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.