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

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 

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.

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.

Weather

You could tell they were on holiday, filling their trolley with cheap booze and by the vest tops they were sporting in 8C. The first tourists are arriving, full of hope and swimming costumes. There is a misconception that Mallorca is warm and sunny year round and to be fair, it is a whole lot nicer than the UK, who have had to deal with Beasts from the East. But March, oh March has been full of weather. Full of rain. Full of cold. Full of wind that whips round your face and creates monstrous plastic bags. Full of warm days where T shirts and sunnies are required. We've had it all, and now I am ready for a decent run of calm, of sun and of the gradual ascent to mental searing, blistering heat.

Today we have been treated to a whole day of rain. So much so, that our village Sheep and Goat Festival was abandoned in a torrent of water which ran through the streets, cancelling the dancing and tapas sharing, halting the goat admiring and beer drinking.

The horses spent all but an hour in their stables. Spot, who was born here in Mallorca, doesn't do rain. Grateful for the duvet day, he munched his hay with not a wet hair on his fat, hairy body. Kira, a girl from the north of Spain, is quite happy to stand in her corale, the water soaking her to the skin. The ducks came back to swim on the lakes created on the riding arenas, grateful for a few more weeks of puddles before they have to fly off to find a new watery home.

Sun

Snow

Rain

Violent sunsets

Windy palms

Fear, at its deepest

I looked behind me and the ascent seemed vertical. I looked ahead of me and the descent looked like a sheer drop. I was completely frozen with fear. I had no phone, no idea how I was going to get off this mountain, the fog was descending fast and my 5 euro sunglasses were clouded with snow. I don't think I have ever felt so frightened, I didn't know what to do. I looked up, I looked down. I looked up and I looked down again, both options completely unattainable and finally Ava, my eldest daughter, snow ploughed at 5cm/minute crying - with snot dribbling out of her nose - towards me. At last she was with me, my baby - her mama. We hugged, helmets and skis colliding, so pleased to have found each other - now we could tackle it side by side.

Last week was our first try at skiing. We took the ferry to Barcelona along with almost all of Mallorca for Semana Blanca (literally meaning 'White Week'). The ski resort in Andorra was beautiful, we drove to the snow whooping with delight at the two metre drifts and the people flying off piste. I couldn't wait to try it.

Ski school lasted for precisely 2 hours. Ben, bearded and gorgeous, put up with our inability to slide down a hill, our ineptitude, our clumsiness - he had seen it all before. The two hours disappeared fast, as did Ben, and we were alone on the slopes. We skied down and took a lift up. We did it again and again. And again. And then drank beer congratulating ourselves on our skiing ability. How fun! How thrilling! (Actaully, How Easy! we thought)

So the next day we all headed for a Blue run, one up from a nursery slope and two down from the Black run - depending how you look at it. Ava hesitated and I was off - all my 2 hours of ski instruction disappearing in the blur of snow, speed and pine trees. I couldn't stop. I couldn't scream. I couldn't bail out as I had 2 metres of goddamn metal attached to my feet. The next bit of my life I have blanked, I actually have no idea how I came to a halt but I can assure you it wasn't pretty. And there I sat waiting for my daughter for 20 minutes, maybe more. 

On a mountain. With fog descending. With 5 euro sunglasses. With no phone.

With absolutely no idea how this was going to end.

Sant Antoni

I had butterflies in my stomach as I cleaned my long, leather boots. They hadn't been worn since my competing days on a large ginger thoroughbred horse in England - it felt like a lifetime ago. The bridles were sparkling, the numnahs freshly washed and I awoke far too early, excited about the day ahead.

For today was our horses debut. Not competing in dressage arenas or flying cross-country, but to parade the streets of Calvia in a procession towards the church - for all the animals of the village to be blessed by the priest. Today was the festival of Sant Antoni, Saint Anthony, who lived as a hermit from 251 to 356. Legend has it he once cured a terminally ill black piglet and now on the closest Sunday to the patron's day, animals are blessed in Saint Anthony's name.

We brushed their coats, combed their manes and oiled their hooves. They knew something was up and fidgeted as we got ready, the excitement building in their blood.

As we gathered in the town hall car park, the horses began shitting freely without the fear of fines and the intensity began to build. The pipes started playing, tractors arrived adorned with ivy-strewn carts full of little children dressed in traditional Mallorquin clothes. There were lambs and goats, dogs of every colour and breed, a very lame donkey and a few horses and riders. Kira's body shook as she took in the scene; the waving balloons, the dancing children, the swinging sausages from the carts and the sheer enormity of it all. She stood proud, eyes on stalks as Spot the pony jig-jogged in excitement, throwing his head about to the pain of his rider. 

As the procession began we wandered through the village, people taking photos and making lovely compliments about the horses, I felt ridiculously proud. Even a little emotional. Kira is the horse who has galloped down roads with me in fright into oncoming traffic, she has pinned me against walls and smashed my hand, stood on my toes, snorted in fear at plastic bags and spins and fights to go home - and now here she was walking calm, noble and impressive as though she knew it was an important occasion. As we waited for the priest to bless her, she kicked out at Spot to bloody well behave himself,  to the 'oohs and the aahs' of the crowd.

It was a truly magical moment.

....and Spot even made it into the islands paper the next morning. Fame at last little pony!

Holidays in pictures

I've been too busy to write over the festive period, so I took lots of photos instead.

It is finally all over for another year

That time of year

Anyone who knows me also knows that I'm not a fan of Christmas. The magic is lost on me, amongst the shopping, the wrapping, the cooking, the Christmas fairs, the teachers gifts, the cards, the marketing madness, the organisational stress. I could go on.

I see magic in the everyday. The lambs that were born last night on the mountain with their umbilical cords swinging as they hurried to keep up with their mother. The vibrant sunrises and sunsets, a technicolor show every day for free. I see magic in the oranges and lemons which are abundant on the trees and the almonds which lay, uncollected, on the ground. The smell of my horses sweet breath and welcoming nicker every morning fills me with wonder and huge feelings of gratefulness. The frosty side of the field, the ever expanding tummies of the stray cats, the donkeys ee-aw and the wobbly hedgehogs who cross the road.

Magic in the morning

We are lucky here in Mallorca that the Christmas build up is less intense. There are a few Christmas markets, a carol concert or two, some pretty lights in Palma and a Christmas jumper day at school. I have managed all with little more than a deep breath and a good slug of rioja.

Magical balloons in Palma

With 5 days to go, you could almost say that I am calm.

Feliz Navidad a todos