Christmas round up

Well that was a weird one. It came and went as it always does, but this time the whole event was ruined by a horse. My horse to be specific, and I felt so very goddamn guilty about that.

On Christmas Eve she came in drenched with sweat, obviously having had a fright. She spent the next 3 days stressed up to her eyeballs, with a panicked look and a dangerous demeanour about her. I worried myself thin and as much as I tried not to -  I became stressed with her. My mind was not filled with festive joy but rather how to calm her down and wondering what on earth had happened in the first place. I tried to be present for the presents.

We got the vet eventually. And then Spot, the pony, got ill. He stopped eating, became depressed and came out in hives - possibly in sympathy or because of Kira.

The hedgehogs died.

He then got a sick bug.

I'm coming down with a cold.

And I'm not sure we can be bothered to stay up until midnight tonight. But I bought the grapes just in case...

Ruined by the equines

Hedgehog hotel

The Christmas tunes blare bizarrely in time to the flashing lights on the tree. Little P lies motionless on the sofa, drifting in and out of sleep, having her once-a-year-Christmas illness. My other daughter, the big one, wraps her sisters presents in her beautiful messy fashion, scribbling Seasons Greetings onto yet another colouring book.

And I feed the hedgehogs for the fifth time today. Yes, that's right - I somehow have got saddled with hand-rearing baby hedgehogs over the Christmas and New Year period. That's every 3 hours, mixing kitten formula and sterilising tiny little bottles even in the middle of the night. It's just a tiny bit harder waking for hedgehogs than your baby, my body does not want to stir, the thought of mixing formula at 2 o'clock in the morning does not make me want to rescue these little blighters at all. But I do it, as they squeak.

And they are goddamn cute.

They keep trying to die - which would be handy as the festive season approaches - but they hang in there as I feed them fennel and chamomile tea to cure their bloated tummies.

It's a different kind of busy this year, with not a commercial or Christmas cracker in sight.

A very Merry, prickly Christmas to you all !

Tis the season

Usually by now I have worked myself into a state and spouted about the unnecessary excess and the vulgarity of it all - putting others off their Christmas entirely. I would have grudgingly bought the crackers, the mince pies and half a tonne of stilton and grimaced my way through the church nativity. I am the the Grinch and the Scrooge combined, I feel bad about that - wishing I could enjoy the magic of the season like everyone else.

We seem to going through the same motions here in Mallorca, but it feels entirely acceptable this year. There is a tree - both fake and out of place as the sun streams through the window.

I can't find mince pies, crackers or Christmas cards but there is stollen and panetonne a plenty. The Chinese supermarkets have provided the tat to dress up the ponies. Spot begrudgingly coped with the tinsel but prefers not to wear his reindeer antlers.

We have had carol concerts by the sea, the boats twinkling in the marina while the children sing to Cliff Richards classics. There has been mulled wine and ice skating. Christmas markets and advent calenders. 

And I still feel sane.

Maybe Mallorca has taken the Grinch out of me after all these years.

Guapa!

She was being amazing today, my lovely mare Kira. She gleamed in the autumnal sunlight and cocked her ear towards me indicating she was listening to what I wanted her to do. She relaxed and softened her pace, bringing her neck lower and trotting with her nose to the floor - stretching all the muscles over her back. She looked and felt lovely until all of a sudden she screamed a high pitch whinny and spun to see two horses and their riders coming down the track at the side of our arena.

I gave up, she had lost all concentration and was prancing with her tail kinked like an Arab horse, nostrils flared and keen to meet the new ponies.

Hola! I shouted and made my way over to the man and woman, they had obviously come to say hello.

And there started a conversation about horses. Five whole minutes, it could have been eight, of talking in Spanish. We talked about why they had ridden here, who they were and did I know the woman across the road. They asked me about Kira, what breed she was and if I had a trailer we could meet and ride on the beach. We discussed food for horses and how to get muscles on their back end and they consistently praised my horse.

Guapa they called her. They kept calling her guapa. And when they turned and said goodbye I could hear them continuing to call her guapisima as they rode away. My once skinny little mare, with the wonky hips and chopped-off mane had turned beautiful, not only beautiful but really beautiful.

I was insanely proud, I'm not sure which meant more - the little mare's perceived beauty or the fact I didn't once apologise for my crap language skills during the whole conversation.

Onwards and upwards.

A date with demons

They don't appear until 10pm, so we kept the kids awake with pizza, brownies and anticipation. Dimonis (demons) in Mallorca are hugely popular characters with their festivities dating back to the twelfth century. The origin seems to be religious where the demons represent evil and mischief - always accompanied by fire.

They weren't sure about going, having been told scary stories from children who had been before. Even the adults seemed a little reticent.

Where are the demons?

With just the right amount of red wine inside me and excitement building in the streets, drums started banging and kids swung fire about their heads. Not sparklers, great big balls of fire.

And then the demons, who shout in your face menacingly - accompanied by dancing and drums. The noise was insane and even the kids seemed to be thrilled to be so close to this incredible spectacle.

There was fire, and roaring, fireworks, whizzing, screaming, and shouting, banging and wildness.

We all loved it, there was no fear at all - we screamed back in the face of the demons and were just a little tempted to dance with evil for the night.

**Turn up the video loud**

Autumn

The days are shorter but still the geraniums flower. 

The air is fresher but a late sunflower blooms.

The peaches have gone but the oranges are ripening.

There is rain, but always the sun.

Mallorca in Autumn lifts the soul. I am deeply content on this Mediterranean island of light. The language is developing, the ponies are gleaming, the cats are beginning to sleep and the mountains change daily. 

There is no place on the earth I would rather be.

Half term

We all needed the break, especially little P with bags under her eyes so dark and ingrained. I needed a pause from the driving, the girls needed a few homework-free days and he just needed a holiday. So we all took last week off and had multiple days out exploring the island and falling ever-so slightly in love with it.

You see, there was no one here. We had the beaches to ourselves. We found a parking spot easily in Palma. We found a table for lunch in Alcudia. We saw no other cyclists on our bike rides. There were no supermarket queues. And still the sun shone.

Discovering Biniagual

Morning cuddles with Spot

Swimming in the sea in November

Lone palm and just us

Palma days

And just as the children returned to school, and he returned to work, the skies turned black and the temperatures dropped - just as it should be in November after all.

La multa

It had been a dreamy Sunday. The sun had reappeared after a few weeks of stormy and unpredictable weather. There were but a few wispy clouds in the sky as we headed for Puig de Maria, an old monastery on the top of a very big hill. The views at the summit were apparently stunning, and after the tough hours walk we all confirmed that they were. The vista across to the Tramuntana was tempting, luring us for winter hiking and discoveries. The towns below had shrunk to Playmobil size and the blue of the coast as inviting as ever. It really was a breathtaking walk.

We were all feeling so happy, so content with life, so exercised, so healthy and looking forward to our meal in Pollenca as we descended the hill.  Only to be greeted with a parking fine, to be fair we had parked on a grassy kerb but so had everyone else - yes, they all received a fine as well.

Darn. 80 flipping euros up the spout. Upon looking at the fine it seems there was an option to pay 40 euros, I guess if we paid it quickily. Our Spanish could not work out how and when to pay so I asked a lady in a shop.

She shrugged her shoulders, I don't know she said, after reading all the 'terms and conditions' of the fine. I will call my friend she said, and then proceeded to write a telephone number of the hacienda for us. Maybe they will help you she said.

A Spanish person couldn't work out how to pay the 40 euro option, so we had lunch and thought about our dilemma.

"Oh you have una multa!" the waiter laughed at us, in perfect clipped English.

I explained our predicament. He read the back of the fine and couldn't tell us how to pay it either.

"Go to the police station after your lunch - you can pay it there, I don't know if it is 80 euros or 40 euros!" he shrugged again.

"I had a fine last week, in Palma, much more money than yours for the drinking and the driving you know?!" he grinned and gestured the international sign for drinking booze with his thumb and little finger.

"But I pay it the next day, 50% less, at the police station, " he explained.

Only in Mallorca.

Timmy

The doors are left open in the evenings, it still being warm enough for air to flow around the house. At 8.32pm last night in walks a kitten, just like that, all brazen and purposeful looking for some food and comfort.

"Muuuuuuuum, there's a kitten in the house!" shouted the girls.

"I thought Lupin had shrunk!" squealed A, Lupin being one of the Fattie Catties we flew to Mallorca from the UK.

And as I took a break from the cleaning and the organising, there he was in P's arms, apparently called Timmy in the 3 minutes he had entered our house. What a beautiful, if a little smelly, kitten he was.

We fed him some of the cat food our pompous kitties turned their noses up at and he gobbled it with the speed of a cat that hasn't eaten for a long time. He was so desperate to come in for cuddles and a play but the matriarchs hissed and spat at him through the windows. I had a feeling he might still be around in the morning.

As I wandered over to the horses, whinnying me their glorious greeting at 7am, along Timmy trots - as pleased as pleased can be. His little tail was vertical in the air and he purred as he ran to say Hello, warm from a night in the straw. So we fed him again.

            

Looks like we have 2 horses, 2 fattie catties, 1 stray cat, 1 parrot and 1 kitten and counting...

Escaped

She felt very close as she clip-clopped past my window. Our sleepy brains couldn't quite fathom where she was, if she was indeed even there.

I leapt out of bed at 5.25 am to find Kira wondering around the garden with glee. Her hulk seemed enormous as I padded out into the night in bare feet and pyjamas. Having eaten her garba, trashed the newly mowed and manicured lawn, filled her tummy to bursting and avoided falling in the swimming pool - I would say my horse had had a thoroughly good party-for-one.

Reluctantly she followed me back to her stable, pretty high on calories and wanting to play.

It's still the middle of the night I hushed to her, as I would a toddler who had wondered out of their cot bed, go back to sleep. But of course that was me wide awake for the day - Googling the crap out of "What to do if your horse eats too much...."

Houdini pony 

Paradise crumbles

It's October tomorrow. The blistering days of the summer idyll are a distant memory as September came and went in a tumultuous fashion.

The weather changed, tormentas loud and crashing roared angrily in all corners of the island, sending the tourists running to the city to spend their money instead of crisping their skin. The rivers created after a build up of weeks and weeks, rushed through the land in great torrents. Anoraks and sandbags were needed. Well, maybe not sandbags but it was close.

Hours are spent in the car driving the girls to school. Mummy's language is allowed to be as blue as it likes from 7.45 am -9 am, and the same on the way home. We roar with laughter at the filth that comes out of my mouth and delight in shouting all the Spanish swear words we know as well. The radio helps, no censoring of the summer tunes here, the F-bomb being regularly dropped much to my kids delight. I kinda love it as well. But I drive with all my might and concentration as the amount of accidents is disturbing, pulling out in front of you and nipping in before you is a public sport. Gilipollas.

The car passed its ITV (MOT) after tension and troubles. I have never been so pleased to place that goddamn little yellow sticker on my window and forget about it for another year. You have to be prepared to look stupid in another language. That I did. But I learnt, and next time will know what to do and the words for hazard lights, brakes and reverse lights.

And the horse fell over after hooly-ing around. And the Internet broke. And we had visitors for week which was glorious and hectic. And the cat puked on the freshly laundered duvet. And. And. And.

But today is heavenly. Paradise restored. Normality regained until the next time. A moments peace with only the parrot chirruping away and the cat snoring on my lap. The horses are fed and exercised, the house as clean as I can be bothered with, the children happy and learning. And breathe.

Autumn sun in winter coats

10 lessons in 10 weeks

1. Mallorca is a hot place. Really hot. No I mean absolutely stinkingly, searingly hot.

2. There is no use for the inside lane on a roundabout in Mallorca. If you use the inside lane there is a chance you may be on it forever as everyone else is in the outside lane - even if they are turning left. I am now an outside-lane driver too.

3. Google maps and google translate are rarely correct. It does not take 35 minutes to get to Magaluf. At 8 o'clock in the morning it takes 1 hour and 10 minutes. I now have a 1 hour and 45 minute school run - twice a day.

4. They say the beaches in Mallorca are better than the Caribbean - we have yet to test that theory as I have never seen so many tourists in my life. Not one inch of sand or one droplet of sea was spare this summer.

5. It is very hard not to drink alcohol to celebrate the sun going down. Or a good barbeque. Or because it is the weekend, or a week night. Beer tastes better in the sun and we are surrounded by vineyards.

6. Palma is the prettiest, cleanest, smartest and most manageable city I have come across - we are looking forward to getting to know it better.

7. Avocados, limes, lemons, almonds and olives all grow in Mallorca - and in my garden.

8. Administration in Mallorca is one confusing nightmare. I have the Spanish version of the MOT next week, I have no idea what to do and which papers to take.

9. Bread lasts one day. If you cut it up it lasts half an hour before it stales. Best eaten fresh and quick.

10. Life is life wherever you are. It follows you around, it's boring and mundane in parts, stressful and sad at other times. But one thing is certain - it is a nicer experience in the sun, with a little tapas, some friends and a beer. Mallorca is a very nice place indeed, I hope we stay for a very long time.

New school

I am ALONE! For the first time in 9 weeks.

The girls went to school today and I forgot to take a picture, I don't know why. Maybe I was worried we would be late, or that it felt like a normal day at school - except this was their first day at their new school in Mallorca. An International school at that.

The school playground was full of tans, multiple languages, excitement and uncertainty. Their shoes were shiny, the hair short and neat and their uniforms unbelievably new and straight from the packet. The heat was starting to get intense already at 9 am as I waved goodbye, and they filed one-by-one into their new school lives. I felt proud, excited and alone. For these two wonderful little people had been attached to my side all summer, as we discovered the island and its ways - together.

On the drive home I reflected how far we have come since moving here. How settled we all feel. How much we all love it.

And once out of the maze of Palma motorways, I used the time to listen to Radio Mallorca and tried to decipher the chatter. It all feels so normal, so home, so right. Especially as I turned on to the country road to our house, hearing the sound of the sheep bells and waving to the shepherd - I knew I had a little while to wait until I got home.

New school haircut - it didn't look quite like this, this morning

Arta

We feel we should be exploring the island more, getting out and discovering the National Parks, beaches and exquisite little villages. But it is still 35 degrees, everyday from 10am until 6pm. 

Today we forced ourselves away from the air conditioning and drove through immaculate countryside dotted with olive, carob and almond trees, to the sleepy town of Arta. I say it is sleepy because by the time we arrived only the tourists were awake, the pretty shutters of the town were firmly shut with only the wafts of garlic and something fishy seeping through the windows.

After wandering around Santuario de Sant Salvador, and spending a little longer than usual in the dark and imposing church - we found some lunch and litres of chilled water. 

Day 3

I had felt this feeling before. A great euphoria followed by a low, mixed with churning anxiety and a sense of not being able to cope.

Being an owner of horses for the first time was like having my first baby. The high when they arrived lasted exactly 2 days, although I did have to constantly walk over to the stables to check they were still alive - just like poking a sleeping baby to check they were breathing.

Then day 3, when typically the new mama experiences a bout of the 'baby blues', a hormonal dive after the birth of a newborn. Anxiety can make an appearance and feelings of not being good-enough may emerge.

I got the pony-blues on day 3. Had I done the right thing? Do I know enough about horses? Can I afford to do this? What if she bucks me off? She's too young! I'm too old! This is nothing like I imagined it would be!

I then called some people who calmed me down and encouraged me that I would make a wonderful pony-mama. Just one day at a time, starting with grooming and washing them, taking them for a walk down the lane and a munch on a rare patch of grass. Beginning by touching them and knowing every inch of their bodies to understand what is normal for them, finding their likes and tickly spots, accepting their flaws and not expecting instant results.

Of course the reality is nothing like I imagined - but then, neither was becoming a mother for the first time. This didn't stop it being the best experience of my life.

Botanicactus

The kids have been doing a pottery course in the south of the island, finally mixing with other children and listening to the sound of many languages - to Spanish, Catalan, French and German. They were shy and wide-eyed on their first day but now, towards the end of their week, are joining in with mime and Spanish - the common tongue.

During the 2 hours where they mould, carve and paint their clay creations - I have explored the coves, beaches, farmland and cafes of the surrounding area. By far the outstanding attraction was Botanicactus, mainly because no one was there, they would prefer to sit like packed sardines on the beach burning to a frazzle (I wince at those pink bodies and burnt skin).

I thought Botanicactus was a garden centre, but in fact it was a stunning botanical garden with the most extraordinary collection of cacti. I spent an amazing hour there before the sun got too searingly hot.

                         

Preparing

"Tienes una cubierta de drenaje?" I asked the guy in the ironmongers. I had been practising my sentence all the way into town.

Que?

Oh shit. I needed a back up plan, he had no idea what I wanted. I wasn't sure either, I have never asked for a drain cover in English, let alone Spanish.

The stables in our rented house in Mallorca, are almost perfect. OK, they are smaller than the British version and they have extremely high doors so the stallions couldn't jump out. They have been unused for 4 years so I have spent a good amount of sweaty time, cleaning, disinfecting and mending the dangerous bits.

The last thing I needed was a cover to the drainage system in one stable - and apparently it isn't known as a 'cubierta de drenaje'. Darn Google translate.

After much explanation in half-remembered Spanish helped by a photo on my phone, we got there. Except it's not the right one so I will have to go back and start all over again.

Or I could stuff it with straw as the local farmer advised. Well, I think that's what he said.

Its a sumidero, not a cubierta de drenaje. We live and learn.

The menagerie expands

I didn't mean to buy one so soon, let alone two. He was a given really, with his spotty nose, fluffy mane, penchant for carrots and resigned look in his eyes to look after the kids. He is called Spot and I had mentally bought him when I met him.

I imagined myself on a Spanish horse, a pura raza espanol, with a flowing mane and a cresty neck. We would wonder the campo and stop for a drink, me in my cowboy hat and the horse dozing with its hind leg cocked as I drank my beer.

I did not imagine myself buying a cow. A skinny cow. One with a sad face and a ewe neck. A patchy black and white one who needed food, a wormer and some love.

I heard all my horsey mentors screaming at me not to do it. She has terrible confirmation! She is too young! She is malnourished! She is a SHE!

But I bought her and her name is Kira. And she is mine, all mine, and so is Spot. Happy birthday me.

I just hope the gamble pays off, and if it doesn't I will have learned - and they will live charmed lives, as every animal deserves.

Spot

Introducing Kira - who does not need a pelham - but needs some love.

Lost in translation

One of the best things about Mallorca, and sometimes the most scary and frustrating, is the language. My Spanish is not good, my Catalan non existent and the dialect Mallorquin I have yet to differentiate. A lot of the Spanish is coming back, slowly and painfully from long lost sentences once spoken on the streets of Seville, almost 15 years ago. I understand the gist of a conversation but words fail to flow out of my mouth, it will come with practice I know.

A tries hard to learn words and picks up the accent easily.  We need to find some little people for them to play with. Our next door neighbours have curious boys who occasionally peak in through our fence, 'holas!' have been exchanged - both parties are intensely interested but cripplingly shy to make the first move.

P finds remembering the words difficult. She doesn't like to make mistakes and look silly, therefore refuses to try. Unless the words sound like rude ones or swear words.

So far she has learnt piss-ina (la piscina) - swimming pool, the hilarous town of Bugger (Buger) and Lluc (Yuck) monastery as well as finding fartons hysterical.

By Christmas they will be fluent, they say. I think we may have to work on that.

Lluc monastry

La piscina

Farton frolics

Pollenca

I started to get cabin fever with this heat. It's crazy to go out anywhere between 10am and 5pm, even the walk from the parked car to the supermarket is dangerous - the skin screams with the vicious sun, prickling with a thousand sore needles only to be relieved by the air conditioning or shade.

A welcome 29C and a breeze happened yesterday. The pool was even a little chilly so I put on my brave pants to drive somewhere new. I even found a front-ward parking space which required no backward driving. Armed with the Lonely Planet guide, with 5000 other tourists, we explored the delightful Pollenca and walked the pilgrims steps to Calvari.

Penance for having too much of a nice time in Mallorca so far.

Oh God, dem wrinkles

Stray cats

365 steps towards icecream

A drowned mouse

He gets up earlier than me, swims, puts on the coffee and is ready at his desk for work while I just about rouse myself into another hot day. Yesterday my sleepy state was triggered into action over a drowning mouse. He fished it out of the pool and dumped it on the grass, shivering, while he had a swim. I have never seen such a pathetic creature, it could have been swimming out there for hours. 

Our animal rescue team came into action, we locked the fattie catties away, emptied a cardboard box of its contents and found some woolly baby clothes to wrap the mouse in. Oh poor drowned mouse!

We fed it a breakfast of cheese and biscuits, placed the cardboard box in a safe, dry, warm (but not too warm) place and left him to recover from his ordeal.

After the supermarket we checked on drowned mouse - he had dried out but was now over run with ants eating his breakkie. So we upgraded his home and left him near a hedge so when he felt well enough he could scamper off into the countryside.

And that is what he did. Our mouse rescue service worked. Just hoping we don't find his little body on the grass this morning as the fattie catties refused to come in last night.

Puesta del sol

We never had a sunset in Sussex. The trees behind us ate the sun at about 5pm when we were plunged into cold and dimpsey-ness. We longed for a west facing view.

The sun now sets behind our house and dips into the Tramuntana mountains, we can enjoy it until darkness.