I plan to sleep at La Trapa, where the ruins of an old monastery stand, silent under the night sky. It’s a little over an hour’s hike from Sant Elm, and by the time I set off, my headlamp is already cutting through the darkness. Midnight has come and gone when I finally arrive.

Setting up my tarp proves to be a challenge. I borrowed it for this trip and have only practiced pitching it in the calm, predictable conditions of my garden. Now, the wind howls, and the ground is as unforgiving as stone. But after some struggle, I manage. I crawl in and allow myself a short but deeply satisfying sleep—I’m finally back in nature.

Morning comes quickly. I pack up in near darkness, eager to cover as much ground as possible before the heat becomes relentless. And it will—no doubt about that. But this was my choice, so no complaints.

I have a feeling I’ll be saying this a lot— but the first day of the trek is simply divine!

The trail from La Trapa starts with a gentle climb, but it’s still a civilized footpath, sometimes even a gravel road. From Mirador d’en Josep Sastre, breathtaking views of the sea unfold, making every step feel effortless.

By lunchtime, I reach Ses Fontanelles, a small farm where I stop to refill my water. It’s not directly on the route, but let’s be honest—you need to come here if you want to replenish your supply. And trust me, you want to. The owner seems a little grumpy, and later I find similar reviews on TripAdvisor, but I’d still rather make a quick stop than haul extra liters of water all the way from Sant Elm.

Beyond Ses Fontanelles, the terrain turns rocky, and I lose the path more than once. There are just too many stone cairns marking too many possible directions. Still, the hike is rewarding—the higher I climb, the more spectacular the views of the countryside and the sea become. Along the way, I pass several former Moorish farms (alquerías), remnants of a time when Arab settlers (10th–13th century) built irrigation canals to supply terraced fields. Even now, traces of these ancient water systems remain, whispering stories of the past.

The stage ends in Estellencs, a village frozen in time. Its medieval charm lingers in every narrow street, and above it stands the Torre de Tem Alemany, a defensive tower that once stood guard against Berber pirates in the 16th century. In the heart of the village, I find Font de l’Obi, an old spring once relied upon by Arab farmers—a quiet, shaded spot where history and nature intertwine.

In Estellencs, I settle into the Van Hermos café for tapas and a much-needed phone charge. After a full day on the trail, I could probably devour everything on display. But the day isn’t over yet—I’m sleeping outside tonight. I continue along the route, and before long, I find the perfect spot to rest. The night air is still, the landscape bathed in moonlight. For a moment, stray thoughts flicker through my mind, but soon, exhaustion takes over.

I close my eyes, surrendering to the rhythm of dreams.

Then, a runner appears behind me, effortlessly gliding up the same path where my legs are burning. The moment of transcendence vanishes, replaced by envy. So much for the spiritual awakening—maybe it’s a sign that I’m nearing the monasteries.

The landscape here is exactly how I love it. Long, golden grass bends and sways in the wind, scattered rocks break up the rolling hills, and behind me, the jagged peaks stand tall, marking the path I’ve already conquered. I take a break, eat a snack, and soak in the silence—until thoughts of the runner creep back in. I shake them off, pack up, and move on.

The descent to Lluc Monastery is short but steep, every step pulling me closer to a place that, for some reason, feels different. I don’t care much for historical buildings, but there’s something about this one—a quiet, a sense of peace that lingers in the air. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Either way, as a true spiritual seeker, I first visit the canteen and the toilet.

Behind the monastery, a short pilgrimage route winds through the trees—the Cami dels Misteris del Rosari. It’s not a traditional Stations of the Cross but a meditative path, each stop marked by sculptures dedicated to the mysteries of the Rosary. At the end, a botanical garden waits, offering the same kind of quiet contemplation. I walk through, letting the stillness settle inside me. Maybe, just maybe, the real magic of this place isn’t in the buildings, but in the way it makes you pause.

After exploring the monastery and its surroundings, I decide to call it a day. Instead of pushing forward, I stay at the Son Amer hut. Like most mountain huts in Mallorca, it’s a solid stone building, cool and welcoming—exactly what’s needed after a long day under the sun. I arrive a little early, but for once, I’m in no rush. I take the time to wash my socks and underwear (long overdue, to be honest) and then stretch out on the stone wall, soaking in the last warm rays of the setting sun.

Two runners, who have been training in the surrounding mountains, must have arrived long before me. Strangely, I don’t envy them anymore. They move effortlessly, their running poles tapping against the ground as they pass. I’m content with my own snail’s pace. Later, over dinner, we chat for a while. The hut has its own peculiar system—seating arrangements feel like something straight out of elementary school, and tonight, we’re assigned two young women as dinner companions. But for once, I don’t mind.

The first half of the route winds mostly through forest, peaceful and shaded. Then, civilization slowly creeps back in. But even that has its charm in Mallorca. I love those long, tree-lined roads leading up to grand estates—some flanked by palms. More farm animals appear, orchards bursting with citrus, ancient olive groves dotting the landscape. It feels different, but still beautiful in its own way.

One tip: if you stop in Pollenca for a meal, go to El Perrito Pont Roma. I ended up coming back here for two days, and every time, there was something incredible on the menu. You won’t regret it.

Arriving in Port de Pollença, my mind shifts to the night ahead. Where am I going to sleep? The thought grows heavier with each step. I check Booking.com at random—big mistake. Prices for a single night are outrageous. No way.

In the end, I take the bus back to Pollenca and stay at the last refuge on the route—Refugi del Pont Romà. A simple, no-frills place, but for just a few euros, it’s perfect. After days on the trail, a hotel wouldn’t even feel right.

I don’t think I’ll write more, so here’s my conclusion: yes, I’d do it all again. Maybe next time with my wife or kids, when they’re a little older. Until then—see you on the next adventure!