And the unairbrushed version...

I've just realised that the last few posts about wild asparagus, fresh eggs and calçots may well give the impression that we're living some sort of soft-focus, idle, gourmet existence in the sunshine.

We are, sort of, and it's very, very lovely, but real life isn't ever quite as we portray it to other people, is it?

Perhaps one of the reasons that so many people suffer from anxiety and depression is because it seems to them as though their lives are never as perfect as everyone else's. The media fuel this by filling magazines with 'aspirational' articles featuring beautiful people with impossibly wonderful lifestyles, and TV sitcoms starring 'ordinary' families are filmed in unfathomably huge London terraces. Although I'm a journalist, I could never bring myself to generate this kind of soft-focus copy, which is probably why I tended to end up going to sink-estates to interview asylum seekers rather than hob nob with the celebs on the red carpet.

Now that I'm living a lovelier life perhaps it's begun to knock the sharp edges off my storytelling.

So, to rebalance the last few posts, you might like to know about the Week of the Sick Puppy. Koko (now seven months old and energetically fulfilling the puppy manual's entire list of what adolescent dogs might do to test your sanity) started the week with a wild chewing frenzy. She tore the stuffing out of her bed, chomped her way through a couple of socks before pinching the washing up sponge and consuming that. Goodness knows what else she put in her mouth because the next day she was very sick indeed, many times, until there was nothing left in her stomach.

The sick kept coming though, she was retching and retching and bringing up nothing but stretchy yellow bile. She wouldn't touch food, and barely drank any water. Her usual bounce disappeared, the naughty glint left her eyes and her ears began to point down.

We feared fatal poisoning from one of the let's-just-put-it-in-my-mouth-and-see-what-it's-like adventures. We know too many people who've had dogs die after picking up something nasty the hunters left behind so we took her to the vet; then took her again two days later when she seemed to be getting even worse (a v costly exercise indeed).

There, you don't get dog sick in many glossy mags, do you?

She's better now - back to eating everything, particularly other animals' poo.

Three eggs today

In January we fulfilled one of our living-in-the-countryside dreams and bought three chickens.

After David had eyed up expensive, finely combed Basque fowl and we'd considered the pros and cons of a cockerel (he looks after his girls but might have your eye out with a claw) we eventually settled on three point-of-lay bog-standard red hens from the local garden centre. They were only about five euros apiece, but by the time we bought a coop, some food, a feeding trough and a water dispenser it's going to take a year or so to repay our investment.

We tucked them up against the freezing winter winds with generous piles of sawdust and stacks of straw bales, bought 'Chickens for Dummies' and hoped for the best.

Eventually, one morning around Valentine's Day (the traditional start of the laying season) we found our first tiny brown egg nestling warmly in a corner of the coop. After that the eggs became bigger and bolder, but only ever one a day which seemed to signify that only one chicken was in lay (unless they were taking it in turns).

Then last week one of the hens shuffled herself down into a big pile of straw in the chicken run and began to make a nest. David predicted the second egg of the day and he was right - we got a little brown speckled one. We celebrated with eggs for breakfast on Sunday.

It was all going well until Sunday afternoon when the chickens were pootling around happily in the shade of the pine trees. (They have their own run, but usually escape and wander around until we put them back.) We'd forgotten that the puppy was off her lead. There was some barking and clucking, then a lot of squawking, flapping and pounding of paws. The puppy isolated one of the chickens and chased her down down the terraces into the forest, David chased the puppy, I tried to herd the other two chickens into their coop, David rugby-tackled the (very happy) puppy in a gorse bush and dragged her back to her kennel, and eventually we pulled the miraculously-not-dead-chicken out of the forest. Only one egg the next day.

But then today we had three eggs - hurray!

Mucho viento

When the British think of Spain it's often a Mediterranean sun, sea and sand-scape. We remember sunburnt August package holidays but have little understanding of what the weather is like during the rest of the year.

Here in Catalunya, we get the intense heat of the summer, but there is so much more weather too.

When the wind blows here it really means it. It roars through the trees, howls down our chimney and throws the bin around (if we leave it in a foolish place). A strong north-westerly has been blowing since Saturday without much let-up ("Siempre viento in este país," said the man in the garden centre this morning), and last night was the fiercest so far.

When I'm awake and listening to the wind at 4 o'clock in the morning it seems as though every gust will be followed by a bang or a crash as a tree snaps, something falls from the house or the car takes off. But when the sun comes up and I look out of the window everything is as it was. The pine trees simply seem to bend to the force (think of wibbly Van Gogh cypresses) and each patch of olive trees on the hillside turns into a pool of shimmering green waves as the leaves are flipped over and back, catching the sunlight on the way.

Our little house nestles into the southerly side of the hill so we're often protected from the worst blasts. Sometimes the wind can be tearing away behind us while we enjoy the sun on the porch, not feeling a whisper.

On the plus side, a nice steady north wind gets our wind turbine spinning happily. Right now we're getting about 6 amps from the turbine and when the sun's out too there's actually too much energy generated for the power system to use - even if the fridge is on, the laptop is charging and the TV is being watched.

But the wind is wearing - it makes the puppy hyper, dries out my skin and stops us all from sleeping. I hope it calms down soon.

Koko: not much of a guard dog yet

Last month we went to one of the local dogs' homes - just for a look. We had decided that we'd like a smallish dog and we wouldn't get one right away so that we could prepare what we needed.

Later that same day we arrived home with a German shepherd (perhaps crossed with a bit of lab) puppy in a cardboard box. On the journey in the car she cried, did a poo, was sick, then went to sleep. We decided to call her Koko. When we arrived we gave her some water in one of the cat's bowls, rushed down to the village to buy a chicken to cook with some rice and made her a food bowl out of an old water bottle.

We decided that Koko would have to live outside: we've got a small house and we wanted the cat to feel that she still had a home. The first night the puppy cried desperately and without much of a pause for her brothers and sisters. We tried to ignore the howls, but David went out a few times to calm her down. The second night the crying was less intense. And by night three we didn't hear a peep.

During her first few days it rained solidly. We sat outside, shivering in the shelter of the porch with her, learned to play doggie games together and built her a run out of some old chicken wire and bits of wood. Eventually, the Amazon delivery containing much-needed puppy manuals arrived.

Since then, Koko has been mostly growing, eating, playing and charming everyone in the village (in spite of her enjoyment of chewing people's arms and fingers). We've been mostly exhausted. My bedtime reading is puppy manuals. And the cat isn't at all impressed by her waggish antics.

One day, I imagine, she'll be a great guard dog.