From letches to leeches

In which I spend a week in Mallorca and spend quite a bit of time up a ladder

I had promised my daughter a trip ito Spain with her friend Laura, so we booked a few days (starting just before half term to save on air fares) to visit my mother in Mallorca.

She lives in a lovely old casa - but it is fairly primitive. No mains water (a well) and no mains sewerage (pose negro - the cess pit lies under the house) but nonetheless it is a lovely place. In the small village of Genova, in the hills above Palma, the house is a white-fronted single-storey building stuffed full of my step-father's collections - books, books and more books (plus some armour, a few old weapons and some weird and wonderful pictures and carvings).

We flew out late on a Wednesday night. The flight was fine - though Mel (nervous of flying) wasn't sitting next to me. I sat next to an artist and his wife. He showed me (briefly, we didn't really chat till near the end of the flight) some of his work. Modern, but I liked it! Check him out, I had a nice talk with him and his wife. They come from Bogotá, Colombia. I knew they were speaking Spanish, but it was very different sounding.

We arrived early Thursday morning and once the taxi had taken us to the casa, it was a case of heads down. The taxi driver told me there had been awful rains during the day (which Sally confirmed), but we were in Spain!! No fair - an English summer of rain and now...

The Thursday morning, however, the sun shone brightly, and did so all the way up until the final Wednesday. I even caught some sun! That's good for me, I don't usually do anything except go pink and peel or just stay plain white. As it is, I'm a darker shade of pasty than usual.

Thursday we did very little, spent time on the beach and just relaxed. The locals were worried that Laura and Mel would be 'frigio' in their shorts and skimpy tops, but no - this was warm for us! Mind you, their long legs nearly caused a few accidents as young men driving by looked at them instead of the stationery traffic ahead of them.

We travelled by bus, using the 'bono bus' discount cards. One trip was on a 'bendy bus' and we stood in the bend - a bit like the inside of an accordion I reckon. Though we spent a lot of time at the beach, I also helped out with some chores at the casa. I trimmed the palm tree, which means ascending via a ladder and then using shears to cut down the brown leaves and pull down the dead husks - and every one was full of that gritty black dirt that remains once the seeds or fruits (not sure what kind of palm it is) are dead and decayed. The smaller of the two palms was easer (and a variety of date, I'm sure), but even so I was showered in gritty black dust. I wore sunglasses and a hat as protection, but that didn't keep it out of my clothing (all the way down to my underwear!).

One day we went to Marineland down the coast a bit. We watched parrots do the things that parrots do not do, and seals do the things seals do not do, and dolphins do the things that dolphins do not do - in the wild. Is it right? To train these creatures, even though they are in captivity, to perform for us? I don't know. I know the centre does great rescue work on turtles and other marine life, but... it didn't sit right with me. I would not applaud the performance of a parrot 'dancing'. I saw it's clipped wings, it's eagerness to receive the food titbit as reward for its bizarre behaviour.


One day I took the girls into Palma to go shopping - yes! Watch out girls about! But, the Palma fashions were not to their taste (funnily enough it looked a bit English Country Aristocracy!) and 'It's cheaper in Primark' was the trademark comment. But we did find Alex a great jumper, and in a subsequent trip to Porto Pi (the nearest 'mall' equivalent) we did find them two nice jumpers too. Mind you, Laura left hers at the doughnut stand. We returned to Porto Pi though, and the girl on the doughnut stand produced Laura's bag and her jumper so it was worth the return trip.

We never drink the water from the taps at the casa because it comes from the well, then into a tank, then down ancient pipes into the house. "There's black bits in the water" Sally said. "Run the tap first for a bit." I ran the tap and the black bits 'wiggled'. There were leeches in the well! Only tiny ones, but even so. I went down to the shop and talked to the proprietor, Carmen. "Aminales en mi agua" I explained, and was understood. She produced a yellow bottle of stuff to throw down the well, showed me how much we needed to use.

So, well disinfected, I then had to climb on the roof and clean out the main water tank - no leeches actually in the tank, and hopefully no more now we'd put the stuff down the well. I didn't mention it to the girls.


I also painted the front lintel of the casa - back up the ladder again! 12 or 15 feet up, I was very careful to ensure the ladder was well seated, that I had a proper hook for the paint so I was stable and safe. I fixed the gutter too and trimmed the bougainvilla. I enjoyed it! Actually, it was more fun that lying on the beach, but the beach time was what the girls wanted. They did paint the well though. And the beach time did give me time to write - every day I did a 'diary' (far too long for the blog) so I have a record of the week.

We ate at Can Pedro's, a nice restaurant with traditional Mallorcan food. The first night we ate at Pedro I and the waiter added an extra drink and a non-existent dish to our bill which I challenged! Immediately rectified (and not reassuring at all, this had always been such a good restaurant). The second time we at at Pedro II (a second restaurant in the same time with the same owner) and this was much better. The girls looked great and turned heads yet again. Only 13 and looking (according to a 30 year old chap on the beach) "21, like Cameron Diaz". Very flattering, but maybe just a little scary too. The girls don't realise just how adult they look, how they may be mistaken for older girlst. I worry, but what can you do? Just watch, warn, and hope.

So, by the end of the week I had a tan, an understanding of how to kill well leeches, a paint-covered tee shirt and a throbbing finger where it was stabbed by the prickle from a palm leaf. The flight back was easy, the three of us sitting together this time. The man in the seats (he was alone in the row) had his headphones on and the 'chingkachingka' sound was starting to drive me crazy, but we got home in good time.

The jasmine smelled good at the casa, the sun was warm, and the sea (though I did not go in) a welcome sound. It was good to see my mother, to watch the girls playing bat and ball on the beach and to practice my awful Spanish, but it was good to get home - to Bryan, Alex, and hot and cold running (leech-free) water.

Lunch is served!

We meet Stewkey, the singing greyhound

Our friends Sam and Charlie (the former is female) invited us round for a roast lamb lunch. Sounded good, though Bryan insisted on salad (and his diet is going very well thank you) with his. Though a little crowded round the table, their two dogs - Ted the Terrier and Stewkey the Greyhound - sat patiently on the sofa behind us as we ate. Stewkey could smell the meat and his jowels quivered at the succulent aroma.

We were served wine with a strawberry in each glass (class or what!) and enjoyed a meal with good chat, good company and good food. Stewkey and Ted are a matching pair - how can a greyhound and something a litle like a Jack Russell be a pair? Their coats are the same, white with mottled brown and black. So one looks like a 'mini-me' of the other. But Stewkey regaled us with a hitherto unknown talent - he could sing!

"Come on Stewkey" said Sam, and he sang. He put his slender snout into the air and howled most musically. Ted, on the other hand, could do nothing but yap - a poor comparison.

After lunch we were given a demonstration of the Wii - an electronic gaming console that was quite fun. Bryan tried tennis and golf and I tried the boxing game. It didn't react fast enough for me (I guess all that karate has given me a decent speed punch) but it was fun. Dominic, their hyperactive son, was of course the expert.

Return to Rougham

In which I meet a man with a horse and play with my husband

Previous posts describe some of my past gigs at Rougham airfield - that little patch of England that is fighting off the compulsory purchase orders from the Council through the relentless efforts of the land-owner.

By running public events on the airfield, which was one of the many small airfields used by US troops during World War II, the Council can not purchase the land and build houses all over it. It would be a shame to lose this small airfield, and the events that it plays host to are many and varied. I have stood on that field and watched WWII planes fly over the heads of medieval knights doing battle.

We have played to pirates and knights, strippers and goats ... so a return to Rougham would, of course, provide fodder for my blog.

The gig was, as per usual, to entertain the stall holders and entertainers from the day. This event was 'Ploughs to Propellers' so the day had included airplanes, model airplanes and - of course - the medieveal re-enactment group, Swords of Chivalry. This was also the first gig that Bryan and I had played together for months and months. Now we play in our own separate bands, we very rarely play together. So - were we well rehearsed? Goodness no! We didn't need it - Penni and Bryan play together often enough and Baz and I just do our thing behind them. Ah - musically that is!

Bryan and I drove onto the airfield in the dark and we could see the shadow of tanks (yes, tanks - which are niether ploughs nor propellors, but then again nor are medieval knights). We arrived at the tent and set up on the small stage, Baz on drums in the middle, me on Baz's left, Bryan far right and Penni sort of in the middle.

The bar in the tent had real ale and ... delight! ... real cider. Only the one and at 7% it was powerful stuff, but tasty (not too bitter like some high alcohol content ciders). Once we had set up we started to play - our usual mix of folk and Penni's own material. I played my wonderful stand up bass all evening and had a terrific time. Playing, singing backing vocals, sparking off Baz and Bryan we we picked different rhythms and accents - as naturally as if we had been well rehearsed. The audience (which were on side) had a ball too.

We played from 8 till about 11 but didn't have time to eat. Some kind soul brought us a plate with two sausage rolls, four jam tarts and about six fruit scones. Alys (Penni's daughter) took one sausage roll to Bryan, whilst I scoffed some scones (did Penni eat any? No idea). The second sausage roll was consumed by Baz - by playing the bass percussively with one hand I managed to feed him the sausage roll with the other - so neither of us stopped playing whilst we ate. Live on stage! Feed the drummer...

Tall Tom (I guess he's about six foot six) was wearing a long black 'Sherlock Holmes' type coat, black leather trousers and a black teeshirt with little silver wings printed on the back. He is a good looking fella (and knows it) but always a laugh. He's one of the knights, and alon with the others they are people I have got to know over the last couple of years. It's a bit different since Penni left her partner who is one of the group, but all friendly.

In one of our brief intervals Tall Tom and I switched coats - my long leather coat looked too good on him, and I looked like a waif in his (it weighed a ton too). In our first interval a good Suffolk chap came and said he liked our 'pop music' though it wasn't usually his thing. He told me he had brought his shire horse for the ploughing, with his home-made harrow that he'd fashioned from chains. His shire horse is black with three white legs. He'd bought him to ride originally. I tried to imagine this portly, flat-capped man on the horse. He was wearing an old coat, a dirty jumper and I notied his nails were short and his hands blackened through work (probably handling the acoutrements that go with ploughing I guess). He talked in a broad Suffolk accent and obviously loved his horse, describing the old boy's excitement (the horse is 25) at the event.

Old Tom (as opposed to Tall Tom) is another Suffolk lad and a regular at the events, marshalling. He's very shy, very quiet, but a lovely man. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek which I took as a great compliment. The last time I saw him Penni told me that I was honoured that he talked to me - he's that shy and reticent.

The landowner and host of the event (John) was there too - it was good to see him again. I'd missed visiting the shows this summer (though every event up till then had been rained upon heavily) and consequently missed the medieval crew, John and the general madness that these events engender.

Not quite as crazy as some events we've played at - but I did wonder why those dressed as SS Officers and German Tank Crew had not changed out of their costumes, and why one woman was dressed as a cowgirl (including six shooter at her hip).

The best bit was the playing (though the cider was good - did I mention the cider?!) - the natural ease with which we play together is so enjoyable. I love playing with Baz, and such a nice change to play with Bryan (and Penni) too. I enjoyed my return to Rougham. Would be good to play there again next year.

A visit to the Clothmakers

In which I meet a man without a finger and am gifted a teasel

I joined the 'Telegraph Business Club' - a simple on-line business networking group. One day they sent me an invitation to a seminar on 'building your brand' and I thought, hey - that sounds good. So I booked.

It started at 8.15 am in London at the Clothmakers Hall, and that meant a 5.30am rise for me. Ohhh... I don't do 'early' (or 'late') that well. But hey ho, I caught the 6.23 train to Kings Cross and made it to Aldwych in good time. The London rush hour - what fun!

A bit of early networking was engaged upon, but what interested me was the building. The Clothworkers Hall... this was the 6th one! Due to many a disaster (the last being the 2nd world war) the buildings had been demolished or changed until here we stood in building number six. The place looked authentic - lots of wood panelling, a wonderful plaster ceiling, and some interesting historical momentoes in glass cases in the atrium. I saw the melted remains of a champagne bottle from the 5th hall, bombed in the 1940s, and an indenture form from the 18th Century of some young man apprenticed to the trade. The old guilds survive, in their fashion, and its always an interesting slice of history when we get to visit such places.

The seminar itself was great, the speaker from a major computing company the most interesting in my opinion. One part of the seminar was a case study, and as a table we discussed options on how to promote a web business. The opinion on the table was that the proposition wasn't really a flyer, but we still had some good ideas to share. Each table (about 15, plus chairs at the back - a packed house) had a spokesman to deliver their prognosis: ours was a young man called Damien, an Australian. I noticed, as he talked, that he only had three fingers on his left hand. I wondered what story lay behind that.

On the way out (having eaten lunch and done some appropriate networking), I stopped and said to the concierge how I had enjoyed visiting the hall. He handed me a teasel head - the prickly seed head of a common british weed I suppose. But in the display cabinets I had seen the teasels bound together to form a brush, an original way of 'teasing' the cloth to give it 'fluff'. I don't know the technicalities - but now I have my own teasel head to remember this visit by.