Ask me ten years ago if I’d like a bag version of that bus handle I’d gotten to know so well – the circular, plastic reminder that once again I am on the late bus to school and we are one violent swerve away from swinging smack right into someone’s wet armpit. (My glasses would have permanent stains from arm-pubes during exam weeks) If you’d asked me then, I’d have raised an eyebrow, nay, even laughed, at the prospect of a bag that looks like a bus handle ring.

Seemingly, it takes exactly one decade for body cells to turn over, metabolism to slacken, for awkward ideas to become… well frankly, awesome. While my grip on the ring of SAVAS clutch take a familiar, ferocious grasp that one 18-year-old’s good morning relied on, it’s a heck of a stunner – a statement, even. Goes with practically everything, but best seen with puffy, foamy layers and monochrome co-ords as worn in this digitorial for Farfetch.

Mallorca is trying to shed its stag-do/first-teenage-expedition reputation and Park Hyatt Mallorca resort (their first in Europe) might just be the place to finally put the idea to bed. Just two months ago the first bed was fitted, the first Mallorquín-sourced stone walls to receive an inauguration from the summer sun, and the first fistful of Bottega Veneta bath products distributed across the 142 rooms and 16 suites. On arrival, we are momentarily confused as the car pulls up to what looks like another village on the island – complete with an amorous, leafy plaza, a cluster of restaurants and a handsome tapas bar – until our bags disappear up a hill on a golf cart driven by a tanned porter in white uniform.

We are received in a setting quite like a members’ club lounge (a signature Hyatt welcome), lined with ebony bookcases stocked with the works of Morello and Cernuda – not yet quite dusty. Our rooms, as airy as the breeze outside: a symphony of calming hues and modern fixtures. ‘Hola Shini Park’, read the service iPad, and our thumbprints break the room’s cherry. Moments after I unpack and splash some water on my face, the terrace lures me to a front-row seat to a sunset that blazes the pink walls in orange ember*. Practically a balm after what had possibly been the most ludicrous airport jaunts of my life (you may have witnessed me and Simon progressively turn nuts in the
span of 12h wait before the next available flight). Tomorrow,
a chorizo-scrambled eggs breakfast and an afternoon
by the heated pools await…

*Only if we could toss Gatwick Express and the lot
into that fire.