Jagged edge

A nervous toe is dipped. The water in the pool is freezing. Not literally, of course, but still far colder than it is probably sensible to bathe in. Nevertheless, I reason that the setting - in the foothills of Mallorca's Serra de Tramuntana, with the warm autumn sun hanging low in the sky and the smell of pine, lemon and olives still in the air - demands that little bit of extra effort. I take the plunge, but don't linger in the deep end.

A nervous toe is dipped. The water in the pool is freezing. Not literally, of course, but still far colder than it is probably sensible to bathe in. Nevertheless, I reason that the setting - in the foothills of Mallorca's Serra de Tramuntana, with the warm autumn sun hanging low in the sky and the smell of pine, lemon and olives still in the air - demands that little bit of extra effort. I take the plunge, but don't linger in the deep end.

Perhaps "foothills" isn't quite the word: the mountains that rise north of Palma, the island's capital, don't bother with anything so low rise. Instead the sheer vertical slabs hurtle straight up in progressively more crinkle-cut peaks until they hit the coast 10km to the north, at which point they plunge straight down again into the Mediterranean. The few shingled beaches that lie here are hard to reach and squashed into deep coves. They're a far cry from the jam-packed banks of sand and concrete around Palma where, since the Sixties, tourists have flocked to enjoy cheap-and-cheerful holiday sun.

It's late October, the low-season. The swimming-pools are all this cold, and those lobster-red sun-seekers have long since departed - but a chilly swim is a small price to pay for this natural beauty. Our holiday cottage, set in the grounds of a Mallorcan manor house, feels splendidly isolated: the loudest sounds are the tinkle of nearby fountains and the "clonk clonk" of goat bells on the hillside behind us. A cat yawns in the sun. It's wonderfully peaceful, as is the whole of this north-western corner of the island.

Judging by all the rucksacks and sensible footwear, those few who venture to these parts at this time of year have come to walk or climb: after all, this is superb hiking terrain, with a network of well-marked paths to choose from. What's more, with the days still warm (but lacking the baking heat of summer) the weather is perfect for trekking along the coast or down mountain gorges.

There's also plenty to see if you're travelling by car: just remember to recalibrate your sense of distance before you set out. On the map, everything looks so small-scale: from Bunyola, the sleepy one-street town close to where we're staying, it's about 7km by road to Soller, the marginally larger market town to the north. Seven kilometres via the Soller tunnel, that is - it's 13 if you take the mountain route, which ascends and descends sharply via a series of extraordinarily acute switchbacks. Similarly, the drive south-west from Soller along the C710 coast road looks easy on paper, but in practice it takes reasonable driving skill and a fondness for blind corners, low gears and sheer drops at the side of the road.

Steel yourself, though: it's worth it. Soller repays you with each visit, with tiny lanes and alleyways, a pretty central square riddled with cafés, an ancient tram system that links the town to the harbour at Port Soller and the handsomely restored village of Fornalutx, a short hike away to the north. The area round the town even smells good: the citrus groves give off a heady whiff of lemon, lime and nectarine.

Beyond Soller, the first stop along the coast is the elegant village of Deia, which teeters on the brink of the sea. Robert Graves (author of I, Claudius) lived and is buried here - and you can see why he fell in love with the place. A cluttered network of residential lanes leads off the main road, which is stuffed with restaurants commanding views of the ravine below. Groups of tiny houses are perched higgledy-piggledy on top of one other, and everything looks as though it could tumble into the Med at a moment's notice.

At this time of year tourists are thin on the ground and it's easy to get served at Patricia's Café (I'd recommend a steaming bowl of lentil and chorizo soup), but already Deia is gearing up for next year's influx. On our way down the high street, what appeared to be a building site was being gently coaxed into the shape of a restaurant. After a light lunch and a café con leche we pass the builders again, to discover that the place already has a new roof and electric light, and the walls have been treated to a coat of rustic plaster.

This isn't to say that anywhere in the region feels overdeveloped. Despite a Mallorcan fondness for erecting a restaurant or café wherever there's a beauty spot or monument, the mountains are still resolutely rural. Beyond Deia, even a larger town such as Valldemossa, which has its fair share of trinket shops, is a tranquil place to pull in for lunch in the low season.

Valldemossa's monastery (famous for putting up Chopin and his mistress George Sand in 1838) is impressive, but for real grandeur you're better off heading back east to one of the holiest places in Mallorca: the Monastir de Lluc, which lies in a lush green basin 35km beyond Soller. Inside, the darkness of the chapel is offset by great swathes of gilt and jewels. Outside, we join the pilgrims' footpath that winds up above the monastery complex to a large crucifix at the top of the hill. The mountain views, contrasting with the red-tiled roof of the monastery, are spectacular.

Then again, Mallorca instinctively knows how to give good view. We make a habit of pausing at as many of the miradors (viewpoints) by the side of the road as we can. Particularly impressive is Mirador de Ses Barques, which looks out over Port Soller. Later, we walk out beyond the beach to the town's westernmost point, where a lighthouse marks the limit of the land. There's a sense that almost everything here is perched on the edge of things. Stone terraces rise along every mountain flank, either planted with citrus trees and gnarled olive groves or just stopping the hills from collapsing onto roads and villages. Despite the imposing, square-fronted manor houses, it all feels just a little bit precarious.

Try, for example, getting to the Es Vergeret restaurant on the island's north coast. The route involves a drop of almost 1,000 metres in 14km, and a detour along a rutted road away from the resort of Sa Colabra towards Cala Tuent, a sheltered cove dotted with boat sheds cut into the rock. The hairpin bends are extreme: at one point we even do a loop-the-loop (marked by a café, naturally). However, the seafood at the terraced restaurant - and the view - is ample reward, even if the return lap on a full stomach feels like a roller-coaster.

Equally spectacular, and equally vertical, are the gardens to the rear of the dilapidated manor house at Raixa, south of Bunyola. Terrace after crumbling terrace rises up beyond a reservoir filled with huge carp and past ancient follies and derelict chapels. Haphazard knots of cactus and bougainvillea mark the way, and at the top you can see as far as Palma. Back at the house an old, old man asks for a donation and gives us berries to eat. It seems we are his only visitors. Further north, the Jardins d'Alfabia have a €3.50 (£2.50) admission charge and are more organised, with water-features galore and an odd mismatch of formal gardens, palm trees and bamboo.

Then it's time to take the train. The Palma-Soller railway is a joy to travel on: the ancient narrow-gauge track with its Twenties rolling stock looks like something out of a Wild West film. In the summer its five return journeys a day (€5/£3.50 each way) are packed with tourists. Now, though, we have just a couple of ancient Mallorcan ladies for company. It takes about an hour to wheeze and chug between the two towns (even longer when, as on our journey, the driver forgets to stop at a dusty platform and is urged into a lengthy reverse by a disgruntled passenger).

Palma bustles with cosmopolitan people, its colossal harbour-side cathedral standing resolute against the wind. However, in late autumn the town also has a more gentle aspect. There's scarcely a queue in sight, the cafés are half empty, the palace gardens quiet. We munch pastries under the green chandeliers of Ca'n Joan de S'Aigo, a pâtisserie to the north of the maze-like old town, then climb aboard our creaking carriage for the return journey north. Later I brave the pool one last time. Mallorca deserves that extra effort.

Ben Ross travelled to Mallorca's Tramuntana mountains with Inntravel (01653 617906; www.inntravel.co.uk ). A one-week stay at a cottage in the Alfabia Nou sleeping up to three people with a shared pool costs from £634 per person. This includes return flights with British Airways from Gatwick to Palma, car hire, a welcome package of food essentials and a daily delivery of bread. A larger cottage, sleeping up to five, costs from £778 per person