Why Howard and I moved to Mallorca, Spain.

My husband’s accountant was the one to suggest we left the United Kingdom and live abroad. This was following a long protracted case with the Inland Revenue.

Following Howard’s release from prison in 1982, the tax man demanded back payments of him of a quarter of a million pounds. The revenue claimed Howard had made much money from his marijuana and hashish business and wanted their share of it. To know more read my book
Mr Nice and Mrs Marks: Adventures with Howard

After we settled with the Inland Revenue we took Howard’s accountant’s advice and moved abroad.

It was not obvious where to move to at first. We considered Switzerland, but decided it was too cold and expensive. We thought about Italy, but the phone system was too antiquated for Howard’s liking. Finally a friend suggested Mallorca (or Majorca as the Brits commonly call it).

A friend of Howard’s from prison loaned us his apartment in Magalluf. The epicentre of the mass tourist market, filled with drunken British tourists. It fulfilled all our worst nightmares of package holidays. Our initial impression of the island was horrendous.

We rented a car and within minutes, the stench of booze and vomit was replaced with the scents of almond and cherry blossom. To our delight we found that most of Mallorca is surprisingly deserted and beautifully peaceful. Small villagers hung of hills and have, in the past and still do, provide accommodation for some of the world’s greatest writers, artists and musicians.

The city of Palma is a delightful mixture of medieval Italian and Moorish architecture. The streets mainly free from CCTV cameras. It is full of fine restaurants, tapas bars, museums and art galleries. Fiestas are sprinkled throughout the year. And the way of life so much less stressful than the UK.

We fell in love with the island.