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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Nearly over

It's been chilly for a while. Enough to wear a fleece and a scarf inside the house and for two duvets to be on the bed. There's no carpets, double glazing or central heating on this Balearic Island, the houses are made for heat - which to be fair, it is most of the time. We even had two days of rain in a row, some snow and frost on the ground. This morning, for the first time here in Mallorca, I had to defrost the car.

It will soon nearly be over, the winter. Not that it has been a tough winter at all. Christmas boasted t-shirt weather while 'Las calmas de enero' delivered the most glorious January of all. Not a drop of rain fell and day after day of blue skies and luke-warm sun led us all to believe that summer was merely around the corner. The horses enjoyed rug-free days and the stray cats were quickly neutered to avoid the inevitable spring kittens. The almonds blossomed, a little too early for likes of the farmers, and the fields became a vibrant green and yellow - a dazzling display for the eyes. More lambs were born, they seem to arrive year round here, and coffees were sipped outside on street pavements, sunglasses mandatory and fake-fur coats. There are so few tourists here; reminding me to enjoy the calm, the empty wind swept beaches and the easy parking. The tranquillity of the winter before the storm of the summer.

Empty beaches

T- shirt rides

As the island comes out of hibernation you can feel the season and vibe hotting up. The restaurants shake off their dust, the beaches are cleaned of the sea weed, terraces are painted, pools are cleaned and buildings are hurriedly finished.

Ready for the long, hot, crazy, hectic and gloriously fabulous summer.

New year new goals

I love the new year, I always have. The relief that Christmas is over and summer is on its way gets me every time. The excitement as the bells chime and we kiss goodbye to the old and eat grapes welcoming in the new. The grapes eaten at new year is a great Spanish tradition, each of the 12 grapes represents the months of the year, to be eaten with each gong of the clock at midnight. Small grapes are needed, without pips of course, to be able to to swallow the good luck and fortunes of the coming year. It's fun and so much more refined than snogging strangers.

2018 is to be the year of achievements. We now feel settled and content on this special Mediterranean island, calling it home and feeling we belong. Of course the house needs reforming, the garden needs taming, the WiFi needs to arrive and the gas system changing - these achievements need to and have to happen. The personal ones are perhaps a little harder to attain. Like, learning Spanish once and for all. Like, cantering a 20 metre circle on both reins in a calm and balanced manner. Like, curing my back pain and being committed to the exercises. Like, walking the dogs who haven't got a home, volunteering my time which is elusive as ever. To name a few.

Happy new year everyone, may 2018 be a happy, healthy and peaceful one for you all.

My family and other animals

I awake, aware of a ginger cat staring at me, willing me to open my eyes. As soon as I do, I am pestered to feed the first hungry mouth of the day. The fattie catties enjoy their routine and branded cat food, still sticking up their pompous noses at the 'foreign muck'. The kids pour cornflakes in a bowl and munch on magdelenas but forget to hydrate themselves and he enjoys a coffee if I'm making one.

Oy, feed me

We roll down the mountain in new school uniforms and holding chopped carrots, ready to feed the horses, who wait patiently for the sound of my car to arrive. Breakfast is wolfed by Spot and lingered over by Kira. The stray cats and kittens skirt my feet gingerly, asking for food but careful never to get too close. Three kittens, one mother and a cat-with-no-tail are fed and watered, relieved that they found such a nice place to be wild in. They lick their paws gratefully, I like to believe, and wonder off for a snooze.

She's wild, tiny and full of worms or kittens again

Spot - the hungriest pony in the world

I drop the kids in their school and shove a pastry in my mouth before heading half way up the mountain to two horses, two ponies and one tiny lamb. All with rumbly tummies. Feeds are fed, haynets stuffed and a bottle of milk made.

And as I watch with wonder as the little lamb gulps down his milk, shoving his pink nose hard at the teat willing more milk to flow - I can't think of a finer way to start my day.

Nurturing 

Kira

A nice 12 year old gelding is what I had in mind. One that was perhaps a little weary of life, looking for semi-retirement and fatness, one who neither batted an eyelid at rumbling lorries or a plastic bag. A horse who did not see demons.

But I chose Kira.

A 5 year old mare who had had a bad start to life.

She did not look at me with 'save-me' eyes when we met, more of 'f@@k you and everyone else around me - I need no one' . A feisty little creature you could say.

She was wonky and skinny with more pent up energy than I wanted. She was pushy and bargey. She looked like she wanted to fight me, most of the time. She was not the sleepy boy-horse I had imagined and many an anxious, sweaty night was had over her - wondering if I had done the right thing.

As the famous Chinese quote reminds me that 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step', I finally have time to sit and reflect how far we have come.

Now - a mare with flesh over her bones, a softness to her eye, a playful attitude to life and the beginnings of learning her job without fear.

Who stands to be groomed.

Who can walk past barking dogs.

Who lies down in her stable after tea every night.

Who allows a saddle on her back without trying to bite.

Who trots round on the end of a lunge without galloping.

Who can lift her feet to be picked out without falling over.

Who walks in a straight line down our road.

Sometimes.

Success is a journey not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome.

Hedgehog hotel

The Christmas tunes blare bizarrely in time to the flashing lights on the tree. Little P lies motionless on the sofa, drifting in and out of sleep, having her once-a-year-Christmas illness. My other daughter, the big one, wraps her sisters presents in her beautiful messy fashion, scribbling Seasons Greetings onto yet another colouring book.

And I feed the hedgehogs for the fifth time today. Yes, that's right - I somehow have got saddled with hand-rearing baby hedgehogs over the Christmas and New Year period. That's every 3 hours, mixing kitten formula and sterilising tiny little bottles even in the middle of the night. It's just a tiny bit harder waking for hedgehogs than your baby, my body does not want to stir, the thought of mixing formula at 2 o'clock in the morning does not make me want to rescue these little blighters at all. But I do it, as they squeak.

And they are goddamn cute.

They keep trying to die - which would be handy as the festive season approaches - but they hang in there as I feed them fennel and chamomile tea to cure their bloated tummies.

It's a different kind of busy this year, with not a commercial or Christmas cracker in sight.

A very Merry, prickly Christmas to you all !

Timmy

The doors are left open in the evenings, it still being warm enough for air to flow around the house. At 8.32pm last night in walks a kitten, just like that, all brazen and purposeful looking for some food and comfort.

"Muuuuuuuum, there's a kitten in the house!" shouted the girls.

"I thought Lupin had shrunk!" squealed A, Lupin being one of the Fattie Catties we flew to Mallorca from the UK.

And as I took a break from the cleaning and the organising, there he was in P's arms, apparently called Timmy in the 3 minutes he had entered our house. What a beautiful, if a little smelly, kitten he was.

We fed him some of the cat food our pompous kitties turned their noses up at and he gobbled it with the speed of a cat that hasn't eaten for a long time. He was so desperate to come in for cuddles and a play but the matriarchs hissed and spat at him through the windows. I had a feeling he might still be around in the morning.

As I wandered over to the horses, whinnying me their glorious greeting at 7am, along Timmy trots - as pleased as pleased can be. His little tail was vertical in the air and he purred as he ran to say Hello, warm from a night in the straw. So we fed him again.

            

Looks like we have 2 horses, 2 fattie catties, 1 stray cat, 1 parrot and 1 kitten and counting...

The menagerie expands

I didn't mean to buy one so soon, let alone two. He was a given really, with his spotty nose, fluffy mane, penchant for carrots and resigned look in his eyes to look after the kids. He is called Spot and I had mentally bought him when I met him.

I imagined myself on a Spanish horse, a pura raza espanol, with a flowing mane and a cresty neck. We would wonder the campo and stop for a drink, me in my cowboy hat and the horse dozing with its hind leg cocked as I drank my beer.

I did not imagine myself buying a cow. A skinny cow. One with a sad face and a ewe neck. A patchy black and white one who needed food, a wormer and some love.

I heard all my horsey mentors screaming at me not to do it. She has terrible confirmation! She is too young! She is malnourished! She is a SHE!

But I bought her and her name is Kira. And she is mine, all mine, and so is Spot. Happy birthday me.

I just hope the gamble pays off, and if it doesn't I will have learned - and they will live charmed lives, as every animal deserves.

Spot

Introducing Kira - who does not need a pelham - but needs some love.

A drowned mouse

He gets up earlier than me, swims, puts on the coffee and is ready at his desk for work while I just about rouse myself into another hot day. Yesterday my sleepy state was triggered into action over a drowning mouse. He fished it out of the pool and dumped it on the grass, shivering, while he had a swim. I have never seen such a pathetic creature, it could have been swimming out there for hours. 

Our animal rescue team came into action, we locked the fattie catties away, emptied a cardboard box of its contents and found some woolly baby clothes to wrap the mouse in. Oh poor drowned mouse!

We fed it a breakfast of cheese and biscuits, placed the cardboard box in a safe, dry, warm (but not too warm) place and left him to recover from his ordeal.

After the supermarket we checked on drowned mouse - he had dried out but was now over run with ants eating his breakkie. So we upgraded his home and left him near a hedge so when he felt well enough he could scamper off into the countryside.

And that is what he did. Our mouse rescue service worked. Just hoping we don't find his little body on the grass this morning as the fattie catties refused to come in last night.