ONE - PHANTOM SHEEP

A door slams shut. Someone's clomping about downstairs. There's an intruder in the house and a damned noisy one at that. I sit frozen in my seat, momentarily distracted by the raucous croaking of the frogs in the pond beneath my window. Give it a rest, boys, this is no laughing matter. There's a sudden crash, and the sound of tinkling glass. Something dull and heavy, perhaps a wooden chair, keels over with a muffled thud. That's it. My blood's up as I hurtle barefoot out of my office eyrie with heart in mouth and pen in hand, ready to face my foe. So much for the amateur heroics, but what exactly have I in mind? Some twisted logic about the pen being mightier than the sword? Hotly, I descend the stairs, the marble reassuringly cool beneath my feet. A deep groaning rends the air and I stop dead in my tracks.

There in the middle of the entrada is my adversary. It's observing me dispassionately with glazed eyes, jaws caught in a sideways motion as if chewing thoughtfully on gum. I slowly level with it. There are no horns in evidence, nor a flicker of intellect for that matter, so I rightly surmise I'm dealing with a cloven-footed dumb blonde. I'm very cross.

'What on earth do you think you're doing in here?'

She averts her gaze a tad sheepishly, fleetingly surveying the damage strewn around the large sunlit hallway. A spat with an incensed Sumo wrestler might have created less havoc. Lying drunkenly on its side is a kitchen chair, its buttermilk cushion trampled and caked in mud. Spiky shards of sun-seared glass from what was once a chunky rectangular vase adorning a coffee table glint on the cream marble tiles. Toppled oak logs, until now piled neatly at the side of the grizzled old stone fireplace, have rolled under a bench, some even venturing boldly as far as the French doors. Earthy hoof marks have smeared the glass panes of the windows and clots of dry mud collect around the front doorway.

'Well?' I say, tapping my foot impatiently.

No reply. If there's one thing I've learned since living in rural Mallorca, it's that sheep really are obtuse. Try and communicate with one of these bundles of bouclé and you hit a stone wall. Amphibians are different. For the last few years, I have spent many a happy moment conferring with an ungainly toad and a chorus of musical frogs in my pond, so much so that I've come to miss them in the winter when they've gone. Of course some might balk at the idea of talking amphibians but, trust me, with a little imagination anything is possible.

The sheep now gives a little shake of her ears and clops clumsily backwards, tottering like an old girl in oversized, high-heeled shoes. Her bedraggled Rasta locks hang limply over a huge girth, the dingy white wool matted and streaked with dirt. I tut loudly to which she responds with a low rumbling expletive of an ovine kind. The wide entrada gives on to the kitchen where, beyond cool terracotta tiles, the back door beckons. It's flung wide open. Gracelessly, she makes a bolt for it and careers off in the direction of the swimming pool. I pad out onto the patio under the piercing scrutiny of the sun just in time to see my bulky intruder do a quick gambol around the terrace before scrambling down a stony bank into the orchard.

The Tramuntana mountain range which coils around our golden valley like a craggy grey lizard, dotted with clumps of dark pines and silver green olive trees, is pasted high in a dazzling cerulean sky. I place a hand over my eyes and watch as an eagle catches the wind and glides majestically over the terraces that lead up behind the finca, our old stone house. This is a not a day to be huddled over the computer in my office lair writing bits and pieces to earn a crust, but when, quite honestly, is it? Reluctantly, I slip back upstairs to my desk while trying not to focus on the mess below or the rampant sheep which is no doubt doing lumpy cart wheels across the field and baa-ing, 'You can't catch me!' to the breeze.

This is the second sheep incident this week and the novelty's wearing a little thin. A few days before, I returned from a brief sojourn in London together with Alan, my trusty Scot, and our son, Ollie, only to find the porch and terraces surrounding the finca covered in dung. On examining the sizeable droppings, Ollie and I hastily conjectured that this might be the trail left by some terrifying, new super-sized rodent, the likes of which had never been seen in the valley before. That was until Alan peered closer and with a dismissive shake of the head, told us they were no more than sheep offerings. We were mystified as to how any livestock had been able to enter our closed land. True, we hadn't yet got round to protecting our entire terrain with sturdy stone walls, but we had invested in several bails of cheap meshed wire from the local ironmonger's which we had wound like an untidy bandage around the exposed areas to keep out unwanted dogs and, up until now, sheep. After a quick search of the gardens we heard a loud baa-ing coming from the courtyard and raced up in time to see a woolly brown rump disappearing fast down the track. We decided that in all likelihood the fugitive belonged to our neighbour, Rafael, and that it had by now found its way back to the flock. How one of his cerebrally challenged ewes had found the temerity to trot the length of the communal track on her own, let alone break into our courtyard was a miracle in itself, but now it seemed she had an accomplice in crime, one bold enough to barge into the finca itself. There was nothing for it. We would have to take up the cudgel with Rafael tonight before his flock got out of hand. First, though, was the small matter of locating the whereabouts of our latest intruder, ewe number two.

Sitting at my computer, I aimlessly scan the various emails that have popped up on my screen. All of them can wait. Rather more pressingly I have an unfinished article for a magazine which has to be submitted in the morning. I glance at my watch face and realise that Alan will soon be back, having left earlier to collect Ollie from school in Palma. I can't face clearing up the clutter downstairs and besides, it seems only right to leave the evidence undisturbed for the Scotsman's return. There's a knocking on the front door. Oh, now what? Will I ever get any peace?

A small lined face is peering sightlessly through the wide glass panes of the front door. My heart softens. It's Margalida Sampol, my elderly widowed neighbour who lives at the bottom of the track. Grasping her wooden stick with her left hand, she stands patiently on the porch until I arrive to usher her inside.

'Well, well,' she sighs, speaking rapidly in Mallorcan, 'it's getting hotter, but, you know, the rains are coming. I feel it in the air.'

She pauses to mop her brow with a handkerchief while I dissect what she's just said. Slowly, with Margalida's help, I am beginning to understand the local Mallorcan dialect of Catalan, but still have to resort to Castilian Spanish for my responses. From the first day I met Margalida she explained that, with age, she found it increasingly difficult to remember Castilian vocabulary so we agreed to speak a hotchpotch of the two languages. She is hugely patient when I fail to understand what she is saying and will gesticulate and point to objects until the penny drops. Margalida is staring up at the sky. 'Sembla que vol pleure.'

It looks like rain, she is muttering. I dread Margalida's weather predictions because they have a relentless accuracy. I lean forward and give her a peck on both cheeks. I notice that her downy white hair has been teased into small lacquered waves that bob across her scalp.

'Can I get you an orange juice?'

She squints at me with some distaste. 'Pah! You have terrible oranges. Safer to drink vinagre.'

Since moving to this tranquil enclave of Sóller in the mountainous north west of Mallorca, we have grown resigned to Margalida's insistence that our annual crop of oranges is an abomination to the taste buds. Why she is so vehement on this point without so much as sniffing the skin of one of our citrus orbs, I will never know. With my help, she hobbles over to the kitchen table, seemingly oblivious to the obstacles overturned on the floor, and helps herself to a sturdy oak chair.

'There's a new postman,' she suddenly announces.

This will no doubt constitute hot news in the valley. Until now, Josep, the postman, has never made it as far as our finca, preferring instead to dump our mail at the town post office for collection whenever we happen to be passing by. Margalida fares better because her chalet is at the mouth of the track, and does not require the tiresome, lengthy walk needed to reach our terrain.

'Good. Maybe the new one will make the effort to deliver our letters to us.'

She shakes her head in the negative. 'I don't think so. He's not a local and he has long hair.'

I dissect this information carefully. 'Have you met him?'

'Segur. He's given me your post this morning. That's why I'm here.'

She delves into the pocket of her vast floral overall and slaps a handful of dog-eared envelopes on the table. I've often pondered the allure of the garish polyester overalls adopted by many elderly Mallorcan women. Even in sizzling heat, these voluminous, smock-like creations are unleashed, worn either over blouses and skirts or as a stand alone fashion statement, often accompanied by pop socks the colour of workmen's tea and woolly slippers. I fan through the pile, clocking that it's mostly bills and unsolicited marketing bumph. It irritates me that junk mail has insidiously found its way to the mountains.

'I thought it was a woman at first,' Margalida is muttering. 'I called him senyora, and he laughed and said his name was Jorge.'

Given her atrocious eyesight, I'm hardly surprised at this reported exchange.

'Why didn't he bring us the mail himself instead of making you walk all the way up here?'

She gives a scratchy little cough starting her explanation with pues, a handy Mallorcan expression, meaning 'well'. 'Pues, he was thinking about it, but I told him that Josep never bothered and always left your mail at the post office. He liked that idea. Anyway, I needed the walk so I offered to take it today.'

I sigh. That will no doubt have put the kibosh on any future postal deliveries to the house.

'Jorge says he's from Argentina.'

'Really?' I prompt, in hopeful anticipation of further revelations about our new postman. Absurdly, I find myself wondering whether he's any good at catching sheep. Margalida doesn't respond because, as is habitual these days, she has glided effortlessly to another plane. Her eyes, caught in a new, angelic dimension, are still and glassy and her breathing slow and ponderous. I wait a few moments and then give a polite cough. Rudely transported back to the present, she begins fiddling with the crumpled hankie on her lap and with small, quivering fingers reaches for the gilt crucifix that hangs about her neck. 'I think the rain will come from the east.'

She rises slowly, steadying herself on her stick and for a brief moment peers round the kitchen and entrada. In some confusion, she fumbles about in her pocket and, unearthing some heavy-framed spectacles, settles them on the bridge of her petite nose and scans the room once more. Then she frowns and turns to face me.

'Dios mios! What's happened in here?'

Supporting her right arm, I guide her gently to the front door and try to sound nonchalant. 'A stray sheep came in and ran amok.'

'If you fenced them in, this wouldn't happen.'

'But we don't have any. It isn't our sheep.'

She sniffs and grips the front door frame. 'Then it must belong to young Rafael. His sheep and hens are always running wild. I shall have a word.'

I'm not sure if this is the way forward. Rafael, owner of the town's main cake shop, gets impatient with Margalida, whom he regards as a rather bothersome grandmother. He now occupies the family finca in which he was born and has therefore known Margalida and her extended family since he was a child. They are usually on cordial terms, but occasionally the sparks fly when historical inter-family squabbles are resurrected.

'Don't worry, Margalida, I'll go and talk to Rafael.'

She hunches her shoulders. 'Better to get the senyor to speak with him.'

Old macho habits die hard in Spain. To Margalida's generation, it wouldn't be appropriate for a woman of my age group, and a foreigner to boot, to question a male neighbour about his tearaway sheep. This is a job for the man of the house.

'No problema,' I hear myself say, using that all-weather refrain beloved of Mallorcans. I walk with Margalida across the gravelly courtyard, feeling the hot sun on my neck. As we reach the makeshift wooden gate, she pauses to release my arm.

'I can walk back by myself. You go and tidy up before the Senyor gets home.'

No way José, but I'm not going to share such a bolshie sentiment with my elderly neighbour. She places her small and delicate hand on mine. Like the dried petal of a poppy, the skin is pale and papery. At nearly ninety years old, Margalida is as close to a Mallorcan grandmother as I could find, and treats me as a wayward granddaughter, indulging me one minute and chiding me the next. She is still feisty and resolute, and aside from the odd lapse of memory, is as sharp as a tack. She can recall life on the island during the Spanish Civil War with searing clarity and, unlike me, has an uncanny ability to remember useful details such as the dates of the annual fiestas and the telephone numbers of the local plumber and electrician.

'This will look splendid when it's all finished,' says Margalida, wafting her stick in the air as if it were a magic wand. If only it were. I look at the gravel in our courtyard, a reminder that we still haven't had it paved and that it will be some time before we accrue the funds to do so.

'There's still a lot more to do,' I mutter.

'Yes, there always is. It never ends.' Margalida eyes me critically. 'Of course, it doesn't help that you're always running back to London.'

'Come on, I'm there less than once a month now. We need the money.'

'To live, Margalida.'

She purses her lips, pats my hand and sets off along the track, leaning heavily on her stick whose polished amber surface glints like a shiny penny.

For a few moments I scan the front of the house and the courtyard, my eyes resting on the wild sea of jasmine surrounding the porch and the dark green canopy of ivy covering the loggia. In just a few years its tentacles have spread across much of the finca's facade and the supporting wall of the porch, reaching as far as the old stone pou, our much prized well, which it has all but stifled. To the left of the porch a short path leads to the pond where a band of rowdy frogs are led in daily song by a corpulent toad whom we have christened Johnny. Water trickles from a wide brimmed ledge high above and small geckos dart up the damp and mossy walls seeking dark and shady nooks. Across the bristly lawn, and beyond the crooked old olive tree, a profusion of roses, blushing pink, cling to the wall of a small stone shed, heads lowered modestly under the scrutiny of the sun. The rhythmic chanting of cicadas can be heard from the trees.

The garden is a far cry from how it once was. I remember the tangles of rusted wire and broken wood from long abandoned rabbit hutches, and the decrepit chicken coop whose volatile inmates had either all escaped or passed on. Where the pond is today, a crude, cement cisterna towered over sun-scorched weeds, full of putrid water and scum the colour of bile.

My mind takes me back to the day we impetuously made an offer on this finca while on holiday. A chance meeting with a zealous local estate agent at the villa we were renting set off a chain of events which in time found us relinquishing our former hectic London lifestyle for a more simple existence in rural Mallorca. The finca had been a complete wreck and so for five years we journeyed back and forth, gradually restoring it with the help of a local builder. When the house was just about habitable, we took the plunge and relocated to the island, although I continued to hop back and forth to London to run my Mayfair based PR company.

I am rudely interrupted from my reverie by the trilling mobile in my pocket. It's past lunchtime and it's a London number so that must mean trouble. I mean, who other than Rachel, my super efficient managing director, or worse still, a client, would call during siesta hour unless it was something urgent? And indeed, it is she.

'I've got great news.' There's a pause. 'You remember that pitch document we did for Miller Magic Interiors in New York?'

'That was ages ago. Didn't Bryan recommend us?'

Bryan Patterson, president of The Aphrodite Corporation in New York, is a mover and shaker in the fragrance business, and one of our clients.

'That's right. He and the owner, Daniella Popescu-Miller, are great mates.'

'Well, Daniella's assistant has just called to offer us their PR account in the UK.'

'You're kidding? Without even seeing us?'

'Actually, Daniella is coming to London next month and wants to meet up. You have to be there.'

'Because she's insisted.'

'I don't like the sound of that. You know I'm a magnet for nutters.'

'Come on, she's a close friend of Bryan's – and he's normal.'

'He sleeps with a rabbit.'

'Leave poor Tootsie out of this. I can think of worse crimes,' says Rachel.

I give a snort. 'Anything else I should know about her?'

'There is something. She's married to a Hollywood actor.'

I dredge up some mild, voyeuristic enthusiasm. 'Oh, and who's that?'

The name tumbles out in a flurry. Not one that would immediately jog the old memory bank, but the genuine article none the less.

Rachel's tone is brisk. 'It makes sense for you to work on our client portfolio in New York. You've already got Bryan and Greedy George.'

George Myers is a long-standing, insatiably acquisitive and demanding client of mine, known endearingly in the business as Greedy George. It just so happened that no sooner had I moved to Mallorca, than George decided to expand his brand, Havana Leather, in the States. He urged me to sell up my PR company and become his new head of communications, commuting between New York, London and Mallorca. On the surface, the idea of working long hours in order to earn a substantial salary appealed greatly – until I thought about it. After all, the very reason we'd moved to Mallorca was to escape the grind. There was still the old chestnut of having to earn a living so I handed over the reins of my PR company to Rachel, agreeing, in the short term, to continue working with her on our more challenging clients. Greedy George was one of them. My game plan, in time, was to develop some modest business enterprise of my own on the island.

Rachel rattles on like an unstoppable highway express. 'By the way, it looks as if Greedy George is in London at the same time as Daniella so we can kill two birds. We also need to hook up with H Hotels when you're over.'

H Hotels. What kind of a name is that? Manuel Ramirez, its founder, is a Panamanian multi-millionaire who has recently signed us up to handle his publicity. Rachel conveniently got me to negotiate with him on account of my vaguely acceptable spoken Spanish.

'Let's hope he doesn't bring his gun to the meeting.'

'What gun?' she exclaims.

'The gold Kalashnikov I told you about.'

'Oh God, how could I forget? The one he keeps above his desk in Panama City?'

'What did he say again?'

'I asked him if the gun was real and he said...' I imitate Manuel's heavy, deadpan, Hispanic accent, ' "I hope you won't have to find out".'

She giggles. 'I take it back, you are a magnet for nutters. Anyway, how's the marathon training going?'

'The ligament's still playing up, but it should be OK soon.'

'I hope so for your sake because Greedy George must have pulled serious strings to get you that place.'

'So he keeps reminding me.'

'It shows he's got a heart,' says Rachel.

'Or that he's got a hidden agenda.'

'Whatever his motives, you'd better get cracking because loads of clients and press contacts are lining up to sponsor you. Injuries aren't an option.'

Inko, our part-Siamese feline with a kinky, deformed tail, saunters from the front garden to the shade of the porch and eyes me steadily. She wants her dinner and begins pawing at my legs, imploring me to finish the call.

I bid farewell to Rachel and am just returning to the stairs when I hear the sound of tyres scrunching gravel and the hum of an engine. The boys must be back. A car door slams and fast feet patter up the steps of the porch. Ollie throws open the front door, skidding breathlessly into the entrada clutching a football before scanning the scattered debris around him. I play the irritating mother card and pounce on him for a hug. Now that he's reached the grand old age of nine he has little time for unbridled affection. He releases himself hurriedly and points at the splinters of glass. 'What happened?'

Wordlessly he shakes his head, and saunters off into the garden. Alan appears, somewhat dazed, in the doorway. He's burdened down with a bag of fertiliser and what looks suspiciously like a sapling in a large pot. His addiction to nurseries knows no bounds. He dumps everything on the floor and stares about him.

'Before you ask, a ewe broke into the house.'

The Scotsman furrows his brow. 'Not the same wretched sheep?'

'No, it was a white one this time.'

He upends the overturned chair, replaces its cushion and looks thoughtful. 'You know, it must be one of Rafael's. How they're getting over the meshed wire or the gate beats me.'

We plod out to the back patio and garden. There's not a whisper or a baa-ing of a sheep.

'It went down into the orchard. Let's go and check.'

Our orchard of about forty lemon and orange trees sits cheek by jowl with a wild piece of terrain of the same proportions owned by a Mallorcan family. According to Rafael, the wife inherited this parcel of land from her parents a decade or so before and left it to its own devices. Over the years it has developed a biosphere of its own. It's a lost world of fauna and flora which Ollie and his friends relish exploring. They plunge into its dark recesses, pouncing upon harmless garrigues, the local field snakes, and rats rummaging about the swell of twisted brambles and long grass. A small stream trickles at its far end flanked by squat, spiky palm trees and dense, impenetrable scrub. It's likely that at one time it was sold off by a previous occupier of our finca, so that the pasture we now own is its forsaken twin. We would buy this strip of potential paradise and return it to its former glory, but so far, the asking price is too steep.

Alan braves the darkness within, believing that our unwelcome visitor is lurking deep in the undergrowth. He soon emerges with shirt covered in burs and hair askew.

'No sign of the creature!'

With stick in hand, he strides boldly among the lemon trees at the bottom of the orchard while Ollie and I, joined by a curious Inko, watch from the terrace above. There's not a trace of ewe number two. I'm beginning to think I imagined the whole episode, but then Ollie suddenly grips my arm.

'Look! It's over there.'

I spot a woolly head only a few feet from the Scotsman. We begin yelling and pointing. He follows our gaze, but fails to see the culprit as she lies low behind a thick clump of long grass. As in the best pantomimes, we both jump up and down as the sheep sidles out and creeps behind another tree.

'Where is it now?' bellows Alan, centre stage.

'It's behind you!' we cry in tandem.

The sheep bobs its head out a fraction and then takes cover. Alan spins round a second too late. Eventually, the panto villain is exposed, and the chase is on. Darting around the orchard in hot pursuit, the Scotsman tries in vain to head her off but she outwits him and makes an inelegant loop back around the trees. Ollie and I prance about like amateur matadors with flimsy sticks, trying to block her path back to the finca. Exhausted, Alan finally manages to steer her up into the front courtyard and to the exit, whereupon she hurtles down the track towards Rafael's house. We rush over to the wooden gate and pull it shut. None of us wants any further sheep encounters tonight.

We return to the house and clear up the mess. Lovingly Alan takes the young sapling he's just purchased down to the orchard ready for planting in the morning. After fussing around the vegetable plot, he walks heavily up the stone stairs and potters about the patio and garden examining his plants and puffing on an enormous puro, one of his putrid cigars. Some time later he appears in the kitchen, pulls two glasses from a cupboard and uncorks a bottle of red wine.

'I don't know about you, but I need a drink.'

'You bet,' I reply. 'Now, what might you like for supper?'

'Lamb chops?' he proffers, with a waggish smile.

I'm off on one of my runs and passing Rafael's house when I hear a strangled cry from his kitchen.

'Hijo de puta! You want to bite me, eh?'

I turn to see my neighbour stride out onto the porch sucking his thumb. Trailing behind him is a cream Labrador pup, wagging its tail and yapping playfully at Rafael's side.

'What a beauty. Is he yours?'

Rafael's previous canine companion, Franco, a rather ebullient boxer, was sent packing when he began chasing chickens and then took to killing and eating them. The local animal sanctuary found him a new owner in Germany with whom I imagine he's having a great time eating wurst and learning the word for 'Catch!' in German. I miss Franco.

'Si, I buy new dog, but already he bite me. I must train him.'

He shakes his head. 'You English are always so bad with animals. You spoil them too much.'

Animal welfare is not a subject close to most Mallorcans' hearts. I've learned that it's best to side step the issue in order to maintain good neighbourly relations.

'So you start training for New York marathon. You take me next time?'

Rafael is a talented runner, having breezed through three full marathons and surpassing my best time by at least an hour in each one.

'Not a bad idea. You can carry my respirator.'

Once again I'm on the self-inflicted agony trail. Having completed the London marathon twice for charity, I have masochistically agreed to undertake a third for a small Sri Lankan orphanage of tsunami victims. It was Greedy George's idea that I should run in the New York marathon and seemingly overnight he managed to secure me a much prized place. Given his loathing for charitable causes, I'm not sure how or why he did it. What I do know is that I've got at least seven months to train, so things could be worse. Rafael comes over and punches me on the arm.

'I see from my bathroom window Senyor Alan knocking at my door last night, but I was in the shower. He want something?'

Ah. I feel a sheep moment coming on.

'He was going to ask about your sheep. We've had two running around our land in the last week.'

Rafael juts out his chin and rubs it vigorously with his right hand.

'Sheep? But I get rid of my sheep. Now I just have lambs.'

'Oh dear. I'm afraid we sent one ewe down the track yesterday thinking it was yours. Heaven knows what happened to the first one.'

He fixes me with a long stare. 'But where are they now?'

'Don't ask me. Perhaps they're with your lambs?'

'No. My lambs go. They stay in my friend's field for a month while I clear the orchard. Were they branded?'

That's a good point. Did either of us actually examine this latest ewe's hide to see if it had any identifying marks? Of course not.

'Per favor! Now we don't know who they belong to. Mind you, no one around here has sheep.'

Aside from Rafael, I can't think of a near neighbour with sheep either.

He gives me a slow grin. 'You sure you saw sheep? Segur?'

'Oh, very funny. Look, I'm feeling a bit guilty about the one we sent off. Poor thing might be lost.'

'More likely some lucky tio will have both of them on his grill by now.'

I can't bear the thought of some passer-by or opportunistic neighbour snaffling them for his barbecue. Rafael throws his head back and laughs, whisks the Labrador up into his arms and returns to the kitchen. I stick my head round the door.

'Hey, what's the dog's name?'

'Is Mallorcan word for lightning. You pronounce it yamp but you spell it l-l-a-m-p.'

And why not? It's always good local sport to fox the hapless foreigner with the vagaries of the Catalan language and if the double ll, pronounced y in Catalan, seems tricky, the x presents an even greater challenge. Take for example the word xarxa, meaning net, which curiously should be pronounced charka.

I leave him with his excitable puppy and jog down the path. The days of putting off lessons in Mallorcan are coming to an end. Catalina, my close Mallorcan friend, has persuaded me to enroll on a free language course, courtesy of our town council, after the summer. In the meantime I shall continue to muddle along as best I can.

Out on the main road, I head off running up a steep track which eventually takes me onto the pine-clad slopes of the Tramuntana mountains. It's cool and musty and the soft powdery soil is gentle underfoot. At this time of the year, I keep an eye out for processionary caterpillars, the toxic little beasties that form huge candy floss nests at the top of the pine trees. When hatched, they march robotically in fast phalanxes down the tree trunks in search of new territory to destroy. Just to brush past one of these hairy fiends can cause skin irritations so grave that the victim can be incapacitated for weeks. Given that I'm already nursing a recurring leg injury I decide to avoid further handicaps and skirt round the trees.

An hour later as I puff my way back onto the winding lane leading to our track, the rain begins. It's April, so what should I expect? The first few drops are quite refreshing until the sky, like a gigantic, upturned bath, unleashes torrents of water and the drains cough and choke, spewing up thick chocolatey water. Painfully, I sprint through the cold spume bubbling up from the gutters and spilling onto the road, and reach the house just before I'm soaked to the core. Ollie is reading in the kitchen and munching on roasted sunflower seeds. With infinite patience, like a dexterous monkey, he cracks open each one with his teeth, chews the kernel within before systematically discarding the shell in a bowl.

'Well observed.' I begin removing my soggy trainers, noting with irritation the old and familiar nagging pain in my right thigh. I ignore it.

He observes me for a second. 'Do you know where you'd find the Bay of Pigs?'

He rolls his eyes. 'South-west Cuba.'

Cracking open another shell, he flicks over a page of his book and studies the content. 'I'll give you an easy one. Where do you find Siamese fighting fish?'

'That's just being silly. Thailand.'

'OK, who wrote The Clouds?'

He furrows his brow. 'I've no idea.'

'Aristophanes,' I say triumphantly. Studying Ancient Greek literature had to benefit me some day.

He yawns and stretches his thin, wiry arms. 'Bang goes my football practice tomorrow.'

'It might clear up,' I say uncertainly.

He studies the rain mocking him on the other side of the window pane and with undisguised impatience slumps off to his bedroom while I wearily climb the staircase en route for my shower. As anticipated, Margalida's ominous prediction has come true.

The Scotsman, clad in a tatty and faded green Barbour jacket, tweed cap and wellies, blusters into the kitchen holding a bucket. It's the second day of torrential rain and the gullies are overflowing as well as the marjades, our garden terraces. Water is creeping into the cellar and seeping stealthily into Alan's abajo, his cherished den in the field in which his puro smoking can go unobserved. From the day we bought our age-old ruin, we were warned by locals that life in el camp, the countryside, could have its drawbacks. In the last three years since refurbishing the house and living permanently in our mountain valley, we have experienced some horrendous storms and flooding which have at times left us without electricity, water and heating for several days. We have learned the hard way, equipping the finca with sandbags, paraffin lamps, candles and the odd bottle of brandy for when it all becomes too much.