THE map says the route is of "moderate" difficulty. Which I suppose it might be if I had, say, the calves of Chris Hoy and the stamina of Lance Armstrong.
But as I puff my weary way up the steep hairpin bends between Bunyola and Orient in central Mallorca I am not, like those luridly coloured, lycra-clad bike bunnies passing by me at speed, even in the saddle. I am on foot. Slowly plodding, pushing my
bike ahead of me and quietly cursing under my breath. The peak I am puffing up is known as Coll d'Honor. I beg to differ.
Once past Orient, however, a tiny but picturesque village with the added attraction of a conveniently placed bar at the summit, it is downhill all the way, the wind in my hair (or at least whistling through the vents in my cycling helmet) and the worst well and truly behind me. Endless rows of gnarled olive trees, fragrant lemon boughs and ancient villages dot the landscape as far as the eye can see and the tuneless clang of goat bells echoes in my ears.
It is all such a stark contrast to the drink-till-you-vomit stag crews that had noised up the flight to Palma, before they headed on to the fluorescent strips of Santa Ponsa and Magaluf. In these hillside towns, life goes on much as it has done for centuries, church bells sounding the hours, workers downing tools for the daily siesta, dogs snoozing in the silent streets, ears lazily batting at the flies that buzz around them.
Talking of siesta, we have been cycling for three hours without a breather (unless you can call braking to a halt half-way up a hill to argue about whose idea it was to come this way anyway a breather), so a short refuelling stop is called for in the pretty village of Sencelles. A welcome dish of stuffed aubergines is served up by a helpful waiter keen to demonstrate his knowledge of English ("It's purple," he explains, "and a vegetable."), then we top up our water bottles and are back on the road, on the home stretch. The final 10km are tougher than expected – all on the flat but into the wind. Then, just as our necks are seizing up and we are losing all sensation in our saddles, an oasis appears in the heat haze on the horizon.
No swimming pool has ever looked more inviting than the pristine patch of blue at Read's that late afternoon – surrounded by palms and tempting sunloungers. But that cooling dip will have to wait a little longer, since a stunningly efficient pummelling at the hands of the in-house masseur awaits, to be followed later by a Michelin-starred banquet at Bacchus. Which rather makes the whole ordeal – hills, marital discord and minor tumbles (momentarily distracted by some very large dogs, I end up flat on my back in a patch of scrubland, blood dribbling down my calf) – worthwhile.
That evening we feast on the most mouth-watering scallops with Jerusalem artichokes, quinoa salad and a flavour-popping salt cod with beetroot jelly and a pea and lemongrass purée. Fillet of veal follows, served with pumpkin parmentier, ragout of cockscomb and potato terrine, then rhubarb with white chocolate ganache and sauerrahm (which turns out to be a kind of soured cream) sorbet, each course interspersed with mind-blowing amuse-bouches that send the tastebuds straight to Nirvana. We retire dog-tired but happy.
Set amid the soaring, dramatic beauty of the Tramuntana mountains, Read's is more than just a hotel; it is the realisation of a dream. Vivian Read was still working as a solicitor in Chelsea when he spotted Ca'n Moragues while on holiday on the Balearic island. It was a risk of Grand Designs proportions that prompted him to cash in all his assets in 1988, buy the crumbling estate and spend the next ten years – and, arguably, a substantial fortune – building his vision.
The result is about as far from the white-walled, wooden-floored, beige boutiques that make up the modern hotel landscape. Instead there is vibrant colour, outrageous chandeliers, velvet chaises and trompe l'oiles in spades (as well as – a personal favourite – a hotch-potch of teacups and saucers proudly on display in walnut cabinetry).
It's a uniquely personal hotel. A home from home. And that atmosphere is enhanced by the fact that this is a truly family affair. So we have Mr and Mrs Read (and their two loyal little dogs, which pitter-patter after them wherever they go), their daughter Simone and son Marcus, while Simone's husband Malcolm Wyse (a Scot from Caithness, who arrived in Santa Maria del Cami via a stint in London) is manager. Even that dapper, waistcoated gentleman behind the bar turns out to be Vivian's film-director brother-in-law.
You don't, of course, have to be a cyclist to come here – and many guests aren't. But Wyse, a keen bike man himself, has hosted everyone from professional triathletes and enthusiastic amateurs to if-you-can't-beat-em-join-em bike widows like myself. Read's provides bicycles and helmets (though you can bring your own if you prefer), as well as energy drinks and maps. And, if you ask nicely, Wyse might even take you on a personally guided tour of some his favourite island highlights.
Which is how, on day two, we find ourselves in his home town of Selva (having pedalled there, of course), cheering on young Jack Wyse – a pale-skinned Paul Scholes among a field of swarthy Ronaldos – as he sets up the winning goal for his local football team.
Cyclists flock to Mallorca, says Simone, as it provides every possible variety of terrain in one compact, easily navigated area. The island is criss-crossed by designated cycle routes suitable for all abilities. So if, for instance, the Tour de France-style peaks don't spin your wheel, there are plenty of flat, more leisurely paths too. Try the coastal route from the gorgeous port of Portixol, just east of Palma, following the rollerbladers and promenaders along the boardwalk and stopping off at the too-cool-for-school Puro Beach bar in Cala Estancia for a cool and invigorating mojito.
Or swap two wheels for many and take the vintage wooden train from Palma to Soller (you could cycle the route, but you'd need thighs of steel – and, frankly, my relationship couldn't take the strain). The little train trundles through 13 tunnels on its way to the beach town, famous for its oranges, in the north-west of the island, and is used by more than a million visitors every year. Make sure you bring a jumper, though; when the train enters the tunnels the temperature plummets despite the balmy Mediterranean sun outside.
Back at Read's, we soothe any still-aching muscles in the Vespasian spa's series of thermal suites, reclining for what seems like hours on the heated tiles, congratulating ourselves on our exertions and looking forward to the evening's forthcoming culinary excesses. I really think I could get used to this cycling lark.
Fact file: Mallorca
How to get thereFlyglobespan (www.flyglobespan.com) operates direct flights from Edinburgh and Glasgow to Palma every day, with prices starting at £63.99 one way.
Where to stayRead's Hotel, Calle de Bernat de Santa Eugenia 41, 07320, Santa Maria del Cami, Mallorca (00 34 971 140 262, www.readshotel.com). Prices start from £260 for a double room in high season, which includes a buffet breakfast. Use of trekking bikes is complimentary; hire of Giant lightweight carbon road bikes costs ¤30 per day or ¤180 per week. Inclusive cycling packages are also available. For details, see the website.
For cycling routes around Mallorca, see www.masmallorca.com/Cicloturismo.
