Colourful flourishes of citrus trees lined the busy Palma streets. Car dealerships and fast food outlets plied their trade between crumbling stone villas, meadows of cottage and poppy seed blew in the wind in waves of light and shadow. Tourist buses passed every few minutes; with ruby red ducos and double decks they would have been more at home in London. Whitewashed churches – grounds overrun with cats – stood shoulder to shoulder with five star resorts and pottery stores. Castell De Bellver and the Majorca Cathedral keeping quiet sentry, it felt as if Palma stood on a plain of unparalleled antiquity. Home to more than four hundred thousand, it was half metropolis, half Paradise. And a faint smell of excrement mingled with exhaust fumes and the sea.
The tour was unexciting; few members of the public turned up. For those that did, Friends of the Earth stickers and postcards were handed out in earnest, and they were encouraged to wear a badge for the demonstration as a display of unity. A crowd of around forty converged on the
Ajuntament with picket signs and megaphones.
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