautiful beaches and the low cost of living (I bought a pint of lager for €2.10 and seriously debated uprooting my London life there and then).

If you venture a little further outside the town, a 20 minute drive up wild, winding roads will take you to the Serra de Tramuntana, a stunning mountain range which stretches almost 90 kilometres from Andratx in the southwest to the Cap de Formentor in the far north of Mallorca. The area was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2011, and its beauty as a natural conservation area is combined with the practicality of four hiking paths of varying difficulty which wind 15 kilometres across the rugged landscape, passing through holm oak and pine forests. Here is a smorgasbord of life, peppered with wild olive and almond trees, birds of prey and Mallorcan goats. Walking through it feels freeing, something new to appreciate at each turn.

Arriving at the Finca es Galatzó, a public estate owned by the municipality (which is free to enter) felt otherworldly, a relic from a past time tucked away in the mountains, wrapped and preserved in a mist of tranquillity. It has been inhabited as a settlement since the Bronze Age, initially starting out as a farm before evolving into a grand estate taken over by Mallorcan nobility which boasted beautiful kitchens, living areas, a chapel and a walled garden, which are still accessible – and beautifully preserved – to this day. The main building is huge, square and sandy coloured with terracotta roof tiling and a stunning paved courtyard. It stands out against the brilliant blue of the seemingly boundless sky, coaxing you forwards on the slightly uphill, rocky walk from the car park, which takes about 20 minutes.

Driving back through Magaluf presents a jarring duality of experience: passing topless, tattooed men slinging back lagers and burgers outside British-themed pubs seems a world away from the beauty and pensiveness afforded by the national park just inland. Despite the efforts of LEM, the town may find it hard to shake its reputation as a haven for hedonism. But, for those in the know, there are myriad other reasons to head there.