ANOTHER BRUSH WITH DIY

I was concentrating so hard on my mission to remove seven years' worth of built-up cal from the loo we'd never actually used (Mallorcan water is notoriously hard), that I didn't hear The Boss come into The Den's tiny shower room behind me:

"Er, I thought we were supposed to be painting the persianas?" He stood with his hands on his hips, wearing a quizzical frown - and a fine head-to-toe film of dust, resulting from his labours with the electric sander and our exterior shutters.

When it comes to decorating, The Boss is head of sanding (the dust makes me sneeze and, besides, he'd never let me play with - sorry, use - the electric sander. I'm the 'lucky' person who gets to wield the brush with bristle alopecia - something all paintbrushes here seem to suffer from - and treacle-like Spanish gloss paint.

I'd finished painting the back door shutters and had been waiting for him to finish sanding the next set. With my brush sitting in a jar of turps, I'd decided to fill the time usefully and tackle the cleaning job I was determined to do. I didn't realise that it would take so long to actually reach it!
A word of warning if you're thinking of living in an old finca: Every job completed results in a new one (or more) for the everlasting To Do list. Not only did we have a shower room door peppered with woodworm holes but, on first flush of the newly-gleaming loo, we also discovered there was a problem with some of the twiddly bits in the cistern and the water wouldn't stop running. Twiddly bits were removed and the loo was once again out of commission for the foreseeable future.

A pair of newly-sanded shutters, balding brush and can of gloopy gloss beckoned; plumbing and woodworm problems would have to wait.

Jan Edwards ©2009

DIRTY DEN HAD IT COMING . . .

I've just cleaned the loo in our third bedroom - for the first time in the seven years we've owned the finca. Now before you recoil in horror, I should explain: our third bedroom has only ever been used as a store room since we moved here in 2004. And that dear little ensuite room that houses loo, basin and shower, has been stuffed full of detritus from day one. It wasn't even possible to see the porcelain, let alone give it a regular going over with a cloth and a few squirts of Ecover.

But this summer, I'm determined that this useful annexe bedroom - adjoining the house but with its own separate entrance - will become usable. After all, when we set out to find our home in the sun, three bedrooms had been a must. The Original Plan was to turn this room into a third bedroom/office, containing my desk, computer and all the tomes that a writer needs on a handy shelf. I pictured myself here writing my novel, pausing occasionally to drink in the inspiring view of the valley (or take a quick siesta on the single bed). We even hired an electrician to install a bank of four sockets for all the necessary plugs - for when we eventually had electricity. We could have saved ourselves the money: desk and all necessary kit are still in the house.

When our possesions arrived from the UK - where they'd been housed in a tiny cottage - they were packed in 220 cartons. 220! Admittedly, some of them contained only a few items but, even so, it was clear that we had Far Too Much Stuff. Moral of the story: Have a good sort out before you move abroad.

Many of those possessions haven't seen daylight since we dumped them into the annexe - renamed The Den - for want of a garage, shed or other useful storage space. From time to time, I've made a half-hearted effort to reduce the amount of stuff, but it's hard when there's no room to move and you never know what might run across your foot (it has to be the perfect hidey hole for a small furry creature).

However, with my new resolve to commission this bedroom, I hacked my way through to the shower room - discovering on the way that its door has a nasty case of woodworm - and began the process of sorting and moving things out of the way. And when I finally reached the porcelain fittings, I realised that I'd need industrial-strength cleaning products and a Biohazard protective suit. Sadly, yellow Marigolds would have to do . . .

Jan Edwards 2009 ©

THE BRUNCH BUNCH

One of the great things about living in a rural community where some properties are holiday homes, is that the arrival of their owners - for a holiday or some essential finca maintenance - provides an opportunity to enjoy some social time with people you don't see often enough to become, let's say, over-acquainted with.

We've enjoyed getting to know other Europeans in our valley, in particular the very amusing German couple, who holidayed at their finca until they realised it wasn't much of a holiday with so much work to do. They sold up and bought a hassle-free second home in Germany. But when the new owners, a Swiss family, came to introduce themselves, we knew we'd like them. Well, they did come bearing Swiss chocolate!

Their visits so far have been full of expeditions to buy things for the house and garden, find tradesmen and sort out the type of problems that finca owners usually only discover once they've taken possession.

Our Swiss friends do things differently to other Europeans we know. For example, a greeting involves three kisses on alternate cheeks (we always forget and withdraw after the second kiss) and - as we discovered one afternoon - going to theirs for drinks also involves a hearty spread of food! Not that I'm complaining . . .

Earlier this week they invited us for brunch today. At 10am this morning, we were sitting on their terrace in glorious sunshine, enjoying genuine Swiss muesli, delicious breads, cheeses, ham and fruit, accompanied by orange juice, good coffee and a glass of Cava. Fab.

Instead of inviting friends for lunch or dinner in future, I think I´ll make it brunch: it´s such a civilised thing to do . . . and you can get away with not doing any cooking!

Jan Edwards Copyright 2009

BACK ON THE CHAINSAW GANG

After The Boss's early experiences, the subject of chainsaws was not raised again until he happened to spot someone on a TV programme, using one in the Brazilian rainforest. Alarmingly, trees were falling like skittles. For a change, the BBC had helpfully managed not to conceal the brand name of the chainsaw and I saw The Boss surreptitiously make a note of it. Well, he replied, when I bravely mentioned the 'c' word, if such a chainsaw could tackle trees like that, it wouldn't flinch at mere almond and wild olive, would it?

Our trusty friend Google found us the details of the company's sales agent on Mallorca and we set off for the island's largest and most confusing industrial estate, clutching our battered map of Palma.

Frankly, it wasn't really my kind of retail outlet, but The Boss was in his element as he headed for the chainsaw section. I, meanwhile, was mesmerised by a large wooden bear which stood in a corner of the store: it had been fashioned from a tree trunk using a chainsaw. Now that was impressive. I began to imagine our field, full of interesting wood sculptures . . .

Meanwhile, The Boss had narrowed down his search, with the help of a young man who looked as though he'd never wielded a chainsaw in his life. In spite of that, he knew his stuff and recognised his potential customer as someone who likes to mull over any purchases. We came home, not with a chainsaw, but the manufacturer's catalogue of products. What man needs a subscription to GQ magazine, with one of these tomes to hand?

The Boss spent several happy evenings browsing through the 234 pages, marvelling at what was available. Quite a lot of the stuff seemed to have little to do with sawing down trees or carving your own Barney the Bear. Anyone for a Stihl-branded mug, keyring, model truck, football, picnic rug, or trendy sunglasses? There was even a kiddie-sized toy version, for the boy - or girl, let's not be sexist - who wants to look like Daddy.

What really matters is that the chainsaw (and a few appropriate accessories) he came home with from Palma a few days later has, so far, worked like a dream, starting first time every time (I hope I haven't jinxed that now) and making the annual tree tidying job a lot easier. Anytime now, I'm sure he'll be carving me that life-sized donkey for the field . . .

Jan Edwards © 2009

JOINING THE CHAINSAW GANG

He might look as though he's going to a fancy dress party as a lumberjack, but that man in the safety helmet, thick goggles, ear defenders, and gauntlets of the calibre usually seen only on falconers, means business. Actually, it's The Boss. And he looks pretty scary carrying his new chainsaw. I wouldn't want to tell him that I'd scorched the collar of his best shirt, whilst
ironing . . .

Underneath all that mean-looking safety gear, he's actually beaming, because if ever there was a tool to make a man feel super macho, it's a chainsaw. The noise, the speed, the power . . . it's the perfect package. Unless, of course, the damned thing won't start.

Like lawnmowers, chainsaws can be annoyingly temperamental. As The Boss found out when he first hired one to tackle a few jobs around the land. The demonstration at the local hire shop went well enough, but when he arrived home, the machine refused to start. Completely. Mind you, its condition suggested that it had probably already cleared one South American rain forest and - like lots of South American people - had moved to Mallorca in the hope of an easier life.

Next step was to buy one of his own, and the island's answer to B&Q just happened to have a special offer on chainsaws. So special, in fact, that alarm bells should have rung. Like its hired predecessor, it refused to start when we got it home. The Boss, by now in something of a bad mood, drove all the way back to Palma, where it obligingly roared into life for one of the store assistants, terrifying two elderly Spanish women who were browsing nearby.

Back at the finca, the chainsaw had clearly decided it was probably time to stop messing around and do a bit of work. Dead branches were sliced off almond trees and, a few hours later, there was a pile of neatly cut logs left to season in the sunshine. Sadly, that was the last day the thing ever worked. The store sent us to the local approved service agent (the fault was not apparently covered by the warranty), who declared it "beyond economical repair". A strongly worded letter was written to the manufacturer's chief executive - who, being Italian and possibly not able to read English, probably balled it up and threw it into the bin.

It would be some time before anyone mentioned chainsaws again in our house . . .

Jan Edwards ©2009

SURREAL SPRING . . . WITH SKATES ON

After three weeks of warm spring weather, the island has had a substantial wash and has scrubbed up rather well. The countryside's thin coating of dust has gone and everything looks a little brighter . . . except the sun.

Last week we were recording top temperatures at our finca of around 22 degrees Celsius. This week, 12. It's grey, wet and windy too, and I feel really sorry for those visitors who arrived on the island at the weekend - having missed all the earlier sunshine and warmth. Particularly those who come to enjoy outdoor pursuits, such as golf or cycling.

We don't see golfers in our valley, but cyclists are a common sight - standing out in their brightly coloured cycling gear, against a backdrop of wild olive, Holm oaks, almond and fig trees.

We certainly hadn't seen, or expected to see, any rollerbladers whizzing around these parts - after all, the lane that passes our property heads down to the valley floor and is quite steep in parts. Then, one spring afternoon last year, sitting on the back terrace with visiting friends, we heard the unfamiliar engine note of a vehicle that had paused in the lane outside our back gates. (When you have few neighbours and live on a lane that peters out into a muddy field, you learn to identify every passing vehicle from the sound of its engine).

It was a minibus, disgorging its load of nine extremely lean people, clad in matching Lycra all-in-one suits, helmets . . . and rollerblades. If that were not strange enough, they proceeded to rollerblade down the hill at a terrifying speed and within seconds had disappeared from view. We thought the minibus would follow and retrieve its passengers at the bottom, but a while later, the roller bladers returned . . . skating uphill! My calf muscles were screaming in sympathy. This bizarre sequence was repeated three times before the skaters - who must have burned a few thousand calories between them, but didn't even have the grace to look slightly tired - clambered back into the minibus, which then departed. It was entertaining (well, not much goes on around here), but surreal.

Ever since we moved to Mallorca, I've promised myself I'll have a go at rollerblading along Palma's Paseo Maritimo. All I need are the skates. But don't expect to see me putting in any training in our valley.

Jan Edwards ©2009

HOE, HOE, HOE!

Weeding time approaches. I've done nothing for months to the little patch of our land that we've made into a Mediterranean garden (containing, basically, any plant with sharply pointed leaves). Once the rains come in autumn - and they sure kept on coming in 2008 - the weeds shoot up at an alarming rate and no amount of daily weeding would be enough to keep on top of the situation. So, I choose to ignore the weeds and see only the plants throughout the winter.

But March is here, the sap is rising, and so is my inclination to have a Sort Out. In fact, the garden could potentially double in size, because The Boss went a bit gung ho with the pruning saw and has managed to turn a huge shrub into a proper tree - freeing up a lot of ground space beneath it. It's way too tempting to leave it barren . . .

And as if to enforce my decision to expand the garden, Hans and Inga - a charming German couple who live further down the valley - have kindly given us a stack of agaves after their annual tidy-up.

So, it's computer off - and gardening gloves on . . .

Jan Edwards

Copyright 2009

ANYONE FOR A HOLIDAY?

We've reached that time of the year when we start to receive phone calls and e-mails from friends and family members who'd like to come over and visit us in the summer. The first firm booking is in the diary for five nights in June - a lovely time to be on Mallorca - and there are already two provisional visits pencilled in for other months.

Unlike some of the expats we've spoken to, we actually love having visitors to stay with us - although, I admit, we've been lucky in that most of ours are house-trained!

Will 2009 bring more visitors than usual? With the current global economic crisis, I think folk who like their annual fix of fun in the sun will be looking for cheaper alternatives for their holidays. And what better than going to stay with a relative, friend, ex-neighbour or old uni chum, who's moved to a Mediterranean hotspot?

But for those expats who really don't want to share their rural homes with visitors from the 'old country', here are a few handy phrases for use in response to any unwelcome requests:

'You don't mind rats, do you? This is the country, after all . . .'

'Great! We're looking for some help to clean out the old well!'

'You won't need to bring a hairdryer or electric shaver . . . there's not enough electricity for that sort of stuff.'

'Actually, our septic tank's leaking a bit, but you don't notice the smell after a day or two.'

'Better bring plenty of mosquito repellent - we're overrun with the damn things this year.'


Personally, I've not had to use any of the above . . . so far.

GENERATING PROBLEMS . . .

When The Boss said he was thinking about buying a Lombardini, I don't think I was listening properly. I thought he'd said a Lamborghini - and that maybe he'd won the lottery.

Said Lombardini - a beefy little red number - is actually a diesel generator, which supports our solar energy system when the sun doesn't shine enough to charge the batteries. It's been cleverly rigged up so that it starts automatically when the battery levels fall below a certain point, then runs for three hours before switching itself off. There's also a system that prevents it starting before 9am and stops it at 10pm - so that it doesn't disturb anyone in the locality. (Now, I'm impressed by all this clever stuff, but any techies reading this will probably think "So what?")

Our generator is only five years old and religiously serviced at the required intervals, so it doesn't seem too noisy (I am touching wood as I write this). It sits in a small outbuilding halfway down the field, and I can't hear it from inside the house. In the past, I spent five years flying for an hour every weekday in a helicopter, wearing headphones that weren't quite fit for purpose and, as a result, I don't seem to hear deep rumbling noises like generators.

A couple nearby, who've had a holiday home here for 20 years, often lament the increase in noise in the valley over the past couple of decades - mainly due to the fact that what used to be just a dirt track is now an asphalted lane. But recently, they've had a greater problem. Since another neighbour (another holiday home owner) resited his old generator, their own little casita has been blighted by noise and vibration.

Things came to a head over Christmas, when they were were still awake at 4am, waiting for the
generator to switch off. Finally, they could stand it no more and, despite the hour, went round to the neighbours' house to complain.

I can sympathise with both parties. In defence of the offending generator's owner, he's not really a technical chappie and probably didn't even know these things could be regulated. But I also have sympathy for our Geordie friends, who bought their place here when our valley was apparently a lot quieter than it is now.

Let's hope there's plenty of sunshine next time both couples are in residence . . .

PASS THE EARPLUGS . . .

I'm sure you've heard the stories of city folk who go to live in the country, seeking peace and quiet, then discover that rural life can be pretty noisy too. We tend to think of our valley being a tranquil sort of place, but that's because we're now used to the various noises of the Mallorcan countryside. They're definitely out there, but it's our visitors who tend to notice them.

Something we both enjoy is the seemingly continuous birdsong: whatever the weather, they're singing their little hearts out. Perhaps it's because the thrush-hunting season is now over?

Which brings me to shooting. It was like the Wild West when we moved here. At first light (by which I mean still pretty dark), gunfire used to go off all around us, reverberating around the valley. How could these hunters see their targets? Actually, I hope they couldn't.

Occasionally, the sound of lead shot bouncing on the roof tiles, like superannuated hail, would wake us up. These were the gun-toting men - not proper country folk - who weren't following the rules about not shooting within a certain distance of houses. These groups of hunters would arrive on Saturday and Sunday mornings in Palma taxis and spend a trigger-happy few hours stomping over the countryside in search of anything that moved. Unfortunately, one of those things was an unsuspecting German cyclist (luckily he was more shaken than shot). SEPRONA - the division of the Guardia Civil responsible for this kind of thing - sent their team to Sort The Problem. These days, the only shooters are local farmers looking for ingedients for the cooking pot.

On the far side of the valley, up on the ridge, is a quarry. When we first moved here, we were a bit shocked at the level of noise that came from the place; sometimes sounding like a gigantic lion roaring. (The day we came to see the place and decided immediately to buy it, we came during the quiet long lunch break, when the quarry workers were in town tucking into a menu del día).
It's surprising, though, how quickly a regular sound like quarrying becomes mere background noise. It's only been this morning, as I did battle with a pile of wet washing and the rotary clothes dryer (twice my height and determined to strangle me), that I noticed that nothing's happening up there on the scarred ridge of the valley. La crisis obviously means less stone is needed for construction projects.

Did I mention José Luis's cockerel? The peacocks from the redundant pig farm?
The quad bikes, and the generators? Country noises-off continue next time . . .

BACK IN THE PINK

I'm finding it hard to believe that February is already here. Where did January go?
Admittedly I spent a week of it in bed, battling the flu, and it took another week before
I felt nearly back to normal, but really - how's a girl supposed to get everything done when
time flies by so quickly?

Reflecting back on the dark days of feeling ill (I really hate being out of commission), for the first time in five years I missed the little cottage back in Oxfordshire. To be strictly accurate, however, the only thing I really missed was the central heating.

How I longed for that warm bathroom with its carpet, radiator and heated towel rail, instead
of our chilly shower room with its tiled floor and ominous damp patches on the walls. There's something about being poorly that makes you yearn for comfort and warmth - particularly when you have to crawl out from beneath the duvet to use the bathroom.

But the week's biggest woe came on a day when the rain was pouring down . . . again.
As I snuggled under the duvet feeling very sorry for myself and listening to the relentless pounding of rain on the roof, I detected an additional and all-too-familiar sound. The rain had found a new place to penetrate our leak-prone roof . . . and was plopping steadily onto the duvet.

With January and germs (I hope) now thankfully in the past, we've arrived at one of the most picturesque times of the year on Mallorca. From every window of the house we can see almond trees decked with delicate pink blossoms. Yes, finca life has taken on a much rosier hue.

MUST TRY HARDER IN 2009

Gosh! Where did 2008 go? The year seemed to whizz by, despite the fact that we had an extra day because it was a leap year. There was even an additional one second tacked on at the end of the year, as those of us in Spain were poised to start popping the 'lucky grapes' at midnight. (Apparently the additional second was to compensate for the Earth's rotation slowing down - which might explain why the lids of my mince pies skewed off slightly during baking).

So we look back on twelve months when we were going to undertake a number of DIY tasks around the finca . . . but somehow didn't. In the spirit of the New Year, I've therefore decided to make some finca resolutions - in the hope that by putting them in the public domain, we might just achieve them in 2009:

We will paint the persianas. For the uninitiated, these are the traditional slatted shutters
that grace the windows and doors of many Spanish properties. Ours are made of wood
and desperately need some TLC. In September 2007 we replaced some of the ones at the back of the house with new ones and hastily slapped on one coat of paint before the autumn rains arrived. They're in dire need of a second coat, but it's the most boring job ever . . .

At the sun-baked front of the house, we face a more serious situation and will have to repair or even replace some of the shutters before we can start wielding a paintbrush. One of the two small shutters on the front bedroom window is so old and battered that we daren't open it in case all of the slats fall out (two already have).

We will paint the small walls separating our terraces from the jungle beyond (our
garden). I'm obviously going to have plenty of painting practice in 2009. Every year
since we bought the property in 2002 we've said we'd smarten up the exterior by
tackling this job. Originally (long before our time) painted a pale terracotta colour, they've been badly discoloured by the elements and now even sport patches of bright green moss. I feel a lengthy session with one of those high-pressure jet washers coming on . . .

We will plant a lemon tree. Looking down into our valley at the vast tangle of wild olive trees and assorted shrubs, it's impossible to believe that it used to be lush with citrus and peach trees. Turning the area back into a productive fruit garden is a resolution too far, but I will find a space somewhere to plant a lemon tree. Even before we'd decided where our 'place in the sun' would be, we used to wax lyrical about the prospect of picking one of our own (therefore unwaxed) lemons for a G&T at the end of the day. Just the one drink though - there's far too much work to be done to be nursing a hangover!

Happy New Year . . .

TALKING TURKEY . . . AND FAREWELL TO FRIENDS

As our first Christmas on Mallorca approached, we thought back fondly to the wonderful butcher's shop in the village of Adderbury, where I'd lived for eleven years. Not only did Rob and his wife sell locally produced meat of a very high quality, they stocked lots of deli-type items and had even expanded their premises to provide a mini-supermarket offering general groceries. Their plump, flaky croissants – still warm from the special oven they'd installed – were a naughty treat. Our last Christmas in the UK we'd treated ourselves to a Kelly Bronze turkey from Rob's fine emporium. Cost a fortune. Tasted fantastic. Where would we find something that good on Mallorca?

We'd only seen turkeys here as frozen lumps of nobbliness in supermarket chest freezers, so we sought the advice of the butcher's stall in Manacor market. There, a cheerful chap wearing a jolly knitted hat, bottle-bottom specs and a big grin, explained that a fresh turkey would be no problem. He'd make a note of what we wanted and have it in by Christmas Eve. We'd turned to leave when, with a deadpan face, he called out a final question: did we want it dead or alive? We had a good laugh and, as it happened, a decent enough turkey for Christmas.

By the following Christmas we'd found Anype – a great little local butcher's shop, tucked away in a side street in Manacor – and they sold us a great turkey. Since then, we've been regular customers of Antonia and her husband Pedro, buying something most Saturdays, We're hardly their best customers: the locals seem to buy enormous quantities of meat, whereas we don't eat very much meat, but that's certainly not reflected in the way we're treated.

Each Christmas they've given us a small Anype-branded gift as a token of their appreciation. But what we've most valued have been all the laughs and great chats we've enjoyed with this couple - in spite of our less-than-perfect castellano (they usually speak only mallorquìn on a day-to-day basis).

But when we went in to order this year's turkey, there was bad news (for us and their many loyal customers): Antonia and Pedro are closing their shop on December 31, and retiring. Pedro is now 67 and, not surprisingly, ready to give up the long hours, hard work and chilly hands that are the lot of an old-fashioned butcher.

We collected our turkey and some of their delicious home-made sausages today, and delivered a Christmas card (the only one they had received since the locals don't tend to go in for these things). Both Antonia and I were a bit teary-eyed, even though we'll be back in the shop next week to stock up the freezer. And to ask where they'll be buying their meat in future . . .

Merry Christmas!

GETTING INTO THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

The Christmas cake has been made and, after it's iced, nobody will notice that it's rather darker than it should be. Once again, the combined efforts of Delia (the recipe) and myself (the hard graft) have been thwarted by our rather useless Italian oven. With its smart brass fittings and matte finish, it looks good - but then so do many Italian things. The problem is that the thermostat doesn't work properly and the temperature goes up and down like a bride's nightie.

At least my homemade mincemeat looks and tastes rather fabulous (and I've had to taste it a few times to make sure). And so it should, with that much brandy and spiced rum in it. I even bought a small piece of festive fabric from a material shop in Manacor so that I could make kitsch little covers for the jar lids. Sorry . . . were you just dazzled by the sun reflecting off my halo?

Actually, cake and mincemeat aside, I've been struggling to feel festive. Several times I've sat down to write the Christmas cards and given up. It's because it's been a bit of a rough fortnight. We've both had colds and been hacking away like two people who chain-smoke Ducados (not an attractive sound). And Smokey, our Maine Coon cat, has been really poorly. He'd been having tests to determine why he was losing weight (despite a healthy appetite) when he too was laid low by a filthy cold. In the past fortnight we've been to the vet's nine times, during which he's had an ultrasound scan, various blood tests, some scarily expensive injections, and examinations. None of the visits has been less than an hour. At home, we've had to feed him hourly by syringe - he went completely off his food once the cold started - and give him various pills at different times of day. No wonder I'm behind with the ironing. Anyway, he's almost back to normal now and his weight loss problem has been solved.

So it was good to get out and visit Palma yesterday, for the 10th Ecumenical Christmas Carol Service in the city's beautiful cathedral. On Friday, the Christmas lights in the city had been officially switched on, so it was hard not to feel a frisson of Christmas spirit as we made our way through the streets. It was our fifth visit to this annual service, and I challenge anyone not to feel festive after singing a few carols, listening to the cathedral choir - Els Vermells de la Seu - and the talented little cuties in the Centre Stage Junior Chorus. Apart from the fact that some of the verses of traditional carols are sung in castellano or mallorquín (there seemed to be more words than available tune in some cases), and the inclusion of the Sibil-la, it has a rather British feel.

The Sibil-la is a chant dating back to the 10th century, traditionally sung before or during Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - and Mallorca is now the only place where it's performed. The story of Judgement Day, it's sung unaccompanied by a lone chorister clad in oriental robes and holding aloft a rather heavy-looking sword. Between each verse there's a dramatic burst of music from the cathedral's magnificent organ. I'd sum it all up as hauntingly beautiful . . . and a bit long (plenty of time to reflect on one's own misdemeanours, I suppose).

For one small person, the service proved to be a bit too much. Just as the opening bars of "A Holly Jolly Christmas" were being played on the piano, an indignant voice (aged around three) piped up from a nearby pew: "Not another one!" The little boy's parents' faces were as red as the Centre Stage Juniors' sweaters, but the rest of us who heard it enjoyed a muffled giggle behind our order of service sheets.

I felt so festive when we arrived home, I had to start writing my Christmas cards - and have another spoonful of mincemeat. I think it's going to be fine . . .

COUNT US OUT, THANK YOU

At the beginning of November each year our local supermarket clears a space in a corner
and erects a temporary display stand: three shelves laden with 500 gm bags of paprika and balls of string in different colours. I remember being curious about these items when I spotted them during our first autumn here. Why did people buy such large bags of paprika? I use the spice fairly often in my own cooking, but a little jar of the stuff usually lasts ages. And the string? Something to do with the approaching festive season perhaps?

Of course, it wasn't long before I came to learn that these are essential items used in the annual event known as la matanza (or matança, in Catalan). November is the time when, traditionally, many rural folk here slaughter the portly pig that's been grazing contentedly most of the year in a field of fig trees.

It's when they invite family and friends to their homes to muck in and share the gory task of turning the deceased beast into sobrassada (a paprika-loaded pâté-type sausage), botifarró (another type of sausage) and cuts of pork for the coming winter months. And, of course, there's the obligatory feasting and fun afterwards. Not that I have personal experience of any of this, having never been to a matanza; frankly, it doesn't sound at all like my idea of a good time.

Since we moved here, kind Mallorcan neighbours have given us plants for the garden, and delicious fruit and vegetables in abundance. We've been invited to several homes for lunch or dinner and, amusingly, I was even once invited to a riotously noisy Tupperware party (of the 23 women there, I was the only foreigner).

But what we really, really don't want to receive from our generous neighbours - and it's why we keep a low profile in our valley in early November - is an invitation to a matanza . . . . no, gracias.

BURNING DESIRE

It's been a long time in the planning but, today, we've had our first bonfire for months. It's not that we've been too lazy to have one before now, or that the summers are too hot to stand by a blazing fire (although they certainly are). Lighting a fire outdoors here can only legally be done during a designated period because of the risk to forests and shrub land. But finding out when that period starts and ends can be somewhat challenging, as we discovered during our first year here.

Neighbours tried to be helpful but seemed a bit vague about the actual dates. We'd already fallen foul of the Manacor ayuntamiento by illegally building a small outhouse, so wanted to avoid any further visits from the police, delivering bad news from the authorities.

At the town hall, getting a definitive answer to our simple question about the dates of the bonfire exclusion period proved to be impossible. We were referred to department after department. Staff peered at us suspiciously - did we look like prospective arsonists? - then launched into a torrent of mallorquín with colleagues, before returning to us with a shrug and an apology . . . but no dates. We even asked a member of the Guardia Civil, who happened to be cruising through the valley one day as we were out on a walk.. He referred us to the town hall . . .

Since then, we've played it safe and, once the warm spring weather arrives, we leave our pile of cuttings, dead branches and other garden detritus to grow until after the first of the autumn storms. This year, our bonfire pile has grown spectacularly with the addition of the dilapidated wooden shutters which we replaced with new ones last year. The Boss has been itching to put a match to the thing.

Today that itch was scratched. As I sat working at my computer, he stood outside, swathed in billowing smoke, periodically poking at the blazing pile with a garden fork and indulging man's primeval instincts to create and control fire. Now, all that's left of the enormous pile of garden rubbish that was an eyesore all summer is a small pile of warm, grey ash. That and the faint whiff of smoke about The Boss's person. But at least he didn't accidentally set fire to the leg of his jeans this time . . .

SEASON OF DRIPS AND WELLIE BOOTFULNESS

For the past few days The Boss and I have been preparing the place for winter. We've moved everything - garden furniture and pots of plants - from the small back terrace to the more sheltered one at the front of the house.

In summer, our back terrace is the perfect retreat from the heat, with lovely cool breezes wafting up the valley. In winter, it gets no sunshine, is permanently damp (with an unattractive green film on the tiles) and is in the direct line of fire of any north wind whistling our way - and that wind can be mighty fierce. One night, we sat indoors on the sofa watching the French doors flinching in the chilly blast of gale-force winds. Expecting the doors to burst open at any moment, we hastily moved a piece of furniture up against them to act as ballast. Imagine what that kind of weather can do to a few pots of pelargoniums!

The wooden steamer chairs have been put away for the winter, along with the hammock in which I passed quite a few lazy hours reading and snoozing in the height of summer. And the BBQ has been wheeled away to a spot under cover. It all feels a little bit sad . . .

You've probably guessed that I'm not really an autumn person, which makes it somewhat ironic that the colours that suit me best are from the autumn palette! This is a time when we've probably seen the last of friends and family members coming to stay with us; we've had our last swim in the sea, and I've eaten my last fish finger lunch at our favourite beach café. (I'd never eat fish fingers at home, but for some reason they taste great by the sea.) It's a time when we get out the plastic buckets to catch the drips leaking through the roof into the sitting room (despite countless workmen climbing up there to try and fix the problem) and have to start using the generator more often to support our solar system.

But one thing compensates for all of this: it'll soon be time to light the wood-burning stove. In anticipation of cosy nights in front of the fire, the logs have been sorted and stacked and it'll take only a small drop in temperature for The Boss to whip out his box of matches. Soon the cats will be stretched out on the rug, basking in the heat of burning almond and olive wood.

Our first autumn here was chilly, damp and - without electricity - pretty uncomfortable. Memories of the super-efficient gas central heating system and inglenook fireplace we'd had back in the UK didn't help. So buying the wood-burner was probably the best investment we've made here.

And, as I discovered last year, it doesn't just heat the house. Tuck a couple of foil-wrapped potatoes inside, away from the flames, and about an hour later we can tuck into delicious steaming jacket spuds . . . and those are definitely something else that's great about autumn.

FEELING DRAINED . . .

One of the many repairs we hadn't expected to make – and so hadn't budgeted for – was to our water cisterna. What could go wrong with a basic concrete cube, with a hatch door on top for access and an outlet pipe on the side? It could leak, that's what.

The Boss noticed the thin but constant trickle of water running from a small crack in the side of the cisterna. He'd been out with the long-handled loppers, cutting back the wild olive shrubs that had encroached all over that side of the cisterna, when he spotted the tell-tale signs.

It wasn't a serious leak, but even a small loss of such a precious resource was too much. It was time for a visit to see Juan 1 (the owner) and Juan 2 (the foreman) of our friendly local building company. Juan 1 – a keen antiques collector, by the way – arrived to inspect the problem.
He wasn't surprised to see the crack, the trickle or the thin film of moss growing in the damp patch of concrete, guessing that the cisterna had probably been leaking for some time.

As with previous building problems (and there have been more than a few), we were offered two solutions: one expensive, the other less so. He could knock down the existing cisterna – the concrete block walls of which had weakened under the weight of regular 15,000 litre deliveries – and build us a smart new one. It sounded the ideal solution but would cost too much – as well as leave us without water for longer than we could bear. Alternatively, he could line the cisterna with a special kind of safe plastic paint which would seal the crack; this cheaper option would mean we'd be without water for less than 48 hours.

No contest. The date for the work was set and when it arrived, we reluctantly had to empty the cisterna. To give us at least some water over the next 48 hours, we first filled the bath, then every decent-sized receptacle we could find: saucepans, jugs, and watering cans full of water were stored in the guest bathroom. At least we'd be able to wash ourselves, the dishes, and have some for cooking and making hot drinks.

Next we gave the garden the best watering it had ever had (and were later rewarded with some particularly perky plants). A passing tortoise stopped to lap at one of the many pools of water forming in the garden and even drank from the end of the hose – a magical moment.

Time was running out and within half an hour of the scheduled arrival of the builders, water was still gushing out and turning our garden into a paddy field. At last, the job was finished, with just minutes to spare. We waited. And waited. Then, we received the phone call informing us that the builders had had to delay the job by a day.

Deep joy. An extra day of not being able to flush the loo . . .

TAP TURNS ON THE WATER . . .

Until moving abroad to live in a finca in rural Mallorca, I took it for granted that water came out of the tap if I turned it on. But it's a very different matter here in the country, where there's no mains water and we have to buy our supply by the tanker-load (15,000 litres at a time).

When we need a top-up, we ring Jaume (our local water supplier) to request a delivery. He doesn't seem like a man who really enjoys his job, despite the fact that, whatever the time of day, the background noises suggest that he's in a bar - probably not drinking water. We're never quite sure whether or not he's going to arrive because his only response is to grunt and hang up. Clearly not a graduate of the academy of telecommunications skills . . .

Without fail, though, Jaume arrives in his large white tanker and stops in the lane alongside our cisterna - the rather unsightly large concrete cube which houses our water supply. Next he unravels the vehicle's mighty elephant trunk-like hose and yanks it into the gaping mouth of the cisterna to begin the job of transferring the water. It takes up to 15 minutes from start to finish and blocks the narrow lane to all traffic for that time. Hours can go by without a vehicle using this lane, so why does he always arrive just as our mallorquin neighbours are leaving for work, thus delaying their journey?

Thus replenished, the cisterna feeds the house with water - courtesy of gravity, an electric water pump and several metres of black tubing. A bamboo pole is the essential tool for the weekly task of measuring how much remains in the cisterna. When the water reaches only as far as the little red paint splodge on the pole, it's time for another meaningful conversation with 'The Water-Bored' . . .

Jan Edwards Copyright 2008

ALL ABOARD!

There's a new tourist attraction on Mallorca – and we seem to be it. Of course, I don't mean us as individuals, but the rural valley in which we live. It all began in the spring, with the occasional appearance of a tourist-packed orange minibus, being driven slowly down the lane that abuts one of the borders of our land. There's a point on this lane where these minibuses slow down to drink in the views over our property and down in the distance to Llorenzo's farm on the valley floor.

Over the summer, the frequency of the minibus appearances increased – to the extent that they became daily and, on some days, there were two of them travelling in convoy. Even this week, with autumn rains lashing down, at least one bus has come by each day. We could set our watches by their arrival; we've usually been sitting outside having a coffee break at the time. It's been a bit like being in a goldfish bowl ("Ooh, look, people!"), but we've usually given a cheery wave in their direction. Such precise time-keeping surely means these excursions are for German visitors.

But what exactly do they come to see? I'm curious to know how much tourists have to pay for these trips and how they're pitched to them: "Having trouble sleeping? Come and count sheep!"; "A trip into the valley that time forgot"; "A magical mystery tour" or "Discover The Real Mallorca". Surely it's not the latter, as rural tourism's hardly something new . . .

This is a lovely picturesque valley, but I just hope these folks feel they're getting value for their holiday euros. Does the experience of journeying through our narrow country lanes, noses pressed eagerly against the minibus windows, as they pass tumbledown stone walls, fields full of asphodels and hobbled sheep, and the occasional finca, meet their expectations of the trip? There isn't even a traditional local restaurant serving frit mallorquí or a cup of coffee . . .

Perhaps next year we should erect one of those mirador signs for keen photographers, and set up a roadside stall selling drinks and snacks? Could be a nice little earner – but not half as lucrative as selling minibus excursions.

Jan Edwards ©2008