Summers end

Like clockwork, like groundhog day, the summer is switched off and the autumn begins. Today I awoke to black stormy clouds promising to break the long, scorching, dusty summer. The garden waits patiently for the first drops to fall. It's exciting, that first hesitation of the relentless heat, the animals sense it too.

Of course, this isn't the actual end of summer. We can expect days of glorious sunshine, plenty more beach trips and days by the pool. Today is just the first day to reflect on what has been, and what is about to come.

The ridiculously long holidays have gone by in a whirl of ice creams, siestas, bare feet and a re-watch of Friends. The guinea pigs have puffed, panted and lounged on their frozen gel packs. The cats flopped on the cool stone floors and hid in dark cupboards. The horses lay down in their stables by day after cold showers and a mountain of fly spray - they partied by night, charging around their fields eager to exercise their cooped up bodies.

The summer isn't all about the heat although it dominates the time like a bully, making everything difficult and slightly unpleasant. It's a time for holidays and family. Of days turning into weeks, weeks turning into months and boredom creeping in - slowly at first.

We are all ready for the change, the back to school, the structure, the rain and cosy nights in. We look forward to hot meals and exercising that post-summer belly. I really love the defined seasons of Mallorca, each one delightful  - with autumn being my favourite of all.

Traditions

Every year we go to Nit de Foc in the village - which creates great excitement, nerves and the allowance of almost-swearing. My youngest repeats the phrase as often as she can, delighting in the foc more than any other word.

For Nit de Foc literally means, night of fire in Mallorquin. A night when we dance with the devil and scream with fear and hysteria while the demons chase us, positively terrifying the kids to their core. There is zero regard for health and safety which is what I love, and upon only receiving a small burn this year, the temptation to get closer next year is great.

We have our own Nit de Foc tradition which entails eating a spicy chilli or curry with friends, as hot as it can be. Washed down with beers and anticipation as we head to the village and wait. Of course they never come on time. Walking past the car park we spot a few getting dressed, practising their inner devil, wearing grotesque masks and filthy clothes - they snarl as we walk by, us all giggling but the kids hanging on to my sleeves, just in case.

We are dressed in hoodies to protect ourselves from the sparks and the fire. We wear long trousers despite the heat of the day failing to disappear by night. And we wait.

We wait. They are late this year. The devils.

We laugh and socialise, the streets full of revellers, most knowing what to expect - a few with no idea what is about to happen.

The street lights all turn off suddenly, in one single switch. The crowd roar and the church is lit up in red. The drummers start beating wild, satanic rhythms and the devils arrive. And they run shouting, screaming in your face, brandishing fireworks and beacons. They spit fire and swirl in dances inviting anyone to join who may dare. The kids scream and hide as much as they are able, only to be found by a tiny female demon, revolting to look at and the feeder of nightmares - slowly seeking the children out and terrifying them towards weeks of no sleep. The street is woven in a complicated series of firecrackers and fireworks, whistling and screaming above us as the demons head through the village, rampaging on the way to the fiery pit of hell.

The church is blood red

There is nowhere to hide

I love these new traditions which are feeling comfortable and ours. I love parading the horses to the priest at Sant Antoni , I love waiting for the Three Kings at epiphany - collecting sweets and charcoal from the village floor, we adore San Juan - the beginning of summer - lighting candles, swimming away our sins and winter in the midnight sea.

Because now I feel Mallorca really is my home, as we embark on our fourth year of forever, these traditions - along with the ones I brought with me - are part of us now.

Swimming before breakfast

'Hasta la cuarenta de mayo, no se quita el sayo' 

Literally means don't take your coat off until the 40th May (10th June). He says it with a wry smile and wise look every year as we don our shorts too early. And he is always right. Although there are many hot days, beautiful days, sunshiny days - the real heat doesn't happen until the 10th of June. And from the 10th June he nods assertively, knowingly and says, 'Everyday, a little bit hotter' until we can stand it no more and we go and live in the sea.

Every year, with a flick of a switch around the middle of June, Mallorca becomes unbearable between the hours of 09:30 and 20:00. Even then the heat stays, melting us as we sleep and cooking us slowly to boiling point by day. The cats loll, the horses swish their tails and doze in cool stables and the guinea pigs lie on frozen gel pads covered in a tea towel - their little bodies panting and flopping like baked potatoes out of the oven. The plants wilt and only the strongest survive the sun's glare, the ones that are meant to be here - the rosemary and oleander, the olive trees and lantana.

Hiding from the sun, lying on ice packs wrapped in towels - 5* animals

And although I love Mallorca to the very core, it's my place in the world and my content - the next few months are a challenge. The heat, the relentlessness, the tourists, the busy beaches and no parking. The feeling of listlessness, the sweat, the lying in pants under the fan, the insanity, the wishing for rain and wondering when it will end - when it's only just started. The Mallorcan summer was my British winter.

Persuading ourselves to get into the car at 8 am, the temperature roaring and soaring as we drive to the little deserted cala (cove) - parking in the already packed car park, we hiked over the stone paths, avoiding the dog shit and listening to the cicadas screaming louder as the temperature climbed to unbearable levels despite the cloud and humidity. The walk was slow, the prize great. Below us a stony beach, no bigger than my garden with a few locals - and the glorious Mediterranean sea. We stripped, cleared away all the plastic and fag butts we could see - and dived into the cool waters. Only to be joined by two cormorants, hunting for their breakfast. We swam, we watched them dive and catch fish so skilfully and we whooped at their speed and confidence. They came close, seemingly unaware or bothered by our presence. The kids watched them under water, their agility as they spied their prey was unnerving. They bobbed up for breath, mushroomed along the surface, filled their bellies with tiny fish and swam to the other side of the bay. By then we decided to dry our salty skin and brave the walk back to the car - just in time for breakfast.

Swimming with cormorants 

End of an era

No more assemblies and end-of-term-plays
No more singing at long choir days

No more oversized T-shirts for messy, fun art
No more paper mache in the shape of a heart

No more reminding of PE kits and packed lunches
No more squabbles and tearful playground punches

No more weekly spelling tests or dreaded learning logs
No more writing about ponies and dogs

No more giving your teachers a gift and a card
No more sports days where you tried really hard

No more birthday cakes to take to your whole class
No more playing handstands on the freshly cut grass

Primary days are now over for you both
I wonder who exactly will miss it the most?

Goals

When I was a kid I dreamed of winning a gold medal at the Olympics. I would mount the wall at the front of our house, snap a twig from a tree as my riding crop and kick my reluctant steed into action. Always I was soaring over the fences, taking sharp turns with ease and winning, yet again, to the roar of the crowd.

The reality is of course a little different. I was lucky enough to have a pony when I was a teenager, who would buck and refuse the first fence. Often a disqualification for me. Then twenty five years later I started riding again on a beautiful, if unpredictable, horse who was way too much for me. We often won at showjumping and dressage competitions, or stormed around cross-country courses with my veins pumping adrenaline and my stomach just being able to contain the fear-vomit. But we were more often eliminated, disqualified for falling off or for the interesting dressage moves he would throw down the centre line. Oh Fletchy, I miss him terribly, but not so much the amount of times I was deposited on the ground. For no apparent reason at all.

Fletch - I stayed on that day

And now I have Kira I still I dream of winning.

Except this seems like such a distant dream that I don't know where to start. She's spooky and nervous, feisty and fearful. She doesn't like the flappy flags they fly at competitions and we have no arena to practice in as the ground is like concrete. I don't have a lorry or a trailer to take me. The warm-up arenas terrify me. I don't understand the Spanish rules. I need to pass a riding exam to compete, on a strange horse. I don't know where my boots are, or my stock and stock pin.

And then I realise that these are all excuses. If I really want to, I can. I watch enough positive Instagram stories of people overcoming their obstacles to fly high. Why not me?

So before I'm 50, we will compete. Me, a wrinkly old prune, and Kira, a crazy old mare - together, soaring high, to the roar of the crowds.

Just you see.

My girl

Midlife in Mallorca

This blog has slowly been grinding to an almost-halt. Now and again stories happen which would be blog worthy, thoughts occasionally need to be written down but mostly the days go by in a blur of kids, animals, survival and the odd vino. Life has become very normal here on this island, good normal, content normal.

I no longer feel like writing as a mama, though of course that role will be with me forever. The children are leggy and independent, they hang around shopping centres and video call their friends. They hide themselves in their bedrooms until food occurs. My role has been changing constantly, and although I am just as needed I don't feel it is fair to write of parenting teenagers - when life is about to become excruciating enough.

I look in the mirror daily and see fast changes to my face. Those lines and crevices deepen, the grey is coming in faster than I can get to the hairdressers. There are sun spots on my hard-working hands that shock me as I drive - are those my hands I am looking at? Gravity does its thing despite twice weekly Pilates and daily riding of my horse. Up until now I couldn't have given a shit what I looked like, but midlife has landed with a bump and the inevitability of demise is upon me.

So the blog has metamorphosed, the next phase of life to be cherished and opportunities beckon. Always a mum but now a time of middle age and it's madness.

I hope you join me on the journey.

2019 so far

I can't talk about December. No blogs. Too stressful. With Christmas on top.

Onto January with its glorious new beginnings....

I've had three sessions of physio because I slept funny

I stole a chicken in Magaluf

I feel like wonder-woman because I changed the frigging gas in the dark which was freezing - and with boogers round the corner (can I just say this is not an easy task even in the day - goddamn mountain, country, Mallorquin living)

The husband has been absent for many days

The pony is nuts, throwing kids all over the place

I can't cope with the hygienist

Dry January has been pretty damp

I have coughed up phlegm in unwanted situations

My car knocks, bangs and stinks like poo

There are half-mouses everywhere

Roll on February I think

Charlie the chicken, almost dead in Magaluf, very much alive in Calvia