Far from the pheromone-buttered beaches of Magaluf, the grand piano swung nervously over the church belltower. Startled villagers looked skyward and muttered silent prayers in the morning sunshine. Some scuttled for cover amidst the narrow streets of Deya but most, like me, just stood and stared until the suspended keyboard was helicoptered a safe distance up the valley.
The village quickly returned to normality, leaving me a lone voyeur watching the silhouette of the hapless...
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