Day 13

I thought I'd write more. Make the most of this time, maybe learn Spanish fluently and start that book I've always promised myself. I envisaged some yoga, a try at meditation, experimenting with new recipes and really getting to know what I would like out of the rest of my life.

The truth is that this is no ordinary vacation from the everyday. There has been a lot of stress, worry and tension. My back aches from the lack of movement and my head aches from the whirring constant buzz of kids needing help with their schooling, with social media, with every ping of my phone, with needing to answer all texts to assure people we are alright - and to contact everyone I care about.

There have been sad days and tears. Feelings of being overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. The days when I haven't looked at the news but only to be told the numbers of suffering and death by others. There have been sunny, halcyon days with my animals only to be reminded of the severity of the situation when the Guardia Civil and Local Police stop me for my papers - enquiring to where I am going and threatening with huge fines and big guns. I have felt scared.

So it's no wonder I haven't written that novel. Or painted the kitchen. Or learnt my subjunctive verbs. It's enough just to get through the days, keeping everyone happy and alive. With a fair dose of Netflix and Facebook memes to transport us elsewhere. Oh and gin, plenty of gin.

Quarantine life

Lock down

We are in day 3 of lock down. Or day 4 depending when you count it from. Coronavirus has hit our island with force and we have been ordered to stay in. No socialising. No school. No work. No going out for any-reason-at-all except for food, the doctors or to walk your dog.

Oh how we laughed last week at the lone man in the supermarket wearing a mask. Oh how we chastised the parents who wouldn't let their children go to school. Oh how I giggled at people who bought latex gloves. And then we started not to kiss our friends on meeting. And then we cancelled social events. And then I went shopping and bought maybe a little bit extra for the week - not having a clue what would happen just the next day. And then we were ordered to stay in for 15 days.

My father was sent out on an emergency flight home. My kids can't come to see our horses as there is a one person/one car policy. There are police everywhere. The local supermarket workers wear masks, and gloves, and I wonder how they are doing their job. We are all scared. And a little bit delirious. And its only day 3, or 4 - depending when you count it from.

So here comes the blog again as I have fuck all else to do other than watch the news and look at Facebook.

There may be a few stories of times past to occupy my time and entertain yours. Because we will all go into lock down. You don't think it's coming to you, but it will.

Indoor exercise will be your friend

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