That time of year

Anyone who knows me also knows that I'm not a fan of Christmas. The magic is lost on me, amongst the shopping, the wrapping, the cooking, the Christmas fairs, the teachers gifts, the cards, the marketing madness, the organisational stress. I could go on.

I see magic in the everyday. The lambs that were born last night on the mountain with their umbilical cords swinging as they hurried to keep up with their mother. The vibrant sunrises and sunsets, a technicolor show every day for free. I see magic in the oranges and lemons which are abundant on the trees and the almonds which lay, uncollected, on the ground. The smell of my horses sweet breath and welcoming nicker every morning fills me with wonder and huge feelings of gratefulness. The frosty side of the field, the ever expanding tummies of the stray cats, the donkeys ee-aw and the wobbly hedgehogs who cross the road.

Magic in the morning

We are lucky here in Mallorca that the Christmas build up is less intense. There are a few Christmas markets, a carol concert or two, some pretty lights in Palma and a Christmas jumper day at school. I have managed all with little more than a deep breath and a good slug of rioja.

Magical balloons in Palma

With 5 days to go, you could almost say that I am calm.

Feliz Navidad a todos

Flying free

She hinted she didn't want to ride.

P gets stressed at the thought of homework building up, forms that need to be signed and bags that need packing for the next school day - which is a sad state to be in when you are 9 years old. I knew as soon as I saw her, as she wearily left the classroom, that she was unhappy; there were 50 multiplication sums and 10 spelling sentences to do for the next day. P can't think, or process, or have fun, until the pesky school work is completed.

I persuaded her to trot around for 10 minutes on Spot who enjoys a little jolly. She rides well, little P, but I can see she doesn't always enjoy it. After a cajoled canter, I built a teeny, weeny, tiny jump.

Go on I said. You can do it. And she did! Quite spectacularly. Twice in fact.

She grinned, I praised her and hugged the pony for being so honest.

"How was that?" I asked

She thought for a moment and considered her answer.

"When you go over the jump it was like there was a big hammer, hammering down my homework into the jump!"

Wow I replied. How does that make you feel?

"Like an angel lived inside me" she said, flooring me with her reply.

My 9 year old daughter had just explained how horses made me feel. No matter how life is turning out, how blue my day has been or desperately unhappy I felt; when I am near horses, it's like an angel lives inside me and nothing else matters.

To the horse who put the angel inside me:

Rest in Peace Mr Fletcher, thank you for teaching me, for allowing me to feel, for your free spirit and wild ways. I will never, ever forget you. Run free you crazy ginger beastie and I'll see you on the other side for a mad gallop.

Fletch, who rekindled my love of horses, put to sleep this week

The next phase

I loved the milky babies, days out with toddlers to play farms and forests. I loved the relative freedom  of them starting school and being able to discover horses again for myself. I loved them growing up and developing strong characters and dislikes. Of them still believing in Father Christmas and needing to sleep in our bed if a nightmare arrived. I think I loved it all, but the memory is a marvellous thing and filters out the mundane and the boring. The photos taken are of happy times and milestones, like the first solid food and wobbly ride of a bike, they fool us into remembering a content and peaceful time. I really loved being a mum to little children. I'm just not sure I'm doing a good job of the next bit.

A is nearly 12, developing into a young woman at great speed. Her character from toddler-dom is still there, a kind and empathetic child, a loather of pain, a messy eater with a wide infectious smile for all. She tries hard at school, loves her pony with passion and has many friends.

And now she has a phone. And Instagram. And I don't like it, I don't like it at all.

It's not the amount of time spent staring at the screen, we are all guilty of that I'm afraid, but the influences and messages which pollute her child-like brain.

Maybe I am feeling a loss of control. The beginning of letting go, the start of her finding her own path with it's steep drops and craggy rocks on the way.

I try and help her with her friendship issues, I encourage her to talk about her worries, we discuss what to ignore and what to confront and we spend time together in silence - just brushing the horses or mucking out the stables. I want her to fit in and stand out as different. I want her to be strong but caring. I would like her to work hard at school but not to the detriment of her pleasures. I would like her to have a special friend but be kind to the whole class.

And of course I hope, hope so much, that she is happy.

Mallorca or Sussex, being a Mama is one of the hardest jobs of them all. 

Winter

Winter happens overnight here in Mallorca.

Half term was a blissful week of sunny days, riding in tee shirts, sunglasses over lunch, snoozes on the balcony with faces to the warmth and ice creams watching the super yachts moor for the winter; after a season of indulgent luxury.

We had the obligatory end-of-summer-BBQ. Just as the last sausage was consumed and the last glass of chilled white wine was quaffed, at exactly the same time as last year, the weather turned cold and the skies turned black. Winter had arrived - and boy, do you notice it here in Mallorca.

The houses are just not built for the cold, with their stone floors and no insulation. It doesn't help that our boiler has broken, the logs are too damp and the electricity company is threatening to cut us off for not paying our bill - we are trying to pay obviously but it just isn't that simple here in Spain. The ceiling has a hole in it, the rain drips slowly onto our duvet, the horses are wearing their rugs and the kids wrap up in puffy jackets and tights on the way to school.

But do you know what?

It might be chilly, with a shivery breeze - but there is always the sun. Weak and watery as it is right now, it never fails to make November simply delightful.

Cold but sunny evenings after school

es-Pot

It could have gone so horribly wrong. I had never bought a horse before, let alone a pony for my precious kids. But arriving in Mallorca over a year ago, I was impatient. We rented a house in the middle of the island with accidental stables and an arena to ride in. I say accidental, and I know you don't believe me - but it wasn't in the house description I promise you.

After a very stressful move from the UK, all our dreams and belongings in one lorry load, I wondered how long it was deemed acceptable before I went pony shopping.

In two weeks I had found him.

He was called Spot. Es-Pot, as the Spanish say. There is not one spot on his body, but I'm sure there would have been when he was young.

He stood, fatter than most, tied to a hitching rail looking bored and resigned. The sellers steered us to the more energetic looking ponies - ones with a heftier price tag as well.

"That one!" I pointed at Spot.

Ohhh, he don't jump so good.

Well I definitely want that one then. My kids wobbled round on this pure white pony and he looked after them, a week later he was in our home.

He has been worth every euro since, every-flipping centimos. This pony makes every day worth waking up for, he is the most honest, genuine, kind, loving, patient, fun and food-obsessed horse I have ever known.

He has taught teenagers to ride, adults to smile, a 3 year old to hang on and grown men to laugh. He is my daughters first real love.

You are with us forever Spot. And you know it.

With his girlfriend, and boss, Kira

The Grinch

The most loved pony in Mallorca

Oh, and he can jump!

Home

The aeroplane veered right and started it's descent. My heart took a leap and I smiled as I looked down on Cala San Vicente, remembering a sweltering beach day without sun cream. Behind me I could make out the dragon's tail-like tip of Cap de Formentor, the terrifying bends and curves in the road were visible which made me cling to my seat with the memory - a New Years Day picnic with dolphins. We flew over Puerto Pollensa where boats lined up in neat rows and the turquoise waters glistened on what had obviously been a fabulous October day. I could see Alcudia and Playa de Muro, we flew past Inca were we had lived for a whole year, the Tramuntana mountains stood proudly and foreboding - and I could just make out where our new house must be. Palma beckoned and as we landed, without a bump, I truly felt I had come home.

While it was lovely to visit the UK, with strong hugs for friends and animals, it felt nicer to return.

We had no idea whether it would work out 18 months ago, but took the brave leap anyway. I can honestly say it is the best thing we have ever done - for me, for him, the children and even the fattie catties. And although I guess I will always be English, my heart and soul belongs in Mallorca.

Visiting Fletch in the UK

El Ratoncita Perez

We wait outside the dentist, a little too early to walk through the doors, mulling over the braces that were about to be put on A's teeth. She's growing fast my lovely A, with puberty up and running, secondary school under way, wandering around shopping centres with her friends - and now some metal train tracks on her sticky-outy teeth.

"Lot's of people in my class say the Tooth Fairy doesn't exist and that the parents give you the money!" says P, the savvy child and over two years A's junior.

"Tell me the truth Mummy, is there such a thing as the Tooth Fairy?" demanded P.

I don't like telling lies to my kids, the whole Father Christmas thing has never lain that comfortable with me, but I want them to work it out for themselves without the magic being destroyed.

"What do you think?" I turned it back on them, to mull over the improbable facts.

"Well she must be real," replied A "she wrote me all those little notes!"

It's true, I wrote little notes thanking the children for their teeth, in fairy handwriting, telling them that their pearly whites would be used to make miniature tea-sets and the like.

We made our way into the surgery where the dentist measured and took gummy moulds of A's teeth. A wobbly tooth needed to come out so the dentist presented A with the option to yank it out now - or she could wiggle and wobble it out herself at home. The latter option was obviously preferable. The dentist presented her with a tiny pink mouse shaped box, for her tooth to be placed in when it fell.

Why the mouse we asked?

And the dentist proceeded to tell us all about El Ratoncita Perez, the little mouse who collects children's teeth and shines them into pearls - and for that privilege he leaves a gift where the tooth once lay. Which kinda blows the Tooth Fairy out the window.

Both children looked perplexed. They remembered teeth falling out in Spain and the Tooth Fairy HAD been.

"I know! It's because we are English, the Tooth Fairy still comes to us but now we have bought a house here and we are residents of Spain, maybe Ratoncita Perez will come instead. I must write him a note in Spanish!" A says excitedly as she starts to encourage the tooth to fall out.

Poppy looked at me incredulously.

"Really Mum, I'm confused - who TAKES our teeth?"

I guess we will just have to wait and see.

My family and other animals

I awake, aware of a ginger cat staring at me, willing me to open my eyes. As soon as I do, I am pestered to feed the first hungry mouth of the day. The fattie catties enjoy their routine and branded cat food, still sticking up their pompous noses at the 'foreign muck'. The kids pour cornflakes in a bowl and munch on magdelenas but forget to hydrate themselves and he enjoys a coffee if I'm making one.

Oy, feed me

We roll down the mountain in new school uniforms and holding chopped carrots, ready to feed the horses, who wait patiently for the sound of my car to arrive. Breakfast is wolfed by Spot and lingered over by Kira. The stray cats and kittens skirt my feet gingerly, asking for food but careful never to get too close. Three kittens, one mother and a cat-with-no-tail are fed and watered, relieved that they found such a nice place to be wild in. They lick their paws gratefully, I like to believe, and wonder off for a snooze.

She's wild, tiny and full of worms or kittens again

Spot - the hungriest pony in the world

I drop the kids in their school and shove a pastry in my mouth before heading half way up the mountain to two horses, two ponies and one tiny lamb. All with rumbly tummies. Feeds are fed, haynets stuffed and a bottle of milk made.

And as I watch with wonder as the little lamb gulps down his milk, shoving his pink nose hard at the teat willing more milk to flow - I can't think of a finer way to start my day.

Nurturing 

Summer of '17

I slept without a fan and reached for a sheet to cover my body last night. It must mean that summer is waning and autumn is ready to be welcomed with open and loving arms. Oh boy, what a summer it was too; days and days, weeks and weeks, even months and months of boiling hot, stinking, searing, blistering heat. Goodbye summer, we have had a blast, but autumn cannot come soon enough.

The summer holidays are coming to a close. The uniforms have been bought and shoes purchased from my favourite little shoe shop in Magaluf, next to a pumping techno bar, in front of vomit and behind a beach which has seen some action. A sweet Spanish family sort us out with some sensible back-to-school shoes amongst the wild and chaotic party town. We celebrate with burgers and yellow food, watching the stags, hens and hangovers go by - warning my near-teenage daughter what not to look for in a boyfriend. I fear I may be worse than her father.

And as the temperature drops and the clouds appear we reflect on the best summer of our lives. Days and days of freedom and bare feet. Of swimming, learning to dive and countless back flips. Of insects, geckos and tortoises. Of ponies, donkeys and cantering around with wide grins. Of snorkelling, rock jumping and crusty hair. Of moonlit skies, romantic dinners and watching our favourite lizard nightly. Of late nights, early mornings and stolen siestas. Of friends so dear, giggles and hugs. Of very few tears, arguments and squabbles.

Thank you Mallorca again, you are one special place.

All before 9

We are having a heatwave. It's hotter than hot and the heat does not go away at night.

The fattie catties play dead on the floor tiles and breathe rapidly dreaming of damp Sussex days and cosy winter nights. I am surprised they have kept their British fluff, I would have thought nature might have replaced it with a Mallorquin coat, short haired and sparse. I suppose you can't change the fur you were born in.

The plants wilt and leaves are scorched. The clothes dry in fifteen minutes and the towels resemble cardboard after lying discarded in the sun. The ground is dangerous to walk on and the inside unbearable without fans and air conditioning - preferably both on at full speed. 

It's hard to do anything in this heat. Entertaining the kids is tough without the risk of sun stroke, so all fun needs to be had as early as we can. We roused sleepily today at day break and hoped for some reprieve outside, with a coffee. But this morning it was already 32C at 06:30. We dragged on jodhpurs, cut up some carrots and checked there was enough cat food in the boot of the car for Calvia's strays. The ponies greet us with their woffly neighs and valiantly trot around in circles before cool showers and breakfast. We leave them with fly spray and the shade of their stables with hay and water for the day.

Beetroot-faced and drenched with sweat we changed into flip-flops and shorts, keen to get the air con on our faces as we drive down the mountain to the sea. It glistens and beckons, empty all but for a few oldies bobbing in the warm waters before the hoards awake - we strip and run into the gloopy waves, hoping for a little cool, disappointed how fast our body adapts. We swim and tread water, squealing at the fronds of seaweed which wrap menacingly around our legs. 

Looking forward to our tostada, litres of chilled water and another little shot of coffee, we find the most Spanish of Spanish bars - all before 09:00. 

After which the temperatures have reached dangerous levels and the only thing to do is shut the shutters and hide.

Water, water

I turned on the tap nonchalantly, thoughts of preparing dinner and watering the plants on my mind. The tap spat, coughed, heaved and stopped. I turned it on and off again but still no water. Maybe it was just the kitchen, but no, it seemed every tap had ran out of water. We had in fact, ran out of water.

You see, our water lives in a tank under our new house. There are no mains anything up the mountain where we live, except electricity and even that's a bit hit and miss. Being new to the system of having a finite amount of water, I guess it was inevitable that we would run one day run out.

Carlos was called, the water would be with me tomorrow he said. Always tomorrow in Spain.

While waiting we pondered on our dilemma. No shower in the 35 degree heat, no washing of clothes or dishes, the plants began to wilt and the toilets began to smell. Faces and armpits were washed at the stables with a hose while the swimming pool dealt with rest of our grime.

We all decided to go out for dinner, feeling lucky we had that option at all. We cleaned our teeth in mineral water and hoped that Carlos would deliver to us first in the morning.

What a lesson to learn.

And as the rain crashed down this week in a rare summer storm, we delighted that our garden was having a soaking and the tank was refilling with liquid gold from the sky.

Tranquilo

 She looked at me intently.

"A las diez, si?"

Yes, I was absolutely sure that I would be at the stables for 10am, as the lady in the shop requested. It is not hard to be on time. Punctuality is a particular skill of mine. I had 10 bales of straw arriving for my horses, I sat on the mounting block from 09.59 - waiting.

"They won't come at 10 o'clock Mummy, " said the ever wise P, "This is Spain!"

We all waited patiently for an hour, unloaded the frigging straw and laughed at the tranquilo approach. No apologies for being late of course -  I have just learnt to be grateful that people turn up at all.

I *live* in Mallorca

We did it, we bought a house and moved again.

To write it in one sentence sounds trite - so easy to do, but actually so flipping hard to accomplish.

But we have done it. All those years of talking about living and working in Spain have finally been achieved and I'm not going to lie, it feels great. I belong here, amongst the olive and the carob trees, the screaming cicadas and infestations of ants. I like accidentally ordering food I didn't ask for in restaurants and recognising one word out of twenty and winging it. I absolutely love Spain and all she has to offer, which is a good thing because we are staying.

The move was sweaty. And stressful as moving house always is. I tried to persuade him him to get rid of some of his belongings, but the 2000 books and 400 LP's followed us to our new and permanent house. The horses got transported down the motorway at 130km/hour and arrived terrified, with their eyes rolling around in the backs of their heads as though they had been on a roller coaster without knowing it was ever going to end. Los pobres. They are now tranquilo as life should be on a Mediterranean island. The cats meow-ed a little on their journey to the south west of the island, taking it all in their little well-travelled cattie paws. They walked around the new house, hid for 30 minutes, sniffed the familiarity and went out for a quick kill - as you do.

Recovered from their transit

We have tortoises in the new garden, wild and wonderful. Our ears pop every time we come home - we live that far up a mountain. We can see the sea from the top of the house and the yucca plant has just flowered. Hibiscus reminds me that I am somewhere foreign and the sun is always there.

The annoyances and difficulties I will write of in the future, but just now I would like to sit back, amongst the unpacked boxes and take all in what has happened.

We live in Spain. Again. And I am so very, very glad indeed.

On the move .... again

It should be easier this time, having moved my entire belongings, plus 2 cats and 2 kids, only a year ago. Except this time I seem to have acquired 2 horses and all their equipment as well. We are moving from the beautiful 'finca in Inca' to somewhere nearer the children's school. The 4 hour daily journeys, up and down the motorway amongst accidents and hire cars was impossible. Everyone said it would be, but I guess I had to work it out for myself.

So we bought a house. It was a stressful, traumatic, worrying, confusing, expensive and heart-in-the-mouth experience. Brexit had better work out OK, because it looks like we are staying.

We have the keys now and are just waiting to move. The lists, the jobs, the goodbyes to neighbours and the cleaning - although not as intense as the move from the UK - needs to be done and logistically thought out.

The cats skirt their travel cages not wanting to believe they are on the move again. This will be the last time catties, I promise. Because I am not going anywhere for a very long time.

A new house for the foreseeable future

Sports day

Great whispers and shocked chatter started the school sports day this morning, over coffees and behind Gucci sunglasses.

"Did you hear? About the lady who fell, she had 6 stitches and knocked out her teeth! She sprained both wrists and her child was hysterical at the sight of his mum..."

Sharp intakes of breath ensued, this was obviously a dangerous subject. The mothers race on sports day.

Oh how I giggled and remembered my spectacular crash in front of the whole school a few years ago in Sussex. The adrenaline that coursed my veins as I thought I was going to win, the feeling of flying and impressed my body could still run so fast made a hilarious story. And it seems there were plenty of stories to share, everyone had a calamity to report; of vicious competitiveness, of weeks of training for the event, of boobs flying and torn muscles.

I looked down at my shoes and wandered if I could do it.

Nooooooooo, my kids shouted. Pleeeeeeeeease don't do it, they chorused, not wanting the mother with a smashed up face.

So I settled for cheering on my daughters' efforts in the egg and spoon race - which she won of course.

Competitive? Us?

Sports day in Mallorca - the same all over the world!

Summer happened

Summer happened, just like that, a couple of weeks ago now. Where everything that was once green, has turned brown overnight. The spring flowers have withered leaving grass seed pods and allium skeletons, petrified and roasting.

The horses routine has turned upside down, inside in the day and out all night. The cat has turned into her Magaluf - party style cat, hunting and vomiting by night and comatose in the day.

Ice lollies are mandatory, bikinis live at the front of my drawers, swimming lessons have started in school, the air con is permanently on in the car, I am dirty brown, the duvet has disappeared from the bed, the mosquito repellent is on, BBQ's every weekend, siestas imperative and luke-warm showers save our electricity bills.

Summer has happened. I can hardly believe we have another 9 degrees to go.

Spot cools down in the sprayers and mud

The other one is a bit mental and sunbathes at lunctime

Psycho cat

La Gordita

Podgey. Porky. Rounded. Full. Well-conditioned. Chunky. Plump. Heavy. Big-boned. Over-weight. Large. Solid.

There is no getting round it, my mare is FAT.

I am not entirely sure when it happened. Some time between this:

and this:

Fat happened.

It always takes someone else to point it out and I felt as bad as taking a child to the dentist with tooth decay. It is my fault she is large and I can no longer feel her ribs.

The diet started today and she was not amused. She probably lives in fear that she will look and feel like this again:

Multas #2-7, (and very nearly #8)

I seem to be very good at getting multas (fines). In fact I might crown myself the multa queen, or Queen Multa - which sounds a little more formal.

Multa number 1 as you may remember was a little misdemeanour - just a wee bit of parking on a wee bit of grass. Easily done, not easy to pay.

Multas numbers 2 to 7, that's six more fines, were found by looking for them on a website, roughly translated to lookforyourdrivingfines.com. Some kind soul had told me that you can look up your fines and I had just a sneaky suspicion that I may have driven down some roads in Palma that I perhaps shouldn't have. Turns out I have done it six times.

Once again, near impossible to pay these buggering fines. And if you don't pay, they accrue interest. And when they have accrued the maximum interest they (not sure who they are) whip it out of your bank account without telling you - which kind of figures, as they never tell you about the fines anyway.

It's an insane system. Beautiful Spanish bureaucracy. Thank goodness for bilingual friends who have held my hand throughout this process and dried my tears over the 600 euros lost. I now have one (legal) way into Palma and one way out, without incurring crazy costs.

Spain enjoys a good fine. They fine you for washing your car in the street, for playing music too loud, for not wearing a shirt, for not carrying poo bags for your dog - and if your horse craps on the road. I was told politely about the 120 euro fine for my horse pooping in the street, since then I have diligently kicked it into the hedge and remounted or driven back to pick it up after the ride.

After a beautiful ride on the horse I look after, waving to all the farmers and greeting the cyclists with a grin, we met the Ajuntament of Calvia. Basically the town council were out in force. As I nodded a polite 'Hola' the horse I was riding proceeded to do a big, fat steaming, squishy pile of poo - all the way up the road, I look round and there stood two burly Spanish men with reflecting aviators - I leapt off my surprised horse and kicked the offending caca into a sort-of hedge. Dredging up all the Spanish I knew, I grovelled apologising for the timing of the horses poo, that I was cleaning the roads, although my nice new leather boots were now covered in brown digested grass.

Sorry I said.

Que guapo! They replied, referring to my horse. Guapisimo!

I grinned, they cooed over the horse's beauty and multa number 8 was swiftly avoided.

The great poo-er himself (the horse not me)

No news is good news

Crikey, a month has passed since I have written a post. That is certainly not due to the lack of stories. Or Mallorcan adventures. Just a moment to write in between the craziness that is settling into a new country, would be lovely.

We don't sit by the pool drinking Pina Coladas all day y'know.

This month has been a whirlwind of guests.
Of school tests, exams and choir concerts.
Of work, dragging litres of water to thirsty ponies in fields and riding through villages so quaint they make your heart weak.
Of red tape and admin so frustrating and confusing.
Of driving over 1000 km a week, up and down a motorway at hair-raising speeds.
Of chatting to my neighbours and bumbling through in Spanish.
Of making friendships so fun and deep.
Of swapping ideas, making connections and trading skills.
Of cleaning, cooking, washing and demanding homework gets done.
Of feeding. Everyone and everything. And clearing up the mess afterwards.
Of weeding and watering.

And lots of appreciating.
Lots of being grateful.
Huge amounts of wonder at the beauty.
Many a tear at the mountains.
A lump in the throat over the wild gladioli and alliums.
I almost burst every morning as the horses whicker hello.
The glimpse of the Mediterranean never fails to make us squeal.

Thank you Mallorca and all we have met thus far.

I promise to write of it more.

Kira

A nice 12 year old gelding is what I had in mind. One that was perhaps a little weary of life, looking for semi-retirement and fatness, one who neither batted an eyelid at rumbling lorries or a plastic bag. A horse who did not see demons.

But I chose Kira.

A 5 year old mare who had had a bad start to life.

She did not look at me with 'save-me' eyes when we met, more of 'f@@k you and everyone else around me - I need no one' . A feisty little creature you could say.

She was wonky and skinny with more pent up energy than I wanted. She was pushy and bargey. She looked like she wanted to fight me, most of the time. She was not the sleepy boy-horse I had imagined and many an anxious, sweaty night was had over her - wondering if I had done the right thing.

As the famous Chinese quote reminds me that 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step', I finally have time to sit and reflect how far we have come.

Now - a mare with flesh over her bones, a softness to her eye, a playful attitude to life and the beginnings of learning her job without fear.

Who stands to be groomed.

Who can walk past barking dogs.

Who lies down in her stable after tea every night.

Who allows a saddle on her back without trying to bite.

Who trots round on the end of a lunge without galloping.

Who can lift her feet to be picked out without falling over.

Who walks in a straight line down our road.

Sometimes.

Success is a journey not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome.

Back to school

Well that was fun, a week-and-a-bit of half term.

Of no driving.

Of ponies, play dates and parties.

Of a walk so spectacular a little leak may have sprung from my eyes.

Of tomaring-algo (to tomar algo literally means to take something, usually a beer!) in the main square as the children played around the church and in the fountains.

Of discovering tiny kids and mama goats.

Of coffee and a chocolate cake as big as our heads, in front of the sparkling blue sea. We all felt sick for the rest of the day.

Of days at work where I can take the children, and they help with the chores.

Of breathing in the Spring and taking precious time to feel grateful for all around us.

And of falling asleep in the sun after lunch.

Mud pie cafe

Paella up a mountain

Spot meets the neighbours

Patinaje

Singing it like the Spanish

It's not her favourite subject which is a shame really, seeing as we intend to live in Spain for the foreseeable future. A loves learning Spanish, rolling the new words around her tongue and picking up the language easily. P, like myself, has to rote learn the vocabulary, the verbs make no sense and she looks blankly when our neighbours talk to her. Poor P, I know that feeling.

But we have a found a way to make a difference. Singing, P loves to sing. We spend many, many hours in the car driving to school listening to our favourite radio station Cadena 100. I listen to the adverts and chat, the kids squeal at the uncensored English pop songs and try to sing to the Spanish ones.

We all LOVE Sofia.

We blast the nonsensical words out and make up what we can hear. Until this:

After a Sunday morning practice, over and over again, singing karaoke to this fabulous pop song...we can all sing it like the Spanish.

With P being the loudest and most Spanish of us all.

The big girl got perforated

There were the rains, and then the snow, a week of ice and two days of winds so destructive it broke our tree in two.

And then, just like that, it was A's birthday. A great big eleven year old who has taken this huge Mallorcan step all in her pre-teen stride. A smiley girl, always kind, obsessed with her pony and friends, awoke to the most hideous of days. Rain battered on the car as we drove the long journey to school - rain in Mallorca makes traffic jams, so we were late.

And then she forgot the cakes to take into her class. And because she had missed registration no one sang Feliz Cumpleanos to her. She cried. Eleven was turning out to be completely rubbish.

Valiantly, she ran out to me and grinned her wide grin after the school day was over. P looked nervous, for it had been decided that seeing eleven was very grown up - she could get her ears pierced. She had been practising with stickers on her ears for weeks, watched all the You Tube videos on how it was done and asked all her friends what it was like - preparing her for the day. Not being a great fan of pain, A had still decided to go ahead.

So off to the pharmacy we went.

The first one was shut.

The second one was open but only did piercings on Friday afternoons. The disappointment and relief was palpable in one.

We tried all of Magaluf.

After parking terribly in Palmanova I ran into the fourth chemist who said yes, she could have her orejas perforadas now. How she grinned, terrified and excited. P closed her ears and eyes. I held A's hand tightly and bang! bang! They were done. Two diamante studs of the crappiest quality where in my daughters ears and her eleventh birthday had been redeemed. Completely redeemed.

"At last I am like a Spanish girl!" she exclaimed, looking at herself in the mirror.

Yes my darling you are.

"I've never seen snow before on my birthday!"

Only in Mallorca