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

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.