YOU WANT EXCITEMENT?

First-time visitors to our finca usually gaze out over the surrounding countryside with wonder in their eyes. And it's not always because we live in a naturally beautiful valley. Or that, often, the only sounds piercing the silence are birdsong, buzzing cicadas and dongling sheep bells.

No, it's more a case of “I wonder what they do for excitement around here?”

Believe me, we have our moments. Life here rarely sparks an adrenalin rush, but pulse rates have been known to quicken.

Take the other day, when we noticed that two donkeys were grazing in the field across the lane from us. Now I'm really fond of these gentle creatures and was stupidly thrilled to have them as neighbours. We'd often seen sheep there, but never donkeys. We hadn't even known that the farmer - who works in the valley but lives in Manacor - owned donkeys.

“You won't be so happy if they start braying at 3 o'clock in the morning,” warned The Boss.
Several times that afternoon, I went out to gaze at Don Camilo and Petra (yes, I'd already named them) as they stood in the shade of an almond tree, nibbling contentedly at the scrubby undergrowth. So how, later that day, did DC and Petra come to be ambling along in the lane, like a couple of elderly women searching for snails after rain?

When The Boss and I walked down to the field entrance, it was obvious. The typical “gate” used around here – a bundle of dead branches stuffed into the opening in an old dry stone wall – had hardly been enough to contain two newborn lambs, let alone a pair of determined donkeys.

The Boss was actually a little smug about the farmer's apparent error. Probably because this particular farmer - a charming man, by the way - had recently criticised the way our almond trees had been pruned.

Our lane doesn't see much traffic but donkeys wandering at will are a definite hazard, so - as good country citizens - we set about rounding up the renegades and returning them to the field.
No easy feat, and one that certainly quickened all parties' pulses.

Once they were back in, we took on the task of building an impenetrable barrier, using a larger quantity of branches and sticks. Satisfied that we'd done a decent job, we left the pair to appreciate their own side of the fence and went in search of a well-earned G&T.
And that's what passes for excitement around here . . .

PS The following day we learnt that the donkeys had actually escaped from a field in the lower neighbouring valley and, having walked all the way up the hill, had seized the opportunity of a poorly-gated field for a quick snack. When they “escaped”, they'd presumably intended heading home!

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

HORTICULTURAL HORROR

Even before we'd bought our finca on Mallorca, I'd imagined being able to go into the garden and pick a lemon from our own tree, for our evening gin and tonic. By the time we'd bought the place and begun to plan The Big Move, my imagination had turned that lemon tree into a small grove of citrus fruit trees.

We bought a pile of books about Mediterranean gardening, and The Boss - a bit of a whizz with a spreadsheet - created a multi-page document detailing what would be suitable to grow in the mallorquin climate, mindful of the water situation.

Our land is quite a reasonable size and comprises a rectangular field, a small rock and succulents garden (created by the previous owners), and a steep valley completely overgrown with wild olive and typical shrubs of the garrigue. To this date, I have still not 'walked' our entire land, not being deft enough with a machete to hack my way through the jungle. One day.

When we moved in, the rock garden needed only a serious session of weeding to transform it to its former glory - but the large field where we'd envisioned planting neat rows of vegetables and fruit trees was waist-high in weeds.

A mallorquin neighbour explained that these were asphodels, and very common in the valley. Sure enough, the field on the opposite side of our lane was also in a similar condition. What he perhaps didn't feel he could bring himself to tell us what that asphodels usually grow in very poor quality soil.

Wading into the sea of flowering weeds, The Boss made a decision. If only he had realised that it would take more than buying a brushcutter - the first of his new "boy's toys" - to rid us of that little lot . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

THE START OF SOMETHING DIG

I'd been dreaming about using my kitchen blender. I was pressing the pulse button, watching fresh fruit from Manacor market meld into a delicious smoothie. Then I'd wake up salivating, only to remember that the blender - along with a battery of other electrical appliances I'd learnt to live without - was still packed in the box in which it had travelled to Mallorca.

The reason for the dreams was that the start date for our solar energy system installation was nearing, and we'd been told we'd have power within three weeks. After eight electricity-free months, things like the hair dryer, laptop, electric fridge/freezer and washing machine would soon be back in action. Though I wasn't quite so excited about ironing again . . .

It was a Saturday when we received a phone message to say that a JCB would come the next day at 8am to dig the necessary trenches for underground cabling; The Boss was to meet the vehicle on the main road and escort it down to our property. We weren't thrilled about the early hour on a Sunday because it would be a noisy start to the day for our neighbours - and mean we'd miss our weekend lie-in.

So it was an unusually early start to The Boss's Sunday, as he set off to meet the JCB. I waited, as excited as a small boy would be at the thought of seeing a big yellow digger up close and in action. And waited.

Eventually, he returned . . . alone. Having waited more than half an hour, he'd had a call on his mobile from the solar energy company, saying they'd made a mistake in the message they'd left us the previous day; the JCB would actually be coming on Monday.

This minor inconvenience was just the start of a long and frustrating project - details of which I'll spare you!

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

THERE'S ALWAYS THE SUN . . .

Shocked by the size of the bill we'd received from a local electrician - for what had seemed to be a very basic check of our finca wiring - we decided to use a different company to undertake the major work of installing additional switches, sockets and wiring for our future electricity supply.

We'd been determined to use local labour for any major jobs around the place but, when our two new electricians eventually arrived with their toolboxes and huge reels of cable, we discovered they were actually Argentinian. No matter; they were also efficient, tidy and seemingly shock-proof. We were happy to leave them to get on with the job, while we solved the problem of sourcing some electricity.

GESA didn't want to know us: we were too far away from the nearest mains source for it to be viable to connect our property. Like most of our neighbours, we would be getting our power from the sun, via a solar energy system, with a generator for back-up. Now, doesn't that sound easy?

Knowing nothing at all about the subject, we placed ourselves at the mercy of a company specialising in these things. All we had to do was give them a list of our electrical appliances and a rough idea of usage, then they came up with a solution.

That solution involved 16 solar panels, 21 batteries, an invertor and - of course - a decent-sized generator. All except the solar panels would be housed in the little casita we had built without previous permission, but had had legalised. The panels themselves were to be mounted on a rack, cemented into a base. What we gave no thought to at that time was where we'd actually put what would end up looking like a sunbathing version of the Angel of the North . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

POWERLESS

Living without electricity for eight months was not part of our grand plan. Although the notion of candlelit evenings had seemed a romantic one to me when we'd first bought the finca, it didn't take long for me to get a reality check.

How was I going to style my hair without a hairdryer? How would we manage to do our laundry and ironing? And, as someone who'd given up a good career to become a freelance writer, how was I going to write when I had no means of charging the battery on my laptop? Even the old typewriter I'd bought in the pre-laptop days was an electric one . . .

To be strictly accurate, we weren't entirely without electricity. We had one small solar panel mounted on the roof and an old battery which, on a good sunny day, provided us with a 12 volt power system. It was just enough to give us about two hours of lighting daily - as long as we had only one light on at a time and continued to use what were probably the world's first low-energy lightbulbs. Trust me, it was brighter by candlelight.

In the interests of safety, we decided that a wiring check would be prudent and we called on the services of Sñr Gomilla - a local electrician who'd only just returned to work after open heart surgery and whose angry-looking chest scar was visible under his unbuttoned shirt.
He was not too impressed with what lurked within our walls. I think it was something to do with the electric shock he got while probing beneath the yellowing plastic switchplates. Luckily it was only a 12 volt system.

And we weren't too impressed when we received the bill for his services. He clearly charged extra for electric shocks sustained . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

A CAUTIONARY TALE

What do Michael Douglas, Boris Becker and yours truly all have in common? Sadly, it's not a nice fat bank account, but the fact that we've all fallen foul of planning regulations on Mallorca.

All The Boss and I wanted was a small outbuilding to house the solar batteries, invertor and back-up generator to provide electricity. So we sought the advice of some mallorquin builders. Si, they said, shrugging their shoulders as they stood in our field; officially, we needed permission but, given our remote rural location, they thought that our little building was unlikely to come to the attention of The Powers That Be.

We're normally completely law-abiding but, when they warned that it could take more than a year to obtain permission, our decision was made. Until we had this little building, we couldn't have electricity - and there's a limit to how long a girl can survive without a hairdryer!

So construction began, and - apart from guttering and external painting - was completed, when we were denounced. We still don't know who denounced us (our neighbours are all lovely), but we later discovered that the police regularly cruise around the lanes looking for exactly our type of infringement.

We had to apply for retrospective planning permission and were warned that without it we'd have to demolish the building. Things were looking very bleak for our little home in the country . . .
Fortunately, our architect was a real star, and had worked with several local councils. The application was submitted and, based on his optimism, we proceeded with the installation of our solar power energy system. Just as well, really, as it took 18 months for a positive decision to be made!

Having the combined bank balances of Michael and Boris couldn't have made me any happier than receiving that prized permit . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

LOVE. YES, ACTUALLY

I've been asked countless times why we chose a rustic little finca that needed a lot of attention. Many people say that they knew instinctively when they found the property that was right for them, quoting a 'gut feeling'. But in my case, it was an arrow straight in the heart.

It was love at first sight. I'll never forget the moment when I climbed out of the hire car - completely jaded from four days of intensive property-viewing - and saw the valley spread out around the cute little stone house. I felt a funny fluttering sensation inside me and could hear music playing. (Actually, it was an orchestra of singing birds, buzzing insects and bleating lambs, with dongling sheep bells forming the percussion section.)

I was completely smitten before even stepping through the low doorway into a large airy room (the dining room, I had already decided). The kitchen would have given Delia Smith a seizure; there were several internal doors missing and, although there were a few plug sockets around the place, they didn't work. The electricity system produced only enough power for a light bulb or two for a couple of hours a day - if the sun had shone on the one roof-mounted solar panel.

Love is blind. I didn't see the inconvenience of living - albeit temporarily - without an electric toaster or my hairdryer. Neither was I daunted by the prospect of having no mains services at the house or living cheek to cheek with a septic tank. And how romantic it would be, living by candlelight!

After the first flush of romance, of course, it soon became apparent that I'd fallen in love with the property equivalent of the man who leaves the loo seat up and the cap off the toothpaste, and snores all night. But I wouldn't have traded it for anything else . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

BACTERIAL WARFARE

One of the less appealing aspects of owning our rural finca was having to live with 'The Beast' - an innocuous-looking but extremely important concrete bunker, adjoining our summer dining terrace. I'll spare you too much detail, just in case you're reading this over breakfast, but let's just say that anything that leaves our property through waste pipes, goes into 'The Beast' (a pozo negro, or septic tank) - to be subjected to some kind of minor bacterial warfare within.

Fearing the worst if we did something to upset the delicate balance of bacteria and . . . yet more bacteria . . . we sought advice. 'Treat it with respect' said the former owner of the property. 'And that means no nasty chemicals or non-biodegradable stuff.'

So, not for us, those giant bottles of lurid-coloured cleaning products, filling several aisles of the local supermarket, and much-loved by Spanish housewives. We were going ecological and, although the cost of buying these products can be higher, we discovered that they do last much longer.

Feeling good about saving some money, and helping the environment of 'The Beast' (and generally), I've even resorted to some old-fashioned remedies: the kind of things my Nan would have used. Back in the UK, one of the occasional guests on my BBC radio programme was an expert on food and 'all things domestic', and Jill often regaled us with tips for tackling household jobs using store cupboard items.

Now I'd much rather be writing stuff than rubbing sink stains, but I have taken on board some of her suggestions - and saved quite a bit more money on cleaning products. My favourite weapons in the war against grime? Vinegar, bicarb of soda and lemon juice. I've been amazed what I can shift using one or more of those!

And, so far, there have been no complaints from 'The Beast' . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

DUCK OR . . . !***!****!

When I first visited Mallorca - around 30 years ago - the islanders seemed to be rather short people. That impression was confirmed when our search for an old finca revealed some perilously low doorways.

At Ca'n Pastor, we had to change the entrance to the kitchen. Being somewhat short myself, the low doorway was no problem, but The Boss is taller and didn't fancy cracking his skull every time he walked between the dining room and kitchen. With very little effort from us - and quite a lot of sledgehammer-swinging by a couple of Argentinians - we became the proud owners of a high archway, ensuring that even our tallest visitors would remain concussion-free.

But the low front door was a different matter, because right above it is the keystone - which couldn't be moved. We'd have to learn to duck - some of us more than others. And there's nothing like experience to ram a lesson home.

At the time, Telefonica was denying our existence, so we relied on our mobile phones. But there was no signal in the house and, in fact, only one spot outside where we could get service. Awaiting an important phone call, The Boss had left his phone perched on the garden wall, while he was in the kitchen discussing pipework possibilities with Miguel Angel the gas-fitter.
When a sudden yell came from the dining room, I rushed through to find Miguel Angel - wrench in hand - crouched over a prone, blood-spattered body. Surely their discussion hadn't come to blows?

No, hearing the phone ring outside, The Boss had rushed to answer it, forgetting the low door and smacking his head on the lintel above it. The gushing head wound and subsequent thumping headache proved to be a very salutary lesson.

For the record, Manacor hospital does a nice line in head staples . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

MORE WATER WOES

We knew we'd use more water and electricity as a result of installing an electric water pump but, when The Boss appeared wearing his serious face, a week later, I knew we had 'a problem, Houston'. In fact, our water consumption had more than doubled, and we'd been using enough electricity to power a small pueblo. In future, we'd have to avoid turning the taps on fully . . . which kind of defeated the object of the pump!

To add to our woes, the water heater supplying our shower room had developed an insatiable appetite for butano. Fearing a gas leak, we called back Pep the plumber, who quickly applied his analytical brain to the problem. Within minutes he'd dismissed our leak theory and suspected something far more serious. Muttering in mallorquin, he went out to his van - returning with a pickaxe.

The bad news, Pep explained, was that our hot water pipe was probably leaking, which would cause the water heater to use more gas. The even worse news was that the leaking pipe was under the floor tiles - hence the pickaxe.

We couldn't bear to watch Pep smash up our terracotta floor, so retreated - only to rush back at what sounded like a very loud mallorquin expletive. Kneeling amid shards of terracotta and a new indoor fountain we hadn't expected, was a very wet Pep. He'd accidentally punctured the cold water pipe with his pickaxe.

But he'd also found the seriously-leaking hot water pipe, which explained the increase in our water and power consumption. It seemed that a weak joint in the pipe had ruptured, due to the increased water pressure - as a result of the new water pump.

Pep set to and fixed both pipes. And repairing the big hole in the floor? As we had feared, it was another job for our ever-growing list . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

PUMP IT UP

If we'd known about the consequences of installing a water pump, would we have called the plumber?

Our water supply is delivered by tanker into a depósito - a storage tank a few metres up the hill from our little house. Gravity-fed, the flow of water was painfully slow: it took five minutes just to fill the washing-up bowl in the kitchen.

When we called in Pep the plumber, he suggested that an electric water pump would boost the flow significantly. It sounded the perfect solution, so after a quick trip back to the depot for the necessary parts, he was soon back and at work.

It wasn't long before Pep was demonstrating our new supercharged water flow. As he turned on the outdoor tap, an explosion of cal shot out ahead of the gushing water. Apparently our pipes had been well and truly clogged-up (a common problem on this island, where kidneys and water-dependent appliances also suffer the effects of the cal-laden water).

Satisfied that our water flow could now blast the barnacles off a Sunseeker's bottom, Pep packed his tools into his van, then came to shake hands before leaving.

“Er, what about that electric cable lying across the drive?” asked The Boss, in his best Spanish. The cable had been fed through the shrubs from the new pump on the depósito and across the drive, to the house. When would Pep be back to bury the cable?

“¡Hombre!” declared Pep, shaking his head. He wouldn't be. Digging the four-metre trench was a job for The Boss, but - Pep pointed out - it need only be about 10cm deep. “Whatever you do, don't drive over that cable!” So we'd have to solve the problem of getting our car out of the drive until the trench was dug.

And worse was to come . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

THE WALLS HAVE EARS . . . AND TAILS

The first few nights in our old finca were not exactly restful. Unaccustomed to the silence of the countryside and darkness of the bedroom, I wasn't sleeping as soundly as usual. So, when the sound of frantic scratching broke into my dream, I shot out of bed, switched on the light and began to scour the room for the source of the noise. It appeared to be coming from within the thick old stone walls . . .

When you buy an old finca to do up, it's not unusual to find that you've acquired a few little extras with the property: old abandoned agricultural implements, sticks of unwanted furniture - and the odd rodent.

Yes, I knew that a rat was unlikely to burst through the wall in a cloud of plasterdust and flaking paint, to launch itself at my throat, but who thinks rationally in the middle of the night?

So, we rearranged the priority jobs list and filled all the small holes outside in the old stone walls, to make sure the house was totally rodent-proof. Before long, the nocturnal scratchings had ceased and tranquility returned.

But deprived of a warm, dark place to call home, our rats found alternative - and much cosier - accommodation, in the two small adjoining outbuildings housing our gas-powered water heaters. Because these structures have to be well-ventilated, the critters' access can't be blocked.

Rats take refuge in the strangest of places. One day, The Boss decided to open up the old parasol that had been left standing out on the terrace over winter. As he did so, a large furry object jumped out from within and scuttled away.

Apparently, the popularity of the movie Ratatouille caused a rush for rats at UK pet shops. Anyone interested in a nice fat brown one . . . going cheap?

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008

A BRUSH WITH DIY

When a listener to my old BBC radio programme sent me a 'Bob the Builder' doll as a farewell gift, I realised I might have inadvertently given the impression that I'd personally be restoring an old finca, stone-by-stone, when we moved to Mallorca. In fact, all we planned to do was convert what had been someone's quaintly-appointed holiday property into a comfortable permanent home. Hardly a major project - or so we thought.

Lesson number one in doing up an old house on Mallorca is that the work never actually ends . . . and number two is that it will always cost you more than you budgeted for.

I'm a creative, rather than practical, type. This is a girl who - when hanging a picture - always used the heel of her shoe to bang in the nail, so realistically, I wasn't going to be plumbing in a new kitchen or assembling the odd door frame.

Wielding a paintbrush though is something I'll modestly admit to doing quite well. I also find it relaxing, so The Boss was more than happy for me to tackle the varnishing job on the new wooden bedroom door that we - or more accurately, a carpenter - had installed.

Perched on a stepladder, brush and pot of varnish in hand, I was beginning to feel I was finally earning that 'Bob the Builder' doll. Until the moment I discovered that flip-flops weren't really appropriate footwear for the job. Climbing down the ladder, a flip - or was it a flop? - caught on the edge of a step, and I crashed backwards onto the floor, splattering streaks of Honeyed Pine all around the room.

Undeterred, I did eventually finish the job.

Some day soon, I'll get out the Brillo and tackle those varnish stains on the floor tiles . . .

Copyright Jan Edwards 2008