Whilst I was concocting my own (unauthentic) version of spaghetti and tomato sauce for dinner tonight I was thinking about two quite disparate things on my wish list – my desire to speak Italian and my fancy to own a horse. Perhaps you imagine that I want to be in a “Spaghetti Western”? Not really, not unless Luca Zingaretti (who shares my birthday) or Cesare Bocci  are in it; they are my favourite Italian actors from ‘Montalbano – The Italian Detective’, the brilliant subtitled detective series.

Quite often, when checking my blogsite statistics, I see the Italian flag of my solo Italian blog reader (I guess it is the same person). I can almost hear the happy notes of the Italian National Anthem (Inno di Mameli (Mameli’s Hymn) and I have a little thrill as I envisage Luca or Cesare dipping into my blog to see what’s on my mind. It has never occurred to me that my Italian visitor might be the mother to one of my heroes! Ah non importa. Amo tutti i miei seguaci! (Google has just helped me to learn a bit of Italian – I love all my followers!)

Now about my wish to own a horse… I can just imagine what Chris would say if I told him…

– “But you aren’t even a horse-person!”

– “How dare you say that! Horse-riding used to be my favourite sport!”

– “Yes, when you were a little girl. When did you last ride a horse?”

– “That’s beside the point, my interest has been revitalised and I want a horse.”

– “Since when?”

– “Since last Friday, when I was farm-sitting…”

– “Sally, did you see that handsome young farrier again?”

In truth, I did see that gorgeous farrier who I met last year when I visited Mary on the farm (see my old blog post entitled “Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”). Sadly, being on the farm and not expecting to see anyone except for old Tony, who wouldn’t mind how I looked (he likes buxom women), I was dressed for farm work and painting. I wore mauve knee length pants, a pink short-sleeved top with a yellow dress over the top, and over the top of that I wore one of my mum’s aprons. If that wasn’t odd enough to behold I also had on socks and trainers. My hair was in a high pony tail and I had two pink flowers in my hair. Make-up? Not much – the animals’ love is not so shallow. On reflection I think looked a bit peculiar – darn it!

I remember I was looking for Malachi, who had disappeared, so I left my painting (I was working on my latest commission) and walked up to the stable. A van was parked outside and as I approached a male voice called out:

“Hello Sally!” the smiling familiar face beamed.

“Oh!” I suddenly felt self-conscious, “I wish I had dressed less oddly.”

“You look fine – just like an eccentric painter,” he said and he gave me a kiss.

“I hope your wife didn’t mind me writing that blog about you,” I queried.

“My mother was over the moon,” he laughed showing his perfect set of white teeth.

Well, that was a week ago. I hasten to add that I’m not one of those frightful “cougar” women I have heard about – the older women who prey on young men. I’m happily married and it wouldn’t occur to me to go for a younger man, no matter how handsome and charming (even if he had to wear those sexy chaps every day). No, I definitely don’t want a new man, I just want a horse….

At least the cold north wind was with us on the way home yesterday morning. It hadn’t become any warmer while we were cycling (as Chris had predicted – when I asked if he thought I should wear a jumper over my thin summer top) and when the sun hid behind the clouds it was even colder.

We were coming up the coastal bridle path, past The Langstone Cliff Hotel, when the sun appeared briefly and drew our  attention to the opposite field; it was a veritable sea of daisies sparkling white in the sunshine! I was already off my bike (it’s rather steep there) so I parked it against the fence and checked to see if the gate was locked. I turned to Chris for his approval.

“Don’t be long,” he said shivering in his polo shirt and shorts.

I was a little longer than expected. I had to take some photographs for my blog and, well, there were so many of them… and who would begrudge me a few daisies? Chris was a bit frosty but he thawed out once he saw how pretty they looked at home.

They are still alive and beautiful, like of bursts of sunshine on a cold day.

“What would you do?” I asked Hunter the cat.

Hunter looked at me then returned his gaze to the pink sky of sunset. He was worried. I was worried. We were both anxious about the two of our flock who had gone missing when my back was turned, some time between petting the llamas and giving all the farm animals their last feed of the day. Admittedly, I had not given Malachi and Jaz as much attention as usual but with good reason because I was engrossed in painting my recent commission. At one point in the afternoon Malachi had tapped me with her paw on my bottom and rested her head against my thigh; I should have recognised the signs of boredom and perhaps anticipated the consequences… but I was too busy to pay much heed.

Naturally, I thought that the runaways would return to the fold in their own time; in fact it seemed to me that it would be a short time considering that Malachi was still recovering from her misadventures with a splintery stick yesterday and Jaz is rather old, overweight and chesty. Nevertheless, an hour or so later I saw their two black tails sticking out above the long grass as the dogs ran joyously across the upper part of the steep field next to the farmhouse (where grows the most picturesque of trees).

“Malachi, Jaz,” I had called but they ignored me.

Not eager to climb the steep hill, I preferred instead to cook my piece of steak for dinner. Funnily enough, I had lost my appetite when I saw it on my plate, and I cut the steak into smaller pieces to be divided between Malachi, Jaz, Sasha and Hunter the cat.

So Hunter and I were looking through the doorway at the reddening sky; it would be dark soon – in around half an hour. I thought of the story of the good shepherd who would give up his life for his lost sheep (though I hoped that would not be necessary) and I changed into my stout trainers.

Hunter led the way as far as the wooden fence where he stayed, maybe to keep a lookout while I walked on up into the fields above the farm.

“Malachi, Jaz,” I called again and again.

It was getting quite dark and I feared that it would soon be so dark as to be dangerous coming back down the field. Suddenly Malachi came bounding across the field, no doubt overwhelmed that I had left my painting and any other farm duties in order to find the missing lambs.

“Where’s Jaz?” I asked. “Lead me to Jaz.”

I had visions of Jaz, worn out and practically dead, under ones of the trees on the skyline; and I thought Malachi had come to fetch me to save her. (Obviously, I have watched too many “Lassie” films in my time!)

So delighted was Malachi that she immediately presented me with a stick to throw. Slightly shocked that she hadn’t learned her lesson from yesterday’s ordeal I threw the stick down beside me and she looked remorseful.

“Take me to Jaz,” I urged and the faithful Black Labrador led me even higher up the hill and across to yet another field.

I climbed up to the barbed wired fence at the top and stopped – I didn’t believe that poor old Jaz would have been capable of such a climb, even under the thrall of the younger dog. But from my vantage point I saw a beautiful sight – Jaz running toward me from the other side of the adjacent field.

We made it down the steep slope alright in the semi-darkness. Now, their wanderlust sated by their long escapade and their hunger somewhat appeased by my leftover steak, the errant ones are back with the flock. Bless them! All are asleep, except for me, and now this is finished I can join them.

Last night really was our last night in Southern Spain and it was our last opportunity to take a walk on the mountain roads in the vicinity of our cortijo, which (I may have told you before) is situated in the rustic surrounds of Frigiliana. We set out rather late, when the sun was already disappearing behind one of the higher mountains and misty grey clouds were hovering over the top of the range; and yet, the sun still shone on the coast below making the town of Nerja a gleaming white array of tiny squares jumbled together in the distance.

We figured that if we walked up and around our big mountain for some way, then turned off on a different road from our usual route, it would lead us out and down (not to be confused with ‘down and out’) away from the shade and into the sunlight. Of course, night was falling whilst we walked but, occasionally, the clouds thinned and patches of light appeared on the landscape as if to highlight the prettiness of a particular house and olive grove. Somehow even the shadows and mists had dramatic effect…

Fernando, the big white hound dog who had befriended me on previous walks (and loves raw eggs and Spanish bacon), was unable to come out with us – his owner had shut the gates for the night – so I waved, called out my goodbyes and blew him a kiss.

After a three in the morning start, now we’re home in Devon and ready for bed. I wonder if Fernando misses me… Chris says the friendly dog will be missing his eggs and bacon (and that “he knew which side his bread was buttered”). Chris can be so cynical.

“I’m not stupid or lost. It’s Google Map – there isn’t a road going off to the right – just look for yourself,” Chris expostulated.

“Well maybe that little dirt track by the riverbed was the road on the map,” I retorted huffily.

“If you think you know so much let’s go back there then,” snapped Chris.

“I wouldn’t mind walking all day but what about Alan? He must be wondering what has happened to us. I told him we’d be back in an hour and a half and we’re already an hour over… and we have to walk back yet,” I stressed unnecessarily.

We found the dirt track and went up in the right direction for the main road back to Frigiliana. We also found that it looked very much like a farm driveway; there were orange trees (I picked three so that we shouldn’t starve if we couldn’t find civilisation) and trees with fruit like small peaches (and very tasty they were). Right at the top of the strange road was a car and mechanical tools simply left in the middle of the road. Up ahead was a house.

“The farmer’s having lunch,” I laughed, “He’ll hear us and pop his head over the wall in a minute…”

At that moment the farmer called out from the top of the wall. Luckily he was a nice farmer with a pleasant smile. He could speak no English (to speak of) and, likewise, we could speak no relevant Spanish. Nevertheless, we were all quite adept at sign language and he soon understood our predicament.

“The olives – no trouble me,” he said pointing to his olive grove on the mountainside (the road was above). Then he looked at me and shrugged.

“Maa….maaa….” I bleated.

Our scramble up through the olive grove at a forty-five degree angle was most exhilarating and exciting, in fact it was our best walk. We weren’t lost and our tiff was soon forgotten. And tomorrow we’ll be home in Devon – how surreal!