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.

Back to school

Well that was fun, a week-and-a-bit of half term.

Of no driving.

Of ponies, play dates and parties.

Of a walk so spectacular a little leak may have sprung from my eyes.

Of tomaring-algo (to tomar algo literally means to take something, usually a beer!) in the main square as the children played around the church and in the fountains.

Of discovering tiny kids and mama goats.

Of coffee and a chocolate cake as big as our heads, in front of the sparkling blue sea. We all felt sick for the rest of the day.

Of days at work where I can take the children, and they help with the chores.

Of breathing in the Spring and taking precious time to feel grateful for all around us.

And of falling asleep in the sun after lunch.

Mud pie cafe

Paella up a mountain

Spot meets the neighbours

Patinaje

Singing it like the Spanish

It's not her favourite subject which is a shame really, seeing as we intend to live in Spain for the foreseeable future. A loves learning Spanish, rolling the new words around her tongue and picking up the language easily. P, like myself, has to rote learn the vocabulary, the verbs make no sense and she looks blankly when our neighbours talk to her. Poor P, I know that feeling.

But we have a found a way to make a difference. Singing, P loves to sing. We spend many, many hours in the car driving to school listening to our favourite radio station Cadena 100. I listen to the adverts and chat, the kids squeal at the uncensored English pop songs and try to sing to the Spanish ones.

We all LOVE Sofia.

We blast the nonsensical words out and make up what we can hear. Until this:

After a Sunday morning practice, over and over again, singing karaoke to this fabulous pop song...we can all sing it like the Spanish.

With P being the loudest and most Spanish of us all.

The big girl got perforated

There were the rains, and then the snow, a week of ice and two days of winds so destructive it broke our tree in two.

And then, just like that, it was A's birthday. A great big eleven year old who has taken this huge Mallorcan step all in her pre-teen stride. A smiley girl, always kind, obsessed with her pony and friends, awoke to the most hideous of days. Rain battered on the car as we drove the long journey to school - rain in Mallorca makes traffic jams, so we were late.

And then she forgot the cakes to take into her class. And because she had missed registration no one sang Feliz Cumpleanos to her. She cried. Eleven was turning out to be completely rubbish.

Valiantly, she ran out to me and grinned her wide grin after the school day was over. P looked nervous, for it had been decided that seeing eleven was very grown up - she could get her ears pierced. She had been practising with stickers on her ears for weeks, watched all the You Tube videos on how it was done and asked all her friends what it was like - preparing her for the day. Not being a great fan of pain, A had still decided to go ahead.

So off to the pharmacy we went.

The first one was shut.

The second one was open but only did piercings on Friday afternoons. The disappointment and relief was palpable in one.

We tried all of Magaluf.

After parking terribly in Palmanova I ran into the fourth chemist who said yes, she could have her orejas perforadas now. How she grinned, terrified and excited. P closed her ears and eyes. I held A's hand tightly and bang! bang! They were done. Two diamante studs of the crappiest quality where in my daughters ears and her eleventh birthday had been redeemed. Completely redeemed.

"At last I am like a Spanish girl!" she exclaimed, looking at herself in the mirror.

Yes my darling you are.

"I've never seen snow before on my birthday!"

Only in Mallorca

The rain in Spain

Oh my giddy God.

I was not ready for this. I don't think the rest of the island was either. It was biblical. First snow, then the winds and storms - and then days and days of rain. Not the pissy kind you get in the UK, the sort which dampens you constantly - no, this was like the rainy season in Asia, on a rainy day.

Spot has been highly unamused about being whizzed around on the end of a lunge for a bit of exercise. Kira, being the utter crazy kid she is, gallops around in the mud thankful for the leg stretch. I have changed clothes three times a day for a week.

It has to end soon. Google reckons Friday.

Spot practices his his 'sad donkey face' in his paddock

Er, 'scuse me!

Bienvenido a Mallorca

That, my friends, is snowy, sleety hail.

We've all gone into shock and lock down. Spot, the pony was utterly disgusted to be put outside while I mucked out. I think I will make a soup and get my sheepskin slippers on. This is not exactly what we signed up for!

Leaving - to come back

It was my first time off the island in 6 months. And it's not until you leave that you realise that you needed to leave - to appreciate and be grateful for all you have on your return.

I love England for my friends and family. For the choice in the supermarket, for the abundance of spices and wonderful diversity of people. I like England because I can understand everything being said to me and over-hear conversations on the bus with glee. I like England for its familiarity and ease, for its (mostly) acceptance and for the memories.

But I love Spain too. It's not one or the other. They are both great places for great reasons.

I love Mallorca because I can't understand everything being said to me, for its eccentricities and customs. I love the mountains which change daily and the sun which is always there. I love the hoopoes which hop about my lawn and my horses who munch their paja and garba loudly. I like the food, our neighbours and new friends, as well as the diversity of cultures in the children's school. I love the wild coastline, the bluest of seas, the olive trees and carobs. I love what we haven't yet discovered.

As common as a magpie over here