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.