The best trips usually build to one moment that justifies everything, the moment that means you left home for a really good reason. Standing at the tip of the village of Deià, on the northern coast of the Balearic island of Majorca, qualifies as one of those moments, especially when you reach the world's most sublime mountain-top cemetery.

The gravestones have a supernal view. Below the cemetery is the broad blue stretch of the Mediterranean Sea, and the cove known to some as Picasso's Beach, because the painter swam there, and the determinedly arty still sunbathe on its rocks. Behind the burial ground is the high shaggy outline of the Tramuntana Mountains, looking like some primordial outcrop. And at the figurative heart of the cemetery is the tombstone of Robert Graves, the British poet who came to the Spanish island of Majorca (ma-YORK-ah) in 1929 for a visit and never left. His tombstone is a simple slab of rock, lying flat to the ground, crowned by sprigs of olive leaves or mountain flowers that visitors leave behind. It's easy to find because there is only one word carved into the stone under his name: "poeta."

The Homeric scenery and the whiff of poetry cast Majorca as a contender for one of the Mediterranean's most soulful and simply beautiful islands. That in itself may be a surprise to people who come expecting so much less, especially anything approaching authenticity from a place once famous for being essentially inauthentic. Until recently, in fact, the island was something of a punch line, a packaged weekend getaway where bachelor parties, hen parties and divorce parties plopped down on a generic beach lined with cheap paella joints and big-box hotels, because the hop from Barcelona, 120 miles to the north, was easy, and the sun was a sure thing.

And then something unexpected happened. The island slowly stopped being a parody of the thoughtless, boozy beach vacation and started recovering itself in phases, spurred on by two intrepid groups: local patriots who wanted to protect their culture and a new wave of travelers who were interested in Majorca's layered history and who would prove that the best kind of tourists can actually help reclaim a place.

Where to start: Palma

It started in Palma, the island's only substantial city, where more and more bored travelers slowly wandered in from the beach to the medieval heart of the city, long considered a vague sideshow. Suddenly Palma, preening under the new attention, started dusting itself off, and growing crowds rediscovered a legacy of historic treasures left behind by a conga line of invading Greeks, Phoenicians, Romans, Vandals, Vikings, Moors and Catalan crusaders.

That's where any visitor looking for the soulful Majorca, the proof it's more than just sea and sand, should start, too. Begin at the 10th-century Arab Baths, still sitting pretty in a secret garden of lemon trees. Then walk the narrow medieval streets, under the wrought-iron balconies of sober townhouses, to the city's massive Gothic cathedral, where an epic rose window throws light on a theatrical altar canopy designed by Antoni Gaudí, and the walls are hung with paintings of obscure martyred saints, one sadly holding her own decapitated, pop-eyed head.

Now that Palma has come back to life, its pious side is balanced by a flamboyant exuberance that feels like a running fiesta. There are shops selling Majorcan pearls, rows of outdoor cafes running down boulevards lined with flower vendors, and Art Nouveau bakeries, like Frasquet Confiteria, where glazed apricots gleam in the window and the house specialty is a big block of genoise cake wrapped in chocolate meringue.

And there are the newly recovered landmarks, spurred on by the thirst for reclamation, like Convent de la Missio -- a 17th-century convent whose elegantly austere bones are complemented by its conversion into a minimalist, über-chic hotel. The hotel isn't just dedicated to retrieving the city's old architectural beauty. It comes anchored by the restaurant Simply Fosh, where local celebrity chef Marc Fosh, reclaiming a whole culinary world, as well, dishes up classic Majorcan dishes such as sea bass roused by olive oil and pine nuts. Just as authentic, and cheaper, is La Boveda, where a parade of tapas (including a textbook calamari) are served on upended wine barrels, with a view of the sea.

In the end, though, Palma, is really a gateway. To get a real sense of how Majorca has rediscovered itself, head out to the island's northwest coast, where a whole, thriving, authentic world opens up. Valldemossa, 11 miles north of Palma, is worth a pit stop for two crowning cultural showpieces. One is the atmospheric 14th-century monastery-turned-museum where rench writer George Sand and her lover, Frédéric Chopin, spent three frosty months in the winter of 1838-39. The other is the Costa Nord Centre, which actor Michael Douglas (a part-time island resident) helped found, in a prime example of the joint cultural conservation efforts led by the island's natives and its newest patriots. The all-in-one cultural complex features alfresco concerts, a cinematic tour of the island's north coast narrated by Douglas himself, a café and a shop showcasing Majorcan crafts.

But Valldemossa, despite all that local pride, lacks the quietude of its neighbors. To find a hushed kind of peace, keep driving east on the northern coastal road that curls, sometimes in heart-stopping hairpin curves, between mountain and sea. You'll pass limestone terraces of olive trees planted by the Moors, flocks of grazing sheep, even bigger flocks of German cyclists wearing DayGlo spandex, and the kind of road signs that grow increasingly whimsical, in an alarming way (my favorites: a tree bursting into flames and a sign painted with a single massive exclamation point, like one big metaphysical warning).

The near-death experience of a drive (at least your last sight will be all that pumping spandex) is salvaged by a stop in Fornalutx, about 30 minutes (depending on traffic) east of Valldemossa. This is the kind of untouched mountain village so old it seems to have been whittled, organically, out of the mountainside. Its ancient stone steps ascend endlessly into the clouds, past old limestone-shingled houses and orange trees fat with fruit. For a view over the valley, take a seat on the stone terrace of the Restaurant Ca N'Antuna, where signature dishes of bread and oil (pa amb oli), grilled squid and suckling pig make for a classic Majorcan picnic.

Then keep heading east to the port town of Pollença, about another 25 miles (though it will feel longer), if you want the best stretch of sandy beaches, a traditional Sunday morning market or another emblem of the way new-wave Majorca incorporates the past. The recently opened Son Brull Hotel, a few miles out of town, is the latest word in conversion chic, the clean lines of the refurbished, ocher-washed monastery echoed in pared-down guestrooms. The simplicity is deceptive. The hotel's pool, yoga classes, spa, restaurant and tapas bar add up to a full-blown retreat that would have mystified the original monks.

A village that lures artists

But for the best example of the way Majorca has firmly recaptured itself, turn back west to Deià. The village has always been a magnet for artists (Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Ava Gardner, Graves), outsiders, neo-hippies and hipsters, so it was a natural spot for a quiet revolution.

And while La Residencia, like Son Brull, may look at a first glance like a simple splurge -- a posh fully loaded retreat with multiple terraced swimming pools, a spa with six treatment rooms, two tennis courts -- it's at heart something more than just one of Spain's most coherent grand country hotels. It's really a radical little pioneer, the standard-bearer and template for the island's seismic shift and one of the first big attempts at cultural reclamation. In fact, when the hotel opened in 1984 it was a conscious response to the local blight of cheap, prefab, blockish hotels. Designed in part as a way of preserving two central 17th-century manor houses sitting just below the village, the hotel has only slowly, thoughtfully expanded (its eight new mountain suites sit higher up but merge with the original architecture) and a stay here means a seamlessly designed immersion in Majorcan culture.

That starts with the whitewashed guest rooms elegantly punctuated by beamed ceilings, flagstone floors, Iberian antiques, four-poster beds, fireplaces and bright contemporary paintings produced by Majorcan artists. The lush gardens are a little Majorcan Eden, and the hotel's formal El Olivo restaurant is anchored by the manor's original olive press, so you eat your Soller shrimp sandwiched between cubes of pork belly, and a moist pistachio cake, in the spot where olive oil used to splash onto the floors.

The best feature of La Residencia, though, may be its fitting front-row view of Deià itself, just across the road, glowing a burnished gold at dusk.

If a stay at the hotel is too pricey, at least take tea on the front terrace. Then climb up the stony village streets, past the church that houses a statue of St. Sebastian, his hair flying, and then walk down to the beachfront, Picasso's old swimming hole, better known as the thinking man's beach. This is no one's idea of the glossy, postcard-worthy beach. It's rocky and small, and it comes filled with a sometimes scruffy mix of bohos, backpackers and locals more interested in talking than sunbathing. But the ancient sea is perfectly framed and the beach that doesn't want to grow up, or even consider a beauty makeover, is the new emblem of an island content to recover itself.