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.