The deepest natural harbour in the Mediterranean, Mahon's strategic importance to the Royal Navy is obvious. While the British built up Mahon, the Spanish grandees and the church decided to remain in the former capital of Ciutadella, on the other end of the island. With its old palaces, narrow cobbled streets and pink-tinged sandstone, Ciutadella feels Moorish, as indeed it once was. The local fiesta here, at the end of June, is considered the most exuberant on the island.The two cities of Menorca were first joined by the enlightened Anglo-Irish governor Richard Kane, and the highway named after him is now a largely forgotten byway. Outside of the handful of hidden-away mega-resorts, there are precious few outward signs of such home-from-home "delights" as egg and chips and happy hours. It's possible to dance away until breakfast but you won't find that many ravers burning up as they chill out on the beaches.While the British influence on the island is pervasive, it's not in an-all-day-breakfast kind of way. Three out of five tourists to Menorca are from the UK, compared to three in 10 of Mallorca's annual foreign influx And Britons tend to come in families, and in their old age.
Yes there are nightclubs on the island - indeed in Cova d'en Xoroi, set within the cliff caves at Cala en Porta, Menorca has one of the most spectacularly-sited clubs in the world - but nobody is going to pretend that this is downtown San Antonio on a Saturday night. But in its consciously low-rise way Menorca is a small-scale gem whose light is sometimes hidden under a bushel of other people's snobbish preconceptions Maybe it's to do with the high ratio of British visitors. Menorca is in many ways the Balearics' best-kept secret - a secret just about to become that little less guarded when easyJet starts flying from Gatwick to the island next Thursday, 21 July.Now I'm not going to pretend that the place is a Cinderella to Mallorca and Ibiza's ugly sisters - that latter pair are glamorous, if at times wildly hedonistic, beauties in their own right. Not those, however, who know the island - they will give you a warm, conspiratorial smile.
Nothing more needs to be said, although it invariably is - soft, sweet words of genuine affection. I started my ann? de pel?nage in this lovely part of France soon after university. My car at the time was a Citro?Dyane Weekend, a lightly modernised deux chevaux, but retaining the original's antique charm and performance. My waggish friends said it was called Weekend because it took two days to get anywhere. They were right - I used to sleep in it, which is even more tormenting than it sounds as the seats didn't recline. I used a chinagraph marker to write directions straight on to the windscreen, so as to preserve patiently acquired momentum by avoiding map stops.
