Bug

We arrived carrying a six-pack and a homemade coleslaw, standard offerings to a barbeque with friends - only to be greeted by excited kids who had found a bunch of tiny kittens behind the garden shed. I didn't want to look, I'm sure they're fine I said. But they were waiting for me to turn up with pity, time and deep pockets, to take this kitten under my ever expanding wing and nurse him back to health.

Welcome to our family Bug. 

He was emaciated and dehydrated, his eyes were stuck together and swollen with a mass of yellow gunk. One eye was so large it looked like it might explode. He smelt like that sweet and sickly smell of death. I syringed water into his minuscule mouth and encouraged him to eat some meaty gravy which he did with gusto. He hissed, he sneezed, he did not like being in the cat box and after the evening, he came home with me forever.

He mewed loudly at night, terrified to be in human company and away from the life he knew. I carried this palm-ful of kitten onto the sofa and placed him down my top, next to my heart. My breathing sent him to sleep and we passed the night gently before I could find kitten milk and the proper food the next day.

This tiny white ball of pink skin and sparse white hair ignited such maternal feelings, a physical sensation to protect and save this cat. A nurturing so intense that I knew he was going to make it.

Love, food and trip or 2 to the vets to remove his infected eye - he will be just fine

Freedom Phase 0

She jiggled her hips as she chose her fruit. The music quietly hummed through the supermarket to soothe us as we shopped, people were masked and alone - avoiding each other as we had been told to, but now it felt right not to be near strangers. She grooved her way down the potato aisle, towards the fish counter, still subtly swinging her tooshie from side to side.

"All we have to do now is take these lies
 And make them true somehow
 All we have to see is that I don't belong to you
 And you don't belong to me yeah yeah
 Freedom
 Freedom
 Freeeeeeedom..."

Her excitement was infectious and brought tears to my eyes, not for the first time this week. I joined in and sang out loud to the lyrics as I shopped for the family's food. Freedom has started. First the children were allowed out for an hour a day - and today the adults could exercise. The rules are complicated as to when we can leave the house, and who with, depending on where we live and how old we are. But freedom has definitely started.

The sun has begun to crank up it's heat, the wild flowers bob their delicate heads in the soft breeze, we notice the skin of a snake and a shouty partridge on our hours walk. We smell the clean pure air, watch our seedlings grow by the day and stumble across tortoises minding their own business.

And as freedom is so very close, I hope we can take forward the slowness and the mindfulness into our new normal.

Adventure

We squeezed in a great adventure before the lock down. A wild weekend so exciting, a true and rare thrill with very little regard for health or safety.

She's brave enough to ride fast with me these days. After many years of riding and falling off horses my eldest daughter is starting to fear less and enjoy the adrenaline associated with hard and fast gallops. We headed east on our Mediterranean island to a stables run by the original mallorquin cowboy for a night in a tepee, riding ex-racehorses and those who had been given a second chance. I worried about her being on that big and spirited gelding - a few hands taller than our naughty pony, Spot - but she looked good up there, comfortable and fully in control of her steed. I was so proud; these days like dreams as we galloped into the sunset, chips of stone flying and the clatter of metal shoes thundering in unison - past orange trees and barking dogs, past olive groves and newly born lambs. She had never been so fast, but I could see as she turned to me as we slowed, that adventure had lit up her very being. She had experienced utter freedom on a horse, the pure joy of galloping without fear, she sweetly patted him - thanking him for his grace and power.

We untacked the tired horses at our tent for the night, throwing the saddles on the ground and feeding the hungry animals once they had cooled. Early March being cold in Mallorca, we were so grateful to huddle around a quickly made fire, drinking wine out of plastic mugs and sharing stories of travel and the equines in our lives - into the early hours. She sat there with me, as I slowly inebriated myself along with the others, listening to our tales and poking the fire in a trance. We crawled into sleeping bags, all five of us as the horses wandered around grazing on sparse plants and grasses. Freezing, drunk and truly happy.

Awoken by hoopoes and partridges, after needed coffee and sticky pastries we were off again, in a crazy manner, back to where we had started. With views of the sea to the north, tantalising and glistening in the distance, promising summer swims and long days. With vibrant green buds on the twisted fig trees and blankets of spring flowers in the fields as we jig-jogged home. She asked when we could do it again, before it was even over.

Soon I said. Very Soon. Little did I know.

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

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.

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.