Welcome to the Jungle

This week we’re back to school after the Easter break. The whole ‘back to school’ thing is still new to us but any pangs of sadness I felt on Monday morning were considerably lessened by the sight of Jack in a big hug with his teacher and then being bundled on top of in a mass hug from his little buddies. If there is that much love, joy and hugs in the classroom then it can’t be all bad. Forget Ofsted reports, for now I’m happy with a simple Hug-o-meter.

That said, I was just thinking how if a film was ever made about our little life here (I’m expecting to hear from Hollywood any day now, obvs ) then the soundtrack would most likely be some delightful pastoral melodies (think: la-la-la, tinkly, tinkly, tinkly) right up until mid-September last year, when Jack started school. At this point there would be an almightily loud and dissonant scratch and an abrupt dive into ‘Welcome to the Jungle,’ Guns and Roses style. (Melodramatic, moi?)

While I had previously expressed my reservations about Jack starting school so young (he wasn’t even 3 until the end of October for heavens’ sake!) I now realise that I actually didn’t have a clue about the impact that school would have on us and our lives. And, no, I don’t just mean the early mornings. Although those still do hurt. (Pathetic, but true.)

Of course in reality I totally suppressed the thought of failed to grasp how hard the initial wrench would be for me: the giving up of absolute control over his environment 24/7. Ok, now I sound like a scary control freak. But I’m not. I’m far too lazy to ever be a control freak, trust me. WAY too much effort. No, I’m just a mother who was used to spending all day with my baby almost every day. Being there to protect him, to feed him  to hold him, to love him. As a result, for the first week or two of school I was a highly-strung, snappy, neurotic wreck tad overwrought.

My state of mind wasn’t helped on Day 2 when, aimlessly wandering up the road seeking diversion from the constant gnawing questions in my mind (‘what will he be doing right now? is he okay? is he scared? is he happy? HAVE I DONE THE RIGHT THING?’), I bumped into my neighbour. Not unusual, nor usually a bad thing. Then she told me that her daughter-in-law had just been called down to the school to take her son to the doctors. Why? Because Jack had poked him in the eye.

FAN-flipping-tastic. Day 2 of school and my son was already a juvenile delinquent having sent someone to hospital. And not just any someone but the much beloved and cosseted son of the Arse-iest Lady in the Village, as I fondly thought of her. And I don’t mean the size of her backside but rather the size of her attitude. By now I was feeling even sicker than I had been before. You know the feeling, that nausea that comes from the constant pressure on your kidneys as adrenalin steadily courses through your system, stopping you from sleeping, eating or being in the least bit reasonable.

It wasn’t a great time for another neighbour to pick to question my refusal to send Jack in the school transport. First, let me clarify. I had always intended to drive him to school myself for the first week or so. The thought of abandoning my tiny boy at a bus stop and sending him off into the unknown on his own at 8.15 one random morning was more than my heart could bear. I also had concerns over safety as I was unhappy about sending him in a car or bus with no car seat. Like I said, he was tiny. I had visions of him, at best, sliding off the seat as the people carrier rounded one of the many tight bends on the hill down to school. Let’s not even go to the ‘at worst’ scenarios.

I didn’t think it was particularly unreasonable of me to want to personally check out the transport provision before consigning my most precious cargo to it. My friend, mother to another school child from the village, thought differently. Pooh-poohing my concerns didn’t make me feel any better about any of it. And when she made the classic statement: ‘But P’s the same age as Jack and his mother is sending him in the taxi without making a big fuss about it,’ I’ll admit I saw red. All that adrenalin coursing through my system and nowhere to go. Until now.

Turns out it’s not all that easy to think of the Spanish for ‘Well if P’s mum jumped off a cliff does that mean I should too?’ off the top of your head when the top of your head is actually blowing steam. I think I got my meaning across pretty thoroughly however, despite garbled grammar, mangled pronunciation and generalised high-pitched, squeaking.

Thankfully my adrenal glands slowed down their fierce pumping action gradually over the next few days, as it became apparent that Jack was adjusting and that the classroom environment was warm and family-like. I loved that the teacher was happy to chat to parents at the start or end of any school day and that dropping him off in the morning I got to spend 5 or ten minutes chatting with her and some other parents at the classroom door and watching the children doing their thing and finding their feet in there. This rather relaxed, informal approach is a luxury that is possible in such a tiny school; with a total of less than 20 children in two classes.

At pick up one afternoon that first week I also had a chat with the taxi driver on the school run and managed to allay my fears in that respect. While the children did normally travel with just lap belts (the top strap of the seatbelt placed behind them) it was totally fine if I wanted to send Jack with a car seat so that he could be strapped in correctly.

And even Arsey Lady managed to surprise me over the eye-poking incident. ‘Bah….war wounds,’ she shrugged….and, Good Lord!, was that the whisper of a smile I saw round the edges of her mouth? Maybe she wasn’t such a battleaxe after all.

But just as my hormonal systems lowered the alert from red to peaceful green all hell broke loose again. This time it was my friend who thought I was making such a big fuss about the car seat. Her and her husband’s beef started off over the location of the bus stop in the village and ended one morning in a stand-up row with another set of parents over which of their children got to sit in the front of the taxi. Seriously.

Turns out that one of the things they ought to warn you about when your child starts school is that any parent can turn bat-shit crazy as over-protective of their young as a jungle big cat at the least provocation. Oh, and if your child happens to be starting school in Spain, whatever you do don’t provoke a parent in the morning. Spanish parents, on the whole, do not appreciate an early start. (Even less than I do, it would appear.)

 

 

 

Reflections on New Year’s Day

It’s been a lovely Christmas holiday here in Asturias. The sun has shone and shone and we have climbed and climbed. Today is cooler and wet – a good day to catch up on a little writing and reflecting in front of the wood burner. As I type my body is aching from this unaccustomed barrage of consecutive climbing days. My head is aching a little too, but that’s a different story

Our friend David in mid-flight. Villa de Sub, December 23rd.

Santa Claus visited last week and scored top marks with his gift. The instructions to him had been nice and specific and easy to follow: ‘a Fireman Sam fire engine with lots of buttons and flashing lights and a nee-naw’. The house has echoed to wailing sirens ever since.

The jolly red fellow also delivered gifts from grandparents and relatives in the UK, including Jack’s first camera. He’s already building an impressive photography portfolio. Some of the photos are at rather an artistic angle and some of the close-up portraits of his parents are less than flattering, taken as they are from his viewpoint, looking up. Great for capturing double chins and nasal hairs. Luckily Mum gets veto over any publication.

The beach on Christmas Day, at a rather jaunty angle. Copyright Jack.

A cheeky self-portrait of the photographer

Now we just have to sit it out and wait for the Reyes Magos (the three Kings) who pay their visit on 6th January (the feast of the Epiphany.) Traditionally it is the Reyes who bring children their gifts in Spain and so it is that we find ourselves rather awkwardly caught between two Christmas cultures. I would have been tempted to traitorously ditch the Santa Claus tradition entirely in favour of the Reyes if it were not for their timing. Presents that arrive the day before the new school term starts can’t be played with in the Christmas holidays. And that would suck. For everybody. So Santa had to visit but so do the Reyes so that Jack isn’t the only child in the village to wake up to an empty stocking on the 6th. Because that would suck even more.

Jack delivers his letter to Prince Aliatar, the messenger to the Kings, at the school Christmas show. Note: I am not the only one confused by the surfeit of present-giving traditions, all the children were wearing Santa Claus hats!

Happy New Year everyone! May 2013 bring you all that you wish for (via whichever wish delivery system you choose to believe in )

And So the Season Turns

Autumn is slowly dwindling into winter here in Asturias. A last few stubborn leaves cling to branches but at the base of the trees their fallen brethren pile higher and higher. Where, a couple of weeks ago, my dog walks inspired me to stuff my pockets full of chestnuts, now they send me scurrying off for my wheelbarrow to collect this bounty of leaves for mulching.

I’m a great advocate of anything that’s natural, free and ultimately makes less work for me. Leaf mulch, nature’s own design for over-wintering trees, ticks all of these boxes. My much neglected fruit trees will this winter benefit from a leaf-mould compost feed that will at the same time be suppressing weed and grass growth around their bases.

The garden overall has been looking increasingly sad and bedraggled – enough to encourage me into some ruthless pruning and cutting back. As I’ve found my rhythm with the clippers I’ve enjoyed the process more and more and I’ve taken the opportunity to cast a critical eye around the beds and do a little planning.

And so it is that the onset of winter provides a necessary pause in the growing cycle. A beat in which to take a step back and look around. The growing season here is so long and so productive that most of the year it’s all I can do to just try and stay on top of things. It’s a battle to stop the grass (and weeds!) from growing to waist height as soon as I turn my back. There is no time for grander plans or designs.

Now I barrow the compost that I (or rather, time) has made from our kitchen and garden waste and cover large areas of ground to rest and recuperate, to imbibe nutrients ready for planting next year and to make it effortless to dig and prepare for fresh planting. Hard experience has taught me the importance of this. It has also taught me that no effort in the garden is ever wasted. A little work and forethought now will pay me back in spades in the future (pun intended ).

This is also a pleasant time for physical work in the garden. The cooler temperatures are great for days spent digging and hoeing and barrowing. As, yet again, I strip down to short sleeves I wonder how I ever got anything at all done in the heat of summer. Now that this year’s drought has finally ended it’s also easier to catch the soil at its most malleable – not so wet that it is clumpy and sticky but moist enough so that you can slide a spade into it and turn it over with ease.

With the cutting and pruning also comes the natural opportunity to propagate. Last winter was really the first time where I took several cuttings of various bushes and potted them up over winter. The results were amazing. A simple snip and a shove into a pot of compost and come spring and summer I had a load of new lavender, rosemary, succulents, rose and margarita bushes and many more gorgeous plants nicked from neighbours. Simply magical.

So this year I’m naturally keen to do the same – but more and better. I have a lot of ground to cover (both literally and figuratively) in the garden so I’ve taken a LOT of cuttings and been splitting a lot of plants. If they all take I should have a happy surplus on my hands – so lots of nice presents for friends. But we have a while to wait yet.

Last week was when winter started to really bite. The temperatures finally, and suddenly dipped sharply. We had 5 full days of rain, with one daylong electrical storm accompanied by hailstones. A week to spend indoors with the woodburner on. When last weekend came around and the rain finally stopped the clouds lifted to reveal this:

The view from our house to the Cordillera Cantábrica, south of Oviedo. Note: we’re at 450m (1500ft) above sea level but no snow here, not even so much as a hard frost. The beauty of living close to the sea in a mild, oceanic climate.

And so this weekend (a long, holiday weekend here in Spain) sees the timely opening of the ski stations. Winter is upon us.

Sky

A spectacular Spanish sunset. Valdehuesa, León

The photo I posted on Sunday prompted a flurry of cloud-related comments. The hypothesis was proposed, seconded and swiftly carried that Spanish skies are far more interesting than their English counterparts.

A quick glance out my window does nothing to dispel this notion. Right now, the sun is setting off to the west and the sky is stained a cinematic blood-red. In the early mornings we are often privy to a cloud inversion. To be above the clouds whilst still earth-bound is a heady sensation.

Even on more muted days, when atmospheric conditions conform to the norm, it seems the sky here cannot fully suppress its epic tendencies. Cloud formations sweep in from the sea and crash against the foothills of the mountains where they experiment with form and texture in the manner of a particularly daring avant-garde artist.

I love walking under large skies. I love watching ever-changing horizons. I love being caught up in the storm of imagination that crashing clouds can provoke. I love living where I do.

Having said all that, I don’t know for sure whether Spanish skies really are more epic than English ones. Maybe it’s just that our experience of the English sky is often limited to that drab sub-section that hangs over cities or our commute thereto. Maybe it’s just that we’re often too busy in our adult lives to even notice the sky above us. It can take a holiday, a new country, a change in the day-to-day to drop the blinkers from our eyes and yank our heads heavenwards.

Perhaps the best sky of all is always going to be the one you laid under as a child on a summer’s day. The one you gazed up at as you dreamily pictured your future spread before you as the cloths of heaven. Perhaps gazing up at the sky today, wherever we may be, is one way to drift deliciously back into that younger self, those former dreams.

What about you – what’s your patch of sky like? Do you get enough chance to gaze up at it and daydream? When did you last sit and watch the sun set?

Sport

I was never very sporty at school. Small and studious, it was clear from an early age that I was never going to make it to the Olympics. Although I did attend a Maths Olympiad in University College Dublin when I was 15. Not quite the same levels of excitement.

The first (and only) time I tried to throw a javelin, I clonked myself on the head with it. Funnily enough, they never let me try the shot putt. My memories of volleyball are of falling on my arse a lot. Being less than statuesque, basketball stardom also failed to beckon, although I do recall being praised for my passing. Sadly my quick-fire passes sprang more from a deep sense of ‘oh my god, get this thing away from me’ rather than from any technical skill or savvy game planning.

And so it was that I limped (mostly metaphorically, although I did once sprain my ankle in a tangle with a trampoline) through my Physical Education in school. My long-suffering P.E. teacher Miss Larkin never lost her enthusiasm, however. Which sometimes somehow just made it all seem worse. But sometimes her positivity was so powerful it even reached me.

Her advice to us all that having a sport that we played would serve us well in later life as a means of meeting people and making new friends, especially if we ever had to move somewhere new, really resonated with me. I guess I was always about the friends. You can keep your medals but I will work hard for a decent social life.

And so it ultimately proved to be. Despite failing to find my ‘thing’ all through school, in my early twenties I found climbing. Dragged unwillingly along to a climbing wall in north London by an enthusiastic boyfriend, to my great surprise I quickly found myself hooked.

Here was a sport that was social without being a team sport. (All that letting your teammates down and being last to be picked gets a bit tired.) Here was a sport where you could just compete against yourself. Getting to the top of routes that felt hard to me gave me real satisfaction, it didn’t matter that others around me were doing far harder stuff.

Best of all, here was a sport you got to practice in the most beautiful and fun of settings. Weekends away with friends started to be spent at the crags of the Peak and Lake Districts and on the sea-cliffs of Pembroke. Holidays were taken to relaxing sports climbing destinations like Mallorca and Kalymnos.

And slowly, without really noticing it, I started to get fitter and stronger and healthier. And, (dare I say it?), even somewhat sporty. Finally gaining confidence in one sport made me much more open and able to try others. Later I would also get hooked on surfing. Being motivated to perform well in climbing would make me turn to pilates and core-strengthening exercises as well as being more aware of my overall aerobic fitness.

Me, climbing at Gandia, Alicante on New Year’s Day 2011

Now, as an ex-pat in Spain I have really lived the truth of Miss Larkin’s words. The quickest and easiest friendships to form have been with other climbers. They are also the deepest. Climbers are the people we spend the most time with. The shared sporting passion unites where language and cultural barriers could divide.

The two photos that accompany this post neatly illustrate the impact of this sport in my life. We had travelled to Alicante in our new motorhome to spend the Christmas fortnight in sunny southern Spain. On 31/12/2010 we pulled up at the foot of Gandia crag at around 7pm. Packing a bottle of Cava and a seafood platter we were ready for an exciting New Year’s Eve spent in our camper with our 14 month old son.

Richie stepped out of the van to make a phone call, as reception was poor inside. At precisely this moment, some Galician climbers we had previously met in Fontainebleau happened to be descending from the crag after a day’s climbing. And that is how we ended up seeing in the New Year with them in their friend’s luxury villa outside Alicante.

New Year’s Eve amongst friends

Sport. It’s a wonderful thing.

This post is for the Olympics inspired ‘Sport’ theme on The Gallery. Click below to visit more Gallery posts.

Today in the Village

Today was a day like many others, lived to the rhythm of the village. Jack and I hit the garden early – we were out with wellies on and tools in hand by 9am. A good time to be digging before the full heat of the day beats us back indoors to the cool of our stone-built house.

The only down side to our (relatively) early rising is that none of the other children in the village are up and about yet, so there is no distraction on hand for Jack. While he loves to help (all the while telling me what a good helper he is) the joys of chasing round the garden with Alberto or Pelayo last somewhat longer than those of digging in the earth when Mummy’s attention is more firmly fixed on her ongoing war on weeds than it is on her darling boy.

Soon Alberto’s grandfather, Aurelio, appears. He takes his usual seat beside the hedgerow just outside our garden. This is the spot where most mornings and afternoons he sits to patiently sharpen his scythe before putting it to work in the fields. The tap, tap, tapping of the anvil on the blade beating out a gentle soundtrack to our days.

Aurelio takes us over to the barn to check in on the calf that was born last night. We were lucky enough to have seen it when it was only minutes old – pretty mindblowing stuff for a young child. Jack is delighted to see how sturdy and active it is already.

New-born calf with mum, just moments old

As the barn is directly underneath Alberto’s house our visit to the calf has the added bonus of alerting him to Jack’s presence and he soon descends with his ‘moto’ to commence the serious business of playing. The pair ride their motos round and round the garden performing stunt crashes while I weed furiously, making the most of the childcare assistance.

Beneath the squeals of children playing, the steady thrum of bees buzzing about their business often accompanies us around the village. Today it grows to a crescendo and the realisation dawns on me that one of the hives in the next field is swarming. I unfold myself from the flower bed and look on, agog; warily watching for where they might be headed.

The only other time I witnessed this phenomenon was four years ago when a hive swarmed onto our house. As we watched, horrified, the white walls of the third floor of the house turned black with clustering bees. I remember Aurelio stood next to us at the time, chuckling so hard that tears came. When, moments later, a second swarm came and did the same thing to his house he didn’t laugh quite so much!

Both swarms installed themselves in our respective attic spaces and despite callling the local bee expert he was unable to get them out and into a hive because of difficult access. They never gave us any trouble – the only way we knew they were still there was for the occasional, distant noise of formula 1 racing cars and the heavy, gorgeous scent of honey perfuming the air of our salon at certain times of the year. Then one year they picked up and moved on.

Still, you can understand why I was keen to see them safely re-homed somewhere suitable. The afore-mentioned bee-man had told us cautionary tales of bees taking up residence in much more problematic places than our loft space and I didn’t want to find them swarming in my kitchen this time!

Today they clustered around the trunk of a young tree in the field waiting to decide on a new hive. When swarming like this the bees are dopey and docile and non-aggressive. Still, I took this photo of them using a big lens so I didn’t have to get too close.

The swarm of bees clustered around a tree trunk

Alberto senior dashed off to get his bee-suit and a spare hive. Like some strange arch-bishop he swung his smoker, filled with wood-shavings, to entice them into the hive, placed at the bottom of the tree. Once the first few have entered, he leaves them to complete the house-move themselves in their own time.

Reinforcements arrive. Alberto dons his beekeeper suit.

The children are truly fascinated by both this spectacular display of nature in action and by Alberto’s cool armour-like suit. Once the excitement is over it’s time for their lunch and a much-needed siesta.

The road and fields are empty for a couple of hours, then post-merienda time (afternoon tea, about 5pm) the village stirs again. The children take to the street with their bikes and trucks and toys and the adults return to their outdoor tasks with them.

The cool of the early evening is filled with play and pottering in the garden. Watering with hose and can is a favourite all-family activity. After which, it’s time to water and feed the family again as the day draws to a close.

I’m linking this post up to ‘Country Kids’ over at Coombe Mill. Click the badge below to read about some more outdoors family adventures.

Mother’s Day

My mother died when I was eight years old. For many years after, Mother’s Day was just a cruel and painful reminder of what I had lost and of how I was different from my friends at school. In later years the date just failed to register at all with me. Now I have a son of my own and Mother’s Day has come back into my life – and I feel closer to my own mother than ever before.

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day in the UK and Ireland and the lovely Bibsey Mama has tagged me in this Mother’s Day meme. (Poor woman had no idea what a can of worms she was opening!)

Describe Motherhood in three words

Fulfilling, overwhelming, joyful.

Does your experience differ from your Mother’s – how?

Our experiences are surprisingly similar in many ways and in others almost completely opposite. We both took our time settling down, both waiting until into our thirties. My mum had her first child at 35 and me, her third, at 42. I had my son at 38.

My mother was an ex-pat too – from Ireland and living in the UK, in Gloucestershire. Raising her three daughters bi-culturally was a big deal for her. One of my earliest memories is my mum teaching me how to say dolly in Irish. After she died we moved back to Ireland and I later became captain of the school Irish debating team – she would have been proud.

Now I fully understand what a strange feeling it is to watch your children growing up with a different accent/language, culture and background from you. You wonder if they’ll somehow leave you behind and forget about you or where they came from back down the line. You wonder if in time you and your ways will seem alien to them. You wonder if they’ll somehow judge you and your differences as they become more and more absorbed into a culture, which however well you manage to integrate yourself into will always, ultimately be foreign to you.

My parents ex-pattery was different from ours, however. They were in the UK to work and raise their standard of living. My father built up a successful business and worked hard with long hours. We, by contrast, came here to downsize – to work less, earn less but have more time, to return to a simpler way of life. It’s as if I’m retracing their footsteps backwards in time.

What’s the hardest thing about being a mum?

The gnawing fear that you might just be making a terrible job of it! That and the incessant nature of it – the lack of time and breathing space can push you to the edge sometimes.

What’s the best thing?
Watching my little boy’s personality develop and shine and seeing him develop into a happy and confident boy. I am a far from perfect mother but I know that he knows he is 100% loved and I know how long and how far that simple knowledge from early childhood can sustain you.

Well, that, and cuddles and tickles together which just me smile more broadly than I ever have.

How has it changed you?

Radically. It’s softened me and opened me up. It’s made me more focussed and more motivated – I truly want to be the best I can be for the sake of my little boy. I’m not saying I’m getting anywhere close but at least I’m trying and that in itself makes me happier! But that’s the biggest change overall – I’m simply happier.

What do you hope for your children?

That he be happy and confident. With that he will be equipped to make what he wants of his life.

What do you fear for them?

The usual unspoken fears that place a cold claw around the base of your spine if you dare even contemplate them. But you know what? I don’t even want to give them space in here.

What makes it all worthwhile?
The fact that it’s simply the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I think I’m a bit late to be tagging anyone else so instead I’ll just say Happy Mother’s Day one and all – and especially to all those who have lost their mothers. They may be gone but they’ll never be forgotten.

Fame At Last?

I got a call from a tv producer today. No, really. Ok, it was only from our local tv station, TPA (Televisión del Principado de Asturias) but nonetheless. (Just to put things into perspective one of their ‘programmes’ is actually an hour-long feed of live web-cam images from the beach. Not that they’re desperate to fill airtime or anything.)

This related to an actual bona-fide programme in production however. And, no, before you say it, it’s not for an Asturian version of ‘How Clean is Your House?’ The show is called ‘Objetivo Asturias’ and it’s actually an Asturian version of a national show called ‘Destino Espana’. So that clears that up then.

For those of you unfamiliar with the output of Spanish tv (you lucky people) it’s a programme that shows Spain through the eyes of foreigners who live there, with Bolivians bigging up Barcelona, Ecuadoreans eulogizing Extremadura and so on. This was to be our chance to celebrate Cabranes, the beautiful concejo where we live, nestled between the mountains and the sea.

Naturally the mayor, el alcalde, is particularly keen on this programme being made and it was he who put the TPA in touch with us. We have form, you see. Over 5 years ago, newly-arrived in Asturias we were interviewed for both the TPA and La Nueva Espana daily newspaper.The hook then was two young(ish) foreigners moving into the back of beyond in a tiny concejo with the oldest demographic of all Spain and suffering from rampant de-population. Oh, and the local council’s new broadband scheme that enabled us to work from home here, in this unlikeliest of ‘connected’ places.

The piece in the paper was particularly lovely – a full page spread headlining us as ‘cabraneses’ or natives to the area. It ended with a sweet paragraph full of journalistic cliche hoping that we might bring ‘the greatest gift of all to the concejo – the gift of life.’(!) Which, sure enough, not wishing to disappoint, three years later we did. (I do wonder sometimes if I’m just too eager to please.)

So you see, normally I’m the kind of gal who likes to say yes but in what is surely just a sign of creeping middle-age,  for once I’d like to look before I leap and to actually ask the question, what’s in it for me?

Would we earn el alcalde’s undying gratitude? And if so, would we have some leverage to get the licence through that we’ve been awaiting from the town hall for nearly two years? (This despite the town architect telling me at the time of application that it was ‘nothing’ and would be dealt with in a jiffy. Ha.)

Maybe I could get the tv crew to follow me to the town hall in Villaviciosa while I complain about the latest completely unjustified ticket I’ve been sent by the Guardia Civil. (They’re on a campaign to single-handedly resolve the Spanish national debt. Starting by bankrupting me.) Perhaps that might persuade them to waive the fine? (Double ha ha.)

Back in the real world, what I do know is that I’d get super-stressed and caught up in it all and leave all the important things on my to-do list to fester for even longer than they already have. I’m afraid crossing things off rather than adding new stuff has to be my priority right now. I need to get tough, like a night-club bouncer. If you’re not on the list, you’re not getting in.

Of course, I can’t help but fantasize a little about how my 15 minutes of fame would be and I’ve been running through in my head exactly where I’d take ‘my’ film crew and what I’d say to them.

I could certainly ramble on at length about the many natural beauties of Cabranes and accompany them through the woods on a trek, perhaps on horseback with my friend and neighbour Luis and his horses, giving his awesome adventure activity business a plug.

Rayo, one of Luis' beautiful Asturian horses

I would show them the magnificent vistas of the Picos de Europa mountains to the east and of the sea to the north. I would introduce them to my wonderful neighbours who have made us feel so at home here. (Could be risky. Modesta is 90 and has rarely left the village. She’s never seen a plane or been on a train. Imagine the impact of having a tv crew in her house?! Maybe not such a good idea.)

View to the Picos de Europa. Not too shabby, eh?

Then I guess I’d also have to bring them to some of the local hostelries. Now, here’s where it could get tricky. I could take them to the 4 star hotel at Torazo, just up the road from home, where we occasionally go for a glass of wine on the verandah taking in the sunset over the Picos, or for fine dining on a special occasion. I’m sure they’d be very keen on being featured. (Hmmm, do I sense a free meal or Spa passes?)

Then there are the bars in Santolaya. Casa J, where we sometimes go to meet our friends after work early on a Friday evening would have to be first on the list. Here Jack plays football with the barowners’ daughter and the owner herself is not above lying on the floor beside him, kicking her legs in the air, if he has a tantrum. You’ve gotta love Spanish bars and the degree to which they are genuinely family-friendly.

Admittedly it’s maybe not the most telegenic of places. When we arrived 6 years ago it looked like it hadn’t been re-decorated in at least 10 years. And nothing’s changed in the subsequent six years. The neon strip lighting doesn’t do a lot for one’s complexion either (mind you, nor does a couple of glasses of rioja….)

Problem is, there are three other bars in the village (note: village population is 80!) How could we film in just one? Take the bar next door to Casa J. I’ve only just got over my fear of the somewhat surly owner, having decided that she’s probably just a bit shy. Also in her defence, strangling words with a strong foreign accent generally guarantees you’ll receive a pained squint in return from just about anyone.

Anyway, I don’t want to set our relationship back again. It was only really once I got pregnant shortly after her that she really thawed out with me. The lengths some people will go to just to elicit a smile and some friendly conversation from people they barely know. (Too eager? Note to self: a couple of glasses of wine is a far easier and less expensive way of oiling the wheels of social contact.)

And then there’s the corner bar where we sometimes go of a summer evening to sit in the garden and drink a cold cerveza while Jack plays on the swing set. We couldn’t leave them out. Or La L. – we haven’t been in there since the lunch we had some years ago when the owner spent forty minutes regaling us with her theories on alien abduction but, hey, that’s no reason to exclude them from the programme.

Aaaagh. You see, this is precisely what I’m talking about – the problem with being the kind of person who can’t say no. I have no filter. No stopping point. So I’d best not get started. Thank you very much TPA, but no thanks.

On Being Good

Another fab day climbing. The January sun shone and we were climbing in our t-shirts, despite being at 700metres with snow on the mountaintops close around us.

Alberto climbing Dueto Calavera 7b, Pelugano, Asturias

Jack was in nursery and Richie and I were climbing together with Alberto. I worried Alberto might not be getting enough done, climbing in a three. I needn’t have though, turns out that after a full day’s climbing at the crag he was heading to the ‘tablon’ (bouldering gym) to train!

This reminded me, yet again (climbing’s a great sport for this), that people who are good at something don’t get to be so and to stay so by accident. It takes work, ongoing work, which takes motivation.

Alberto's tablon. No local climbing gym? Get together with some friends, rent an apartment, gut it and build your own wall. Now that's motivation!

Top climbers don’t find it all easy, even though it might seem that way when you read of their exploits in magazines. On the contrary, top climbers are the ones who try really, really hard. On every route or boulder problem, on every day of training. They’re the ones who aren’t defeated by failure but tie back into the rope and step back onto the rock for another try until eventually they top out victorious. And so it is with any sport or indeed any walk of life.

So the next time I reach an impasse, be it on the rock or not, I’m going to take it simply as a challenge to work out the next move and to train a little harder to get the necessary power.

The Things Kids Say (And Husbands Don’t)

So, it’s Sunday morning and owing to a (yet to be proved right) rubbish weather forecast we are actually heading down to town from our hill-top hovel rustic cottage rather than out to the mountains for our usual weekend climbing.

In honour of the occasion (and just in case I bump into anyone I know) I decided that a bit of spit and polish was in order. The Spanish are very big on appearance and cleanliness. You will even see young children in play parks wearing things like impossibly clean light-coloured woollen suits with smart leather boots and perfectly coiffed hair. (This is a country where the hospital midwives take your newborn infant for his first bath and return him reeking of the baby cologne that now slicks his sparse hairs into place.)

I, by contrast, spend my life in either ragged, chalk-covered climbing clothes or tatty, muddy gardening gear. My son is dressed almost exclusively in hand-me-downs from English friends – all great gear, but decidedly more casual than that which Spanish children would wear on a Sunday outing. And likely to be accesorized with dried-on food stains/mud and odd socks. I confess, I am a slack mummy. You get the picture.

That’s a combination of climbing chalk and good old-fashioned dirt he’s sporting

Back to today. I conscientiously selected a matching outfit and shoes for the little prince and combed his hair neatly. I excitedly donned my favourite jeans and black sweetheart neckline top with a smart new brown cardigan that I bought in the sales this week (my clothes shopping excursions average about once a year so don’t underestimate my excitement at this.) I even accesorized the outfit with a lovely brown craft necklace that my friend gave me for my birthday in June, that I had yet to wear. So yes, I felt pretty good walking down the stairs to head out into town.

On seeing me my 2 year old virtually did a double-take. ‘Mummy bootiful. Smart,’ he said approvingly. Which, of course, melted my heart and confirmed to me the boy’s genius (natch). Did also tell me something about my normal levels of presentation but for now we’ll gloss over that.

I was quite excited to see the effect that ‘smart’ me would have on my beloved husband but, I think you already know where I’m going with this, he didn’t notice a thing. I mean, come on, if a two year old can notice I’ve made an effort?!

Or maybe I’ve just trained him too well to rise above the superficial valuing of a woman on her appearance? Sure, it must be that…..right?