Litter, leg slaps and fish coffee: Holiday lessons from Majorca

It's funny how you judge an entire nation by one or two meetings with a person from that country while on holiday.

- Steve Canavan

I remember my uncle doing this. If he met, say, a nice Spanish bloke on holiday he would spend the next 10 years telling everyone that Spaniards are great.

When pushed, he would reveal this was based solely on one encounter in a café. My uncle loved trying to make small-talk with waiters on holiday. Talking very loudly and slowly, as if it would make up for his complete lack of Spanish, he'd say: "COULD I HAVE A PINT OF BEER?" while with his hands mimicking a man drinking from a glass. Waiter: 'Hey of course senor. Only one pint though? Surely you want more, no?' Uncle, laughing: "No, just one for now." Waiter: 'You English. Not all you cracked up to be, no? I'll pour two just in case, si?'

Then, at family gatherings for the following decade and more, my uncle would say, "Honestly we were on holiday in Barcelona and this waiter... he was terrific... perfect English ... made a very funny quip about my pint. Great people the Spanish, really salt of the earth."

I often wanted to point out to him that the population of Spain is 48 million and perhaps basing the merits of an entire nation on one fella he met on an overcast Tuesday afternoon wasn't the most accurate measuring tool.

I was thinking about the above as I sat, last week, in a pleasant little restaurant in Majorca, which is where the Canavan family have been on holiday.

Majorca-plonked in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, about 125 miles from mainland Spain-is a place I have been to a few times over the years, the first as a 13-year-old in 1989.