Today is the third day of spring. Yes, the days are getting longer, the clocks will change to give us an extra hour of evening light at the end of this week, the screeching southern lapwings have built their nests and are fiercely guarding them, and my bulbs are just about to burst into bloom.

And this is my gap year.

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Actually, my entire life seems to be a gap year, settling into new places, meeting new people, finding purposeful activities, learning new languages, preparing for what's coming next, then clearing cupboards, packing, moving on, leaving friends, and starting all over again.

But I've never thought of my years as gap years before. I tend to be a bit of a nervous wreck, anxiously searching for a meaning to it all (see my short story 'The Search'), missing my kids, rebelling inside at being rootless and unsettled. Not that I don't appreciate and enjoy my new experiences - it's just that there has always been an underlying sense of insecurity, or perhaps a feeling of not having accomplished what I could have.

Anyway, my Donegal break brought such calm, such serenity to my soul, that I am trying to just hold on to that.

At a certain stage, I feel one has had enough of the mindblowing 'wows', and there is a lot of joy to be had from enjoying the simplest of pleasures.

Like yesterday, my first full day back. I walked the 4k to my local pool and swam for half an hour, then on the way back I happened to see a bus stopping at a bus stop on my side of the road, and jumped onto it. Would you believe, in three years here, I have NEVER before taken a bus! I drive, cycle, walk, and take taxis (you can't believe how cheap transport is here - for £4.00 you can go wherever you like in a taxi for a full hour - and my bus fare was the equivalent of 3p)

I got off at my local open Saturday market, and bought an amazing variety of fruit and veg (endives, asparagus, strawberries, oranges, lemons, rucola...) for £4.00, and as usual, had it delivered home.

Walked home, did a bit of work (I do a bit of admin work - translations/proofreading/preparation of educational material for a language school in Brussels), had lunch, then lay in the garden writing my 'Moby-click' story, and slept in the sun with my wonderful mongrel Perdida sleeping under my chair.

Then we went to ... wait for it ... Scottish dance practice. Yes, the Caledonian ball is next week. It's amazing how we rarely did any Scottish dancing in Scotland as students, but have been faithful members of the Caledonian Society (what credentials do I have, I wonder) in Barbados, Cameroon, Belgium, Tanzania and now here. I even have special shoes that I bought in Brussels, specially imported from Scotland, ten years ago.

About five eightsomes gathered in the sports hall of the British School: a few Spanish-speaking Uruguayans, many Anglo-Uruguayans, a few expat Brits, and some odds and sods like ourselves. And one Scot. We worked hard on 'Marie's wedding', 'Monymusk', 'The Duke of Perth', 'The Reel of the 51st division', and the old favourites, 'The Eightsome Reel'and 'The Dashing White Sergeant.' When it came to 'Petronella' I rebelled and sat on a bench, exhausted.

Back home I cooked the most delicious fish, with asparagus and organic baby potatoes. Followed by strawberries.

Simple pleasures: swimming, bus, market, siesta, dancing, cooking.