Pirates, Cannons & Cava
My family’s first Patrona
A year ago my husband, two young daughters and I relocated from Melbourne, Australia to Mallorca to experience other cultures and learn other languages. We setup home in Pollença, a 13th Century village in the north of the island, all narrow cobbled lanes, beautiful sandstone buildings that lead to a square full of cafes and a church built by the Knights Templar.
By Lucy Hawkins
29/07/25
We arrived just in time for the town’s biggest celebration: La Patrona. Every Summer the town remembers the year 1550, when Moorish pirates – the Moros - invaded the island and the local Christian men – the Cristianos – fought them off and kicked them out. The town reenacts a mock battle between the two sides and everyone joins in. I can’t overemphasise how important this is in Pollensa, the World Cup is a quaint little tea party by comparison.
There’s an election weeks before the big day to decide who’s going to play the part of Joan Más, the hero who leads the Christians in the battle, and the winner’s treated like a god. Each year’s Joan Mas is interviewed in all the media and talks about how it has been his lifelong dream. He and the guy chosen to play Dragut, the lead Moor, spend two weeks rehearsing their choreographed sword fight while the rest of the town starts making their costumes and readying their livers.
People begin hanging flags from their windows in the lead up – the red and black quartered flag of Pollensa, and the yellow flag with white crescent moon representing the invading Ottoman Moors. Strange things start happening at all hours like cannons going off at dawn, truck drivers lapping the town and tooting their horns and drummers marching through the streets, an ominous rumble whipping up a frenzy. You can see why drummers used to accompany armies in battle, by the time the fiesta hits the town we’re all a bunch of nervous wrecks ready to charge. “Aaarghhhhhh!” I scream as I throw open the front door to find out who’s been banging on it, “I just forgot my keys!” replies my confused looking husband.
On the 2nd August the battle commences. Last year it was 40 degrees centigrade. Hundreds of girls dressed in white and wearing sandals lined the streets getting ready for the fight. It’s a scene reminiscent of Game of Thrones, everyone’s baying for fake blood.
Pirate costumes are the clear favourite: thousands of blokes channel their inner Jack Sparrow, with eyeliner, swords, and swagger. If you have a dog in this fight, it’s probably a Moor. Only a handful of guys have gone for white robes, despite everyone knowing that they’re the ones who’ll win.
At 5pm it’s two hours from kick off. The streets are packed. It is a bad idea to try to push to the front of the action with small kids so we headed for the small plaça outside the church of Sant Jordi where there’s room enough to breathe and, curiously, four elderly pirates wielding ancient-looking muskets. There are pop up bars everywhere, the streets are awash with cerveza, local ladies hand out cups of cava from their windows and it’s just one huge, sweaty throng buzzed with generosity. - and absolutely amazing! It’s the most extraordinary thing, everyone’s nice! Helping with the kids, asking if you’re alright, passing you drinks. They’re just a lovely bunch.
At 7pm, the church clock strikes. Hundreds of Moors creep down a road lined with girls, every balcony overhead packed with onlookers. Silence falls. Joan Mas leaps from a window to confront Dragut. They dance and clash swords, then BOOM! Guns explode. Right. Next. To. Us. The four old Moors beside us had the honour of firing the cannons to launch the attack. Ears ringing, we climbed down from a tree we’d scrambled into and watched as the Moors retreated through the crush.
Joan Mas and the Christians have prevailed, the Moors have been taught a lesson and need to leave town. Veeeerrrry slowly, because no one’s going anywhere hastily in this crowd and this heat.
On the 2nd August the battle commences. Last year it was 40 degrees centigrade. Hundreds of girls dressed in white and wearing sandals lined the streets getting ready for the fight. It’s a scene reminiscent of Game of Thrones, everyone’s baying for fake blood.
Pirate costumes are the clear favourite: thousands of blokes channel their inner Jack Sparrow, with eyeliner, swords, and swagger. If you have a dog in this fight, it’s probably a Moor. Only a handful of guys have gone for white robes, despite everyone knowing that they’re the ones who’ll win.
At 5pm it’s two hours from kick off. The streets are packed. It is a bad idea to try to push to the front of the action with small kids so we headed for the small plaça outside the church of Sant Jordi where there’s room enough to breathe and, curiously, four elderly pirates wielding ancient-looking muskets. There are pop up bars everywhere, the streets are awash with cerveza, local ladies hand out cups of cava from their windows and it’s just one huge, sweaty throng buzzed with generosity. - and absolutely amazing! It’s the most extraordinary thing, everyone’s nice! Helping with the kids, asking if you’re alright, passing you drinks. They’re just a lovely bunch.
At 7pm, the church clock strikes. Hundreds of Moors creep down a road lined with girls, every balcony overhead packed with onlookers. Silence falls. Joan Mas leaps from a window to confront Dragut. They dance and clash swords, then BOOM! Guns explode. Right. Next. To. Us. The four old Moors beside us had the honour of firing the cannons to launch the attack. Ears ringing, we climbed down from a tree we’d scrambled into and watched as the Moors retreated through the crush.
Joan Mas and the Christians have prevailed, the Moors have been taught a lesson and need to leave town. Veeeerrrry slowly, because no one’s going anywhere hastily in this crowd and this heat.
The drums start up again and lead every man, woman, child, Christian and Moor out of Pollensa town, down the highway and to a football field where there’s more space so the Moors can pick-up a bit of speed to charge at one another. But after they charge and come face to face they just… shout, wave their swords above their heads and bro hug. There’s more violence at a yoga retreat.
We, and the rest of the town, watch from the sidelines, everyone’s very merry by now. Needless to say our 7 and 4 year old daughters are flabbergasted, it’s three hours past their Australian bedtime, there are cannons going off in the background and they’re in a field with grown men in fancy dress semi battling, semi cuddling. But all their new little friends from the local primary school are there and they’re completely nonplussed having seen it all before. By midnight, when it was finally cool enough to sit on a swing without needing a skin graft, we found ourselves in the playground, eating empanadas, dazed and delighted.
I turned to my husband and asked if he’d go as a Moor next year. “Absolutely not,” he said. And then his face froze in terror as he realised, I absolutely will! Because we’re here to integrate. And if that means dressing up and getting swept along with a band of merry marauders, so be it. No one likes a party pooper.
By Lucy Hawkins
29/07/25
The drums start up again and lead every man, woman, child, Christian and Moor out of Pollensa town, down the highway and to a football field where there’s more space so the Moors can pick-up a bit of speed to charge at one another. But after they charge and come face to face they just… shout, wave their swords above their heads and bro hug. There’s more violence at a yoga retreat.
We, and the rest of the town, watch from the sidelines, everyone’s very merry by now. Needless to say our 7 and 4 year old daughters are flabbergasted, it’s three hours past their Australian bedtime, there are cannons going off in the background and they’re in a field with grown men in fancy dress semi battling, semi cuddling. But all their new little friends from the local primary school are there and they’re completely nonplussed having seen it all before. By midnight, when it was finally cool enough to sit on a swing without needing a skin graft, we found ourselves in the playground, eating empanadas, dazed and delighted.
I turned to my husband and asked if he’d go as a Moor next year. “Absolutely not,” he said. And then his face froze in terror as he realised, I absolutely will! Because we’re here to integrate. And if that means dressing up and getting swept along with a band of merry marauders, so be it. No one likes a party pooper.