John Dickson

“SCOOTER all the way round Mallorca? Are you daft?” John Arcari spluttered into his Glayva. “You’re even older than I am and its 50 years since I was on a scooter. What do you think, Young 'un?”

John McLuskey derives his Young’un moniker because he was born two years before me. Which makes me the Auld Yin. “Aye, well, I’m sure we three could manage that. A bit like a Top Gear Special… I bags to be Clarkson!”

John Arcari, the Middle’un, looked at us both. “Top Gear?” Us three? More like Last of the Summer Wine. We’re bound to come a cropper. If you’re Clarkson. I’ll be the Hamster… that means you’re Captain Slow.” He grinned at me.

“I don’t mind.” I said “I’ll follow… then pass you by when you’re stuck.”

We had a plan: internet rummaging found Vintage Motors in Palma. Decisions: classic Vespas, or the bigger wheeled Piaggio scooters. Piaggios won; research promised more grip on those hairpin mountain bends. The anticipation continued.

The day arrived. Our Easyjet flight landed at 11pm; taxi to our only pre-booked hotel in C’an Pastilla. Next morning we caught the bus to Palma where of course we got off at the wrong stop. “I’ve never seen Palma before.” John A was pretending to enjoy our unplanned walking tour of the Old Town’s narrow streets and pleasant piazzas.

Heavy packs on our backs, we staggered into Vintage Motors hire shop like we were teenagers again; oohing and aahing at the big boy’s bikes …low-slung Harley Davidson or superfast Ducati? Still, our 125cc scooters would be exciting enough for us old timers.

Backpacks strapped to the pillion seats we wobbled through the narrow streets. Deep breaths before riding along the scary motorway. (Coaches and superbikes whizzing by on both sides.) Down a ramp (phew) towards the lively resort of El-Arenal. Avoiding the more raucous nightspots we found a bargain B&B. After breakfast we passed the sandy beaches and headed along the coast.

Our wannabe Jeremy Clarkson sped out of sight, then John A’s rucksack slid off the back of his bike. Many beeps later he finally pulled over, avoiding a trail of designer shirts and chinos spreadeagling the Mallorcan back roads.

After that pit stop and some choice Clarkstonesque phrases we stuck together, keeping the Mediterranean to our right. We made good time and soon arrived in Cala D’Or which is a pretty white-washed resort set around a little bay with a bustling town centre.

Next morning we headed for the Caves of Drach in Porto Cristo and swapped the joys of the open road for the enchantment of the classical quartet sailing across the wonderfully deep underground lake.

Forty minutes later we had scootered round to C’an Picafort on the Bahia Alcudia where we admired the sea views before heading out to Port-de-Pollenca the following day. We checked out the Formentor Lighthouse at the tip of an 18km peninsula. Stretching our scootering skills to the limit we tackled the narrow hairpin bends and cliff edge roads, while negotiating swarms of super-fit cyclists climbing the steep slopes before zooming down through the switchbacks. Eventually, welcome coffees and cakes on the sun terrace of the lighthouse as we took in the views. An adrenalin-packed extension but worth it.

Doubling back we stayed in Port-de-Pollenca in preparation of more mountain scariness. Climbing up from the plains into the Serra de Tramuntana mountain range, the bends arrive more frequently, the drops are more dramatic. The views are more spectacular. The nerves are more a-tingle.

As I followed my two compadres round the twisting zigzag roads, the ground to my right tumbling almost vertically down into the translucent Mediterranean, I found myself singing Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf at the top of my voice.

We passed through Soller with its century-old tramway which links it with Port de Soller, where mountains hug its little bay. It is as peaceful as El-Arenal is lively.

Our second last day found us back on the mountain trail. Lunch in the upmarket town of Valdemosa failed to deliver any sightings of the A-list celebrities such as Kate Moss, Sting, and Jamie Oliver who apparently inhabit the town. Then south along the cliff-edge coastal road where clouds trickled off the fissures in the cliffs, and hovered over the deep blue sea like glorious will o’ the wisps.

Our last night was spent in an all-you-can-eat resort hotel in Peguera. Next day we braved the dreaded motorway to return to Palma. It had been a blast. Unforgettable scenery. Thrilling rides. Plus the buzz of travelling on spec. Last of the Summer Wine living life on the edge.

Easyjet flies from Glasgow to Palma. We paid £61 return. Scooter hire from Vintage Motors, including insurance, cost £150. Accommodation for seven nights in B&Bs and hotels came to £185. All per person.