Awful autumn

It's not been a good month, it's been quite a shitty one actually.

The hole in our roof is being mended which is a bloody relief seeing as we had three saucepans catching the drips as the autumn deluges happened. The builders dust covers every single thing we own with a fine, white powder. You can taste it, reminding you of the chaos. The cats hide as men crash, bang and sing along to loud, crappy pop music. Large dusty footsteps are traipsed through the house, in our bathroom and to our coffee machine. Our home is invaded, out of necessity. Just one more week, they keep telling us.

We ran out of water. We ran out of gas. The bank won't give us our money. My debit card was stopped because I had spent too much this month. I spent too much because it cost a ridiculous amount of money to get my car through its ITV (the MOT equivalent). Then I had a puncture.  My eldest daughters best friend is moving. And one of the chicks died.

And none of this is a disaster really, it's the sheer effort of trying to get things sorted in another language and understanding Spain's way of doing things.

I'm trying to order a shower head, you know, one of those trendy ones you see in hotels which is part of the ceiling. Recessed, we would call it. Un rociodor empotrado, in Spanish.

Please may I order a recessed shower head, I said in my best Spanish.

*Sharp intake of breath by the shop assistant* I knew this was going to be tricky.

I have the reference number, I said.

She tapped away on her computer, shaking her head. She shouted to Miguel who checked the enormous warehouse. It wasn't in stock. It would take 3 weeks to arrive, she said.

What about this one, my husband prefers it although it is expensive, I tried again.

NO! she said, this is a very dangerous product. It is a new design, see the 'N' here, next to the product name, that means it is new - nuevo. Very dangerous. That will take 6 weeks to come. She shrugged her shoulders. As you want, she said.

I just wanted a recessed shower head, within a week. I tried using the website, they don't deliver to Mallorca. I tried using a different warehouse, still 3-6 weeks delivery. I looked to buy one in the UK and send it over by DH effing L - that would have worked but was ridiculously expensive.

Arrgggggggg!! Nothing is easy.

But I ordered the water, paid for the gas in cash which is delivered on Wednesdays, had the puncture mended for 15 euros by the cheery Luca at the local garage (and learnt the word for 'nail', 'puncture' and 'tyre' in the process), ordered the recessed shower head anyway and took myself for a very pleasant coffee in the village square. And ate a tostada with olive oil and crushed tomato, in the sunshine, watching the beautiful Mallorquin life stroll by.

Which just about made up for everything.

Competition

She'd been practising for weeks, my pony-mad eldest daughter. She had built little jumps in the sand arena and put on her big brave-knickers to be able to face her fear of jumping our pony, Spot. Even in torrential Mallorquin rain she cantered around and popped over little cross poles much to the pony's disgust - all in preparation for her first competition since leaving the UK, over 2 years ago.

She cleans his tack, mucks him out everyday, fills the water buckets before school and diligently grooms his entire body in between kisses, cuddles, shared conversations and Instagram-ing his every move. She never says she doesn't want to come to the stables and always, with a big wide genuine grin, works hard to keep her pony healthy and happy.

My eldest daughter loves her pony. Really loves him, despite his foibles.

The other one, her younger sister is not so keen, and that's OK as there are cats to feed and cuddle, and hay bales to play on at the yard. But as competition day drew closer, and a promise of a medal beckoned...the little one wanted to have a go.

We all arose early to polish his hooves and brush his mane. I packed a bag full of snacks for us and some polo's for Spot, bribing him to be good. They'd warned us when we bought him that Spot is very strong on showjumping days, he's a sociable sort of chap and gets excited by the atmosphere and so many ponies to introduce himself to. And true to his sellers advice, he was a complete tit; leaping and nearly bucking my youngest daughter off in front of a big crowd. The commentator called her a true champion for staying on, at least I think that's what he said, and she trotted over a pole on the way out of the arena with me hanging onto her leg as we 'retired' before we had even started. Oh Spot.

The local riding school let my daughter have a go on a much more sane animal, and she rode to medal victory - grinning and pleading to ride more, claiming that she can't wait to do it all over again.

As Spot's behaviour worsened it became clear that my eldest daughter wasn't going to be able to ride him. And there were no more riding school ponies left to have a go on. Dressed in her very best white jodhpurs, her pony gleaming but unrideable; my daughters dreams of the day were trampled on while her sister gloated proudly over her success.

I thought my heart was breaking in two.

And still she grinned that there was always another time. And still she grinned as she was photographed with all her friends bearing medals. And still she grinned and kissed her pony forgiving him instantly. Oh my bleeding heart, the pain of motherhood and realities of life.

As a friend once said, horses are great levellers, not that she needed levelling at all.

Content

It occurs to me that I have never felt this feeling before, being content with the everyday. Never in my 45 years have I been happy to live in a two mile radius of my house and feel deep calm and serenity with no need for anything more. I used to secretly wonder how people could possibly be content and not wish to explore the world further, or attain higher successes or gain better possessions. How could people be so unimaginative with their lives?

Well, I found that place called contentment. It's right here on the Balearic Island of light that is Mallorca. To be specific, its in a little village called Calvia and the small area around it.

Contentment is not just a place in the world but more an acceptance of yourself within that place. The packed lunches are still made, the cats fed, the kids dropped off at school amongst bickering and arguing. The washing, the cleaning, the work, the shopping, the cooking and taxi-ing all continue to happen. The mundane, the frustration, the boredom, the relentlessness of being a mother is all still there - but in fleeting moments, in manageable chunks and coped with calm. Because during the mundane, Mallorca is extraordinary.

The journey to school is full of foreign radio and stray sheep with their coats hanging forlornly from their skinny bodies. The sun rises in a deep pink causing a magical glow on the horses field. We feed, we muck out and cuddle the cats before the day begins. The kids shoes are dirty before school even starts - full horse shit, cat biscuits and seaweed. My protests fall on deaf ears and I  secretly don't care if they arrive filthy. The journey to work with Galatzo mountain as pointy as toblerone in the distance, the old gits drinking booze at breakfast in the village, the box-ladies who waddle and gossip up the high street with bouffant hair and small dogs. It's the oranges which are turning orange, it's the strange foods in the supermarket, it's the ever-present sun, it's the lambs in autumn, it's the resaturants on the beach, the crystal waters, the egrets and ducks. It is so so much.

Being content. I like it.

August

August came and went in a sweaty, blurry haze of siestas, rose wine and far too much fun. Days merged into one long month of early mornings with the horses and late nights around the BBQ. People came and went, we screamed with with the demons, we moaned about the heat, we read books and watched TV, we learned to paddle board and messed around on boats. We moaned a little bit more about the heat, swam, drank gin, had headaches and then complained just a little bit more about the heat.

We stared at the telly with the shutters shut. We lay around in our pants in the air con commenting on the heat, comparing it to yesterdays heat and how hot it would be tomorrow. We rode before the heat, through olive groves and dried up torrents, sweat poured down the side of our heads and the horses foamed between their legs. We drank litres of cold water and lemonade and undid all that hydration with chilled white wine, beers, gins at sunset and hierbas to digest. We watched Mama Mia 2 twice to lie in a dark, air-conditioned cinema, we lived in the pool and ordered tanks of water every week.

A reprieve was had in a trip to Wales and Somerset where we wore hoodies and jeans, trainers and socks - and commented on the cold and damp, glad to get back to bikinis and onesies...and commenting on the heat of the day. We went to Nikki beach and posed with the selfie-takers, we climbed the hills in Deia observing the beauty and the weather, we swam in the sea and found jelly fish, sea cucumbers and parrot fish. Still the heat, the oppression, the stickiness and the discussion with everyone you met.

Pfffff! Hace calor! (Pfff, it's hot)

Roll on September, August you've been a blast.... but I really need to change my topic of conversation.

I had a dream

I had a dream. Not a world changing one but I do dream of those things too. My dream was to live in Spain, to buy myself a horse and to ride to a bar, tie the horse up casually over a hitching rail - drink my beer and ride home.

And as this week has proved, dreams can come true. After two years of hard work, training, consistency and determination - I rode to a bar in the little pueblo of Calvia, had a beer and wobbly rode home.

My mare didn't have the best start in life. Me being the seventh owner in her five short years, she couldn't trust. She was feisty and hungry, manic and insane, she would stare for hours into the distance and pace her stable, she shook with fear at plastic bags and logs out of place. She couldn't stand still to be brushed, she galloped down the road into on-coming traffic with me on board, her legs buckled at barking dogs, she snorted at over-flowing bins and absolutely would not let me stroke her, especially on her face. She fought me every single day.

Slowly, slowly, without me really recognising it was happening, she became less scared about the world around her. She whickered to me every morning, she would always gallop over to see me when my car arrived at the end of the day, she opened her mouth in eagerness for the bit to go in, she seemed pleased to be brushed and for fly spray to be squirted all over her. Her eye softened, her muscles less tense, her balance got better and she finally started to trust.

That's why it was such a big day. The day we rode to the pub, had a beer and rode home.

It must be summer

The cicadas are screaming.

The cats loll about on the tiles hoping for a reprieve.

Schools out and the Playmobil is up.

Siestas happen daily.

We ride before 8 in the morning or after 8 at night.

Clothes are optional.

Sundowners compulsory.

The festival of San Juan celebrated the official start of summer, a couple of days after the solstice. Lights, candles and lanterns were scattered over the beaches of Mallorca and wishes were floated onto the sea - not always in the most environmental way. At midnight, we rushed into the dark waves, to wash away any winter-ness and sins - except it was too cold for me and there have been many sightings of jellyfish, sea snakes and great white sharks. The kids enjoyed it though, and shivered their way into summer in the early hours of the morning.

The beginning of the summer stretches out in front of us; all sweaty and lazy, all unstructured and bare-footed, all hectic and wild - it's what we look forward to all year. The build up has been slow, the school term never-ending with frazzled kids getting hotter and sweatier by the day. To be dumped excitedly into 10 glorious weeks of freedom that is summer, at last.

Ibiza

She never lets me down, Ibiza. With her magnetism and hedonism, with her charm and delight, with her wild nights and serene days. She always inspires me, leaving me with wanting more - leaving me exhausted but full of love, she ages me and takes years off my age.

Ibiza is Mallorca's little sister, just a couple of hours by boat - we can even see her from our house. I was insanely excited to be going to Ibiza for the third time, knowing what the island holds and how she affects me, to be celebrating a 50th birthday.

The first time I went to Ibiza was to celebrate a wedding of two beautiful friends - on a yoga platform, dressed in Indian clothes and overlooking the sunset of Beneras beach. There followed a week of parties and yoga, of booze and cleansing, of veggie food and Sunday drumming sessions.

The second time I went to Ibiza was to celebrate the 10 year anniversary of the wedding. We were all older, richer and much more badly behaved. Having been let off mothering-duties for 6 whole days the parties seemed more intense, never wanting to sleep knowing that real life was just around the corner.

The third time I went to Ibiza, last weekend, was a blast. We are nearing 50 now and perhaps should have been heading for a group walking holiday rather than Pacha, or maybe a tour of a vineyard rather than staying up until 8.30 in the morning.

She was fantastic this time - giving us local Spanish restaurants and crazily-priced ones, we chatted by the pool and partied in clubs, we wandered along seaweed strewn beaches and cuddled at dawn, we mooched around hippy markets and ate a BBQ with new friends. We were grown-up and childish, we felt love and peace as well as banging brains, we danced just like everyone was watching and no one was. It was out of this world.

Every time Ibiza, every single time.

It's never 'Just a horse'!

She wasn't mine, but the shock was there - she wasn't supposed to go.

I didn't even know her long, but the tears flow.

She wasn't even human.

Just a horse.

With the kindest heart and deep chestnut eyes, which weeped each spring. With dinner plate feet and hard muscles telling a story of times past, with a slowness of gait and a promise of speed, with a gentleness so great with those little and new - and a feisty-ness so alarming when you thought you knew best.

A horse who knew only love, who's time just wasn't up.

Dear Poppy, I wish you could have lived a little bit longer so I could kiss your velvety nose again, touch your face and tell you how much you meant to me. Just one more time.

We all feel so very alone without you.

Run free big girl - wait for us on the other side.

Cats of Mallorca

Our fattie catties are approaching old age, sleeping plenty and looking a little haggard around the edges. Spring sunshine encourages them outside for a roll on the warm terracotta tiles and a mooch around the garden. They have plenty of cat spots on our mountain hideaway in Mallorca, places to snooze, in between gecko hunting and keeping the locals out of our property. I think they are pleased with their move abroad, having fitted in well to the customs and differences on the island, although I doubt they have learnt the language or got used to the foreign food - I wonder if they remember their Sussex beginnings.

And then there's the strays in our lives. They all live down the stables. There's Podge who turned up without a tail and full of tapeworms, there's Hairy Cat and Flash. There's the black and white one who is an irreguar but welcome visitor. Lavender who died. And our favourites - Teegy Babes and Jazzy Poo. They all hear the sound of my loud deisal engine and come running, demanding food before school and almost tame to cuddle.

Podge without a tail

Tiger Lily / Teegy Babes

Jasmine / Jazzy Poo

And because we feed them they have settled into the yard as though it's their own - despite the owners minor protestations. I therefore felt it was my responsibility to spay the girls and castrate the boys - if I could catch them. Teegy Babes was tamed by my youngest daughter who spent the entire summer with a piece of straw, playing with the curious kitten, slowly gaining her trust until they were the best of friends. The others were wild - but liked food.

The morning of the operation was upon us - the kids were apprehensive, the cat cages ready, the meat for enticing and some good thick gloves for me. Like a ninja cat catcher I got the two girls and shoved them unceremoniously into the cages and flung them into the back of the car - them yowling and leaping around their prisons with furious indignity. I did feel a bit bad, maybe they would have liked to have been cat - mamas. And off we drove.

"Mummy, the cat is out of its cage!" squealed the eldest.

I peaked a look in the mirror and the grey kitten was sitting on the back seat before flying around the car and landing on the dashboard. Indicators, mirror, break, pulled over - hazard lights on. Calm down kids please, Mummy needs to think here. Cat piss was going to happen any time soon. I hauled my stiff old body onto the back seat and prepared the cat cage for the second time that morning. By luck, Jazzy Poo was sitting, terrified, on the drivers head rest. Preparing the kids for some cat screaming and bleeding arms, I leapt on the kitten and hurled it into the upturned cage and locked it for sure this time.

All before dropping the kids off at school.

The hack

She moves off as I mount, keen to get going. Keen to march down the track and out of the farm where she stays, keen to look at everything around her in the spring sunshine. She takes in all the differences of the walk today, from how it was yesterday - noticing rubbish in the hedge, a fallen log in a field, egrets standing on the back of the sheep and the puddle on the road which has never, ever been there before. She spooks, she runs, she snorts, she looks left, she looks right - she rarely settles on our walks out into the big, wide world.

Kira is my feisty horse who has had a rough start in life. Despite her nervous ways I have learnt to sit still and let her have a good look at all around her. We walk past the donkeys who gallop over to say hello, she strains her neck to look at them and decides they pose no threat, long eared and beneath her - she walks on. The dogs to the right don't even get a look in, we know their barks and their non-threatening waggy tails. Hello doggies I call, they ignore me completely - not speaking any English I suppose - and continue their frenzy at the passing horse.

There is no greater smell than orange blossom; it beats freshly brewed coffee, baking bread and just-mown grass. The orange orchard to our left engulfs our olfactory senses, the heady sweetness lingers in the air while the uncollected oranges lay fallen and abandoned on the ground. She uses all her body to naviagte the steep hills and she baulks at the group of cyclists who whizz at speed, making the air whistle as they pass. She tenses as we approach the dog she hates, spooking predictably as he runs along the fence - every time dear Kira - every time.

She stands patiently as I talk to a new friend over a fence, in potted Spanish and plenty of gesticulating. I like him, he always admires my horse, as wonky and nutty as she is. We negotiate pigs, bouncy lambs, hectic hairy ponies in herds and the fiercest German Shepherd's who pounce against the fence - rattling it menacingly.

Tourists point at us, old men begrudgingly say 'bon dia' as they forage for wild asparagus in the hedges and walkers avoid us as she side-steps up the road to avoid a murderous plastic bag.

Her body relaxes as we walk the familiar mile back to her stable, I feel as happy as I have ever felt in my life. Just me, my horse, the spring sunshine and beautiful, beautiful Mallorca.

Weather

You could tell they were on holiday, filling their trolley with cheap booze and by the vest tops they were sporting in 8C. The first tourists are arriving, full of hope and swimming costumes. There is a misconception that Mallorca is warm and sunny year round and to be fair, it is a whole lot nicer than the UK, who have had to deal with Beasts from the East. But March, oh March has been full of weather. Full of rain. Full of cold. Full of wind that whips round your face and creates monstrous plastic bags. Full of warm days where T shirts and sunnies are required. We've had it all, and now I am ready for a decent run of calm, of sun and of the gradual ascent to mental searing, blistering heat.

Today we have been treated to a whole day of rain. So much so, that our village Sheep and Goat Festival was abandoned in a torrent of water which ran through the streets, cancelling the dancing and tapas sharing, halting the goat admiring and beer drinking.

The horses spent all but an hour in their stables. Spot, who was born here in Mallorca, doesn't do rain. Grateful for the duvet day, he munched his hay with not a wet hair on his fat, hairy body. Kira, a girl from the north of Spain, is quite happy to stand in her corale, the water soaking her to the skin. The ducks came back to swim on the lakes created on the riding arenas, grateful for a few more weeks of puddles before they have to fly off to find a new watery home.

Sun

Snow

Rain

Violent sunsets

Windy palms

Fear, at its deepest

I looked behind me and the ascent seemed vertical. I looked ahead of me and the descent looked like a sheer drop. I was completely frozen with fear. I had no phone, no idea how I was going to get off this mountain, the fog was descending fast and my 5 euro sunglasses were clouded with snow. I don't think I have ever felt so frightened, I didn't know what to do. I looked up, I looked down. I looked up and I looked down again, both options completely unattainable and finally Ava, my eldest daughter, snow ploughed at 5cm/minute crying - with snot dribbling out of her nose - towards me. At last she was with me, my baby - her mama. We hugged, helmets and skis colliding, so pleased to have found each other - now we could tackle it side by side.

Last week was our first try at skiing. We took the ferry to Barcelona along with almost all of Mallorca for Semana Blanca (literally meaning 'White Week'). The ski resort in Andorra was beautiful, we drove to the snow whooping with delight at the two metre drifts and the people flying off piste. I couldn't wait to try it.

Ski school lasted for precisely 2 hours. Ben, bearded and gorgeous, put up with our inability to slide down a hill, our ineptitude, our clumsiness - he had seen it all before. The two hours disappeared fast, as did Ben, and we were alone on the slopes. We skied down and took a lift up. We did it again and again. And again. And then drank beer congratulating ourselves on our skiing ability. How fun! How thrilling! (Actaully, How Easy! we thought)

So the next day we all headed for a Blue run, one up from a nursery slope and two down from the Black run - depending how you look at it. Ava hesitated and I was off - all my 2 hours of ski instruction disappearing in the blur of snow, speed and pine trees. I couldn't stop. I couldn't scream. I couldn't bail out as I had 2 metres of goddamn metal attached to my feet. The next bit of my life I have blanked, I actually have no idea how I came to a halt but I can assure you it wasn't pretty. And there I sat waiting for my daughter for 20 minutes, maybe more. 

On a mountain. With fog descending. With 5 euro sunglasses. With no phone.

With absolutely no idea how this was going to end.

Nearly over

It's been chilly for a while. Enough to wear a fleece and a scarf inside the house and for two duvets to be on the bed. There's no carpets, double glazing or central heating on this Balearic Island, the houses are made for heat - which to be fair, it is most of the time. We even had two days of rain in a row, some snow and frost on the ground. This morning, for the first time here in Mallorca, I had to defrost the car.

It will soon nearly be over, the winter. Not that it has been a tough winter at all. Christmas boasted t-shirt weather while 'Las calmas de enero' delivered the most glorious January of all. Not a drop of rain fell and day after day of blue skies and luke-warm sun led us all to believe that summer was merely around the corner. The horses enjoyed rug-free days and the stray cats were quickly neutered to avoid the inevitable spring kittens. The almonds blossomed, a little too early for likes of the farmers, and the fields became a vibrant green and yellow - a dazzling display for the eyes. More lambs were born, they seem to arrive year round here, and coffees were sipped outside on street pavements, sunglasses mandatory and fake-fur coats. There are so few tourists here; reminding me to enjoy the calm, the empty wind swept beaches and the easy parking. The tranquillity of the winter before the storm of the summer.

Empty beaches

T- shirt rides

As the island comes out of hibernation you can feel the season and vibe hotting up. The restaurants shake off their dust, the beaches are cleaned of the sea weed, terraces are painted, pools are cleaned and buildings are hurriedly finished.

Ready for the long, hot, crazy, hectic and gloriously fabulous summer.

Sant Antoni

I had butterflies in my stomach as I cleaned my long, leather boots. They hadn't been worn since my competing days on a large ginger thoroughbred horse in England - it felt like a lifetime ago. The bridles were sparkling, the numnahs freshly washed and I awoke far too early, excited about the day ahead.

For today was our horses debut. Not competing in dressage arenas or flying cross-country, but to parade the streets of Calvia in a procession towards the church - for all the animals of the village to be blessed by the priest. Today was the festival of Sant Antoni, Saint Anthony, who lived as a hermit from 251 to 356. Legend has it he once cured a terminally ill black piglet and now on the closest Sunday to the patron's day, animals are blessed in Saint Anthony's name.

We brushed their coats, combed their manes and oiled their hooves. They knew something was up and fidgeted as we got ready, the excitement building in their blood.

As we gathered in the town hall car park, the horses began shitting freely without the fear of fines and the intensity began to build. The pipes started playing, tractors arrived adorned with ivy-strewn carts full of little children dressed in traditional Mallorquin clothes. There were lambs and goats, dogs of every colour and breed, a very lame donkey and a few horses and riders. Kira's body shook as she took in the scene; the waving balloons, the dancing children, the swinging sausages from the carts and the sheer enormity of it all. She stood proud, eyes on stalks as Spot the pony jig-jogged in excitement, throwing his head about to the pain of his rider. 

As the procession began we wandered through the village, people taking photos and making lovely compliments about the horses, I felt ridiculously proud. Even a little emotional. Kira is the horse who has galloped down roads with me in fright into oncoming traffic, she has pinned me against walls and smashed my hand, stood on my toes, snorted in fear at plastic bags and spins and fights to go home - and now here she was walking calm, noble and impressive as though she knew it was an important occasion. As we waited for the priest to bless her, she kicked out at Spot to bloody well behave himself,  to the 'oohs and the aahs' of the crowd.

It was a truly magical moment.

....and Spot even made it into the islands paper the next morning. Fame at last little pony!

New year new goals

I love the new year, I always have. The relief that Christmas is over and summer is on its way gets me every time. The excitement as the bells chime and we kiss goodbye to the old and eat grapes welcoming in the new. The grapes eaten at new year is a great Spanish tradition, each of the 12 grapes represents the months of the year, to be eaten with each gong of the clock at midnight. Small grapes are needed, without pips of course, to be able to to swallow the good luck and fortunes of the coming year. It's fun and so much more refined than snogging strangers.

2018 is to be the year of achievements. We now feel settled and content on this special Mediterranean island, calling it home and feeling we belong. Of course the house needs reforming, the garden needs taming, the WiFi needs to arrive and the gas system changing - these achievements need to and have to happen. The personal ones are perhaps a little harder to attain. Like, learning Spanish once and for all. Like, cantering a 20 metre circle on both reins in a calm and balanced manner. Like, curing my back pain and being committed to the exercises. Like, walking the dogs who haven't got a home, volunteering my time which is elusive as ever. To name a few.

Happy new year everyone, may 2018 be a happy, healthy and peaceful one for you all.

Holidays in pictures

I've been too busy to write over the festive period, so I took lots of photos instead.

It is finally all over for another year