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 . . .