Letter from Espargal: 51 of 2006

(The Cork Walk through the valley)

The year-end is creeping up on us. We knew that it was near but not this near. We have been distracted. One distraction was the field that I’ve been trying to buy for the last several weeks. It has proved a particularly elusive field. In the course of our purchase attempts it emerged first that buying it as a couple married with a pre-nuptial agreement was all but impossible. To avoid the looming complexities we had to buy it in the name of either one of us. Okay, I said, we would buy it in my name.

The day before the sale was to be concluded in front of the notary, we were informed by our lawyers that the property was still registered in the parish of Alte and not in the parish of Benafim, whence it should have been transferred 20 years ago. That meant a last-minute dash to the Finanças in Loulé to beg them to amend the same day a document that normally requires a seven-day wait. It would have been impossible had not our lawyer’s girl-Friday been on excellent terms with the Finanças staff. I bought flowers for the Finanças clerk concerned - although only after the fact lest they be construed as a bribe.

So the 16.45 signing of the sales contract on Thursday evening went ahead, albeit at 18.15, because the notary had fallen hopelessly behind and there was a crowd of people waiting in her office to complete one or other bit of official business by the year-end. As a result, our lawyer had to kick his heels with me in the adjacent café for an hour. We drank coffee and talked about life in Portugal. (He said his wife was also a lawyer and they had become accustomed, however disagreeably, to the delays that were part of the Portuguese bureaucratic process. Their two young children are looked after by grandparents – thank God for grandparents – until the parents get home in the evenings.)

(Our favourite Faro Beach restaurant)

And thus we are the owners of another field, and I’m thrilled to bits about it. It’s a splendid field that forms a perfect L around a field we already own and that, I strongly suspect, will one day be reclassified as an urban property – where some undesirable person would otherwise build a big house in a spot where we’d much rather have a field.

For the record, we now own a clump of 5 plots here in Espargal. From above they would look a bit like the Canadian maple-leaf symbol, grouped around the house and more or less guaranteeing us an impermeable green belt – with one exception. The property that we most want to buy is not for sale because half of the heirs have disappeared into thin air abroad and can’t be found to sign the necessary paperwork. Long may they remain so.

On Tuesday Natasha came to work and, because my cyber-dictionary was seriously at odds with my Excel programme – for reasons which, after a harmonious three-year relationship, are beyond me – I took my computer into the shop when we drove her home that evening. I checked with the shop on Wednesday and again on Thursday morning (when I went to the Finanças). But in spite of their best efforts they couldn’t persuade the two programmes to get along. Nor, after uninstalling the dictionary could they get the computer to function without throwing up error messages. So they returned it to me with apologies on Thursday evening and didn’t want to charge me anything for their hours of labour. The computer still functions. It just isn’t very happy.

Also not very happy are our two kittens, Braveheart and Dearheart, which we took in to the vet in Albufeira to be “done” early this morning (Friday) and fetched again this evening. Dearheart appeared to be supine until the vet removed her from the recovery cage and tried to place her in her transport box. At which point she made a bid for freedom and scratched the vet when the latter tried to restrain her. Both kittens are back safe and sound and, willy-nilly, getting used to their neutered status. Jonesy is desperate to love them and feed them. She is finding it very hard to accept the vet’s instructions that they should get no food till the morning.

Between taking and fetching the kittens we accompanied Llewellyn and Lucia on a final 2006 walk into the valley and back through the orange grove. Thence we went to the airport to return their car, stopping only to tell old Chico that his mysterious letter from Social Security was to inform him of his old age benefit this year. I phoned Social Security in Faro to confirm this. (Like many older residents, Chico has never learned to read.)

Finally we headed to Faro Beach for a relaxed lunch in the sun on the patio of a favourite restaurant. The two dogs huddled down on a towel beneath our table and glared at the cats that were bumming crumbs from other diners. One or two other dogs came to sniff under the table at the intruders. Happily, all were friendly and there was much wagging of tails.

It was the last of many delightful meals that we have enjoyed with our visitors during their stay – including a spread at the Angolana last night, at which we drank (their) real champagne, to celebrate our latest acquisition. They will be in the air on their way home to Cape Town as I write.

Saturday I pack my own goodies and Sunday morning I fly to Dublin. There I have to wait before catching a flight via London to Calgary early on Monday morning. For reasons beyond my ken, the discount that I have obtained on this flight was available only if one boarded the plane in Dublin rather than in London.

Stand by Mum, here I come.

That’s about the size of it.

I do hope that 2007 is kind to us.

Happy New Year and God bless.

Christmas at Espargal

Happy Christmas all.

Here we are at breakfast on Christmas Day, from left to right, Jonesy, Terry, Llewellyn and Lucia.

Jonesy made pancakes to mark the occasion. After breakfast we moved through to the lounge to see what Santa had brought. The pictures speak for themselves.

Now we are going for a walk with the dogs. This evening we will all repair to Idalecio's little restaurant for Christmas dinner. That's it.

Letter from Espargal: 50 of 2006

It’s a cold, sunny day. The weather bureau warns us that lows in the Algarve will be barely above freezing; that’s cold for us. As if to make the point, heavy frost lines the valley floors. Not that I mind being cold. It’s almost a relief in this global warming environment, with Europe’s ski resorts reduced to despair by their verdant slopes.

I’m just back from a brisk hour with the dogs, which have now settled themselves contentedly in the sunshine on the back patio. Jones has gone off with Llewellyn and Lucia for a visit to Loulé. On their return, we are going to Messines for lunch with friends. One way and another this has been a very sociable week, following our guests’ midweek arrival from Lisbon..

Last night we met friends at Oliveira’s restaurant on the outskirts of Loulé. Ollie is the man who used to run our favourite and much patronised eatery, on the corner just below the Quinta. We’ve not seen much of him since his move into town some years ago. What has been clear is that he’s made a roaring success of the business.

His wife, Odette, still sweats away in the kitchen with one or two helpers. Their son and daughter wait on the tables, along with son’s girlfriend and a couple of hired hands. They had a huge party going, including the mayor and a big group from the council. Our conversation was limited by the amplified efforts of a singer-guitarist, whose presence we would much rather have done without. That aside, the meal was excellent.

Friday morning I fetched Natasha from Loulé to accompany her on a mission to Faro. We had been instructed by the Social Security office in Loulé to take her employment contract to Faro to be endorsed - as part of the process of getting her legalised.

In due course we found both parking and the government office concerned and we settled down to wait in a lobby, along with half a dozen other people whose mobile phone conversations identified them as east Europeans. After 90 minutes of kicking our heels we were summoned upstairs into a large room occupied by two women and thousands of files stacked high against the walls. From the clerk at whose desk we seated ourselves I established that we had arrived at the Inspectorate of Labour.

The woman took one look at Natasha’s passport and declared that she lacked a work visa. End of story. No visa no contract. We patiently explained what Social Security had told us, that under new legislation a valid passport sufficed. Evidently, it was not so. Natasha was bitterly disappointed. Her chances of getting a work visa are minimal. Even if she did, she would have to return to Moscow to fetch it. The only good that comes out of the whole business is that she gets on to the national health scheme – although both she and we will have to make social security contributions in return.

On Thursday evening we went to a concert given by the Orchestra of the Algarve at a church in Faro. As we arrived a fire engine came wailing past us and stopped in front of a house just round the corner. Although no flames were visible, a cloud of smoke from the roof could be seen against the night sky. The firemen had to batter their way into the house to extinguish the fire. We had the impression that the place was unoccupied.

The concert took place in the Church of Carmel, one of several rococo churches in the city, with their ornate, dusty gilt-covered carvings rising unto the heavens. It was a good concert, ending with Mendelssohn’s lovely Italian symphony.

In-between such outings and our walks, the week has been partly taken up by neighbourly events of one sort or another, and exchanges of small Christmas gifts. Barbara has presented various friends and neighbours with flowers and received plastic bags full of fruit or eggs in return.

When we found old Evangelina shivering outside her small house one afternoon, we asked her why she didn’t put on more clothes. Because she had none, she told us. So we found her a coat and a warm jersey, which greatly pleased her. She thrust a dozen oranges into my hands in her gratitude. As is common, her house has no interior heating whatsoever. The only warmth comes from the fire she makes in her outside kitchen.

It was traditional to have the kitchen separated from the house. That way the kitchen fire did not add to the heat of the house in summer - while in winter everybody sat in the kitchen to eat before making a rapid exit for bed. The potty was under the bed for any nocturnal needs. It still is in houses like Evangelina’s.

And so we have arrived at the brink of Christmas. Our thanks go to the kindly people who have sent us yuletide cards and letters. Our own Christmas communications have been by email. Apart from catch-ups with family and friends we’ve been exchanging greetings and pictures with fellow passengers on Barbara’s cruise.

More hours have been stolen by a bit of software that went on the blink and started to play silly b.gg.rs with my registry. Much uninstalling and reinstalling has followed. Although the software manufacturers have been both prompt and helpful with their suggestions, as fast as I seem to resolve one problem another crops up. I suspect the computer will have to go to the shop for expert attention.

One or two afternoons have been occupied in collecting stones from the fields. I’ve been dumping these in a small ditch, across which I’m making a new access. There is something strangely satisfying about clearing a field of stones. It’s as though one is tuning into some ancient rite – paying obeisance to the god of agriculture. Next week, with luck, I’ll complete the purchase of another field. We hope the plot will grow in value and it will certainly grow lots of beans. But more than anything else, we want to prevent anyone else buying it and building a house there. After our painful experience at the Quinta we have come to put a great value on the space around us

There, I'm done. Our thoughts are with you - in South Africa, Europe and North America.

Happy Christmas.

Letter from Espargal: 49 of 2006

(The rear deck of the Marco Polo where Jones and Maureen would take refreshments.)

We have spent most of this week as we spent most of last, waiting for the arrival of the Portugal Telecom engineer, who has failed to turn up. Twice I have been into the PT office to implore the staff to expedite the repair but my implorations have been in vain. The engineer has remained elusive and we have (barely) survived a second week without a phone line or internet access.

The one useful feature of my visits to PT is that I have ascertained how to use the wifi facility that they now make available in their centres. One can at least catch up on the emails that one cannot access at home. The facility is being made available free for several months to clients of PT’s internet services. We have further noted that large wifi signs have been erected around the Forum Algarve shopping centre on the outskirts of Faro. It’s catching on. In-between times friends have been generous in allowing me the use of their home wifi.

I gathered that a local fellow was making use of a computer connect card to access the internet and arranged to meet him to hear how well it worked. I’m sorry to say that he wasn’t enthusiastic about its performance in this area. He reported that the signal was poor, downloads disappointingly slow and the connection unstable. Fifteen minutes down the road he got a great signal but not in Espargal. In the circumstances he didn’t recommend that I get one.

On Monday evening we went to the cinema to see Casino Royale. I was much impressed by Craig Daniel, the new Bond. He cuts an athletic figure and is much more convincing in the action scenes than most of his predecessors, especially the grandfatherly Roger Moore. In fact, I think he’s even better than Sean Connery. He brings all the necessary élan and sophistication to the part. Jones, however, did not think him particularly good looking (craggy, at best) nor did she like the movie’s graphic violence. You can’t please everyone.

Jones’s unused traveller’s cheques have been returned to the bank, where I took the opportunity of presenting the man who looks after our interests with a bottle of Christmas spirit. He in turn presented me with a diary and an imitation-leather cheque-book holder. He has been very attentive unlike the people at Barclays. The latter have not been able to find a way of insuring that our cash cards are not blocked again next time we go overseas. There is no facility for informing them in advance of such trips. We think this a very poor effort and have informed them accordingly.

What’s more, we recently received a letter from Barclays in Jersey informing us that we would in future be liable for an annual fee (for the privilege of allowing them to make money from our deposits) unless we kept a minimum of £2,000 in our account through-out the year. We wrote back asking them kindly to close the account. I hope that a few other clients do the same, not that it is likely to bother the bank unduly or to make a dent in its large profits. In my experience, banks are a bit like (some) cats – sleek, glossy, self-serving and liable to scratch. I hope that I do not offend any cat lovers.

During a visit to Loulé we arranged to meet Natasha at the office of an accountant who drew up an employment contract which, she hopes, will enable her to benefit from Portuguese Social Security. We didn’t have time to register it at the Finanças that day so I arranged to meet her at the Finanças later in the week. Great was my consternation when I arrived there to discover that the document I had carefully taken along was a similar-looking bank statement.

The dogs didn’t mind. They enjoyed the ride in the car and the leg-lifting opportunities at the adjacent park. They have become so fond of outings that, given the choice between a ride in the car and a walk, they choose to ride every time. Ono sits bolt upright in the centre of the back seat with his paws splayed out and peers unwaveringly through the windscreen. We often wonder what he thinks.

I have been in intermittent contact with our lawyers concerning our intended purchase of a plot of land contiguous with our own. This has been dragging on and was clearly not high on the lawyer’s priority list. He said the latest delay was caused by new legislation that required Barbara and me to petition the local council for some exemption in view of our being married in separation of property. I don’t pretend to understand it. (In Portugal, people get married in community of property.) Anyhow, it appears that we can circumvent this complication by buying the property in either my name or Barbara’s rather than jointly. We are hopeful (if not exactly confident) that the process may still be completed by Christmas. I shall be off to Canada shortly afterwards to see Mum and the family.

We have been in daily touch with (Barbara’s half-brother) Llewellyn and Lucia, who arrived in Lisbon from Cape Town at sparrows on Thursday. They are spending a week in the city before travelling down to the Algarve by train to be with us over Christmas. Llewellyn has impressed us by setting about learning Portuguese. He goes as far as reading novels in Portuguese, a step well beyond our own modest efforts at speaking the language.

After lessons on Thursday (plus another visit to PT) I drove to Almancil for a dentist’s appointment. The consultation had been made weeks in advance to fit in with the dentist’s occasional visits to Portugal. (He’s a South African who lives in Spain and consults in at least 5 countries on a rota of sorts – don’t ask me why).

He was due to fit a crown to a tooth he’d already prepared (and he did). However, I had been suffering pangs in another tooth for a week and asked him to take care of that at the same time. Regrettably, I have reached the stage where virtually any dental work is expensive. Most of my teeth have been mined for half a century to the point where there’s little left to play with. It’s all crowns and the like.

We have a friend who is close to retirement age and who confesses to having had only a single filling. Would that we had been similarly blessed. If I were able to order genes for my next incarnation, I would very much like to have black hair, an olive skin and faultless teeth. Good looks and a manly physique would be much appreciated as part of the package.

Jones has returned to her routine of taking both our dogs and the neighbour’s bitch (Serpa the spaniel) on afternoon walks. Sometimes I go along. At others, I load the tractor’s link box with stones from our fields and dump them on the side. The stones vary in size from golf ball to football. I estimate that in five to ten years, at the present rate, I should have all our fields cleared. oy them.Meanwhile, in spite of the stones, our beans are coming along nicely.

The woman who works at the local hardware store presented me with a rolled up calendar during my last visit. I asked her whether it had a beautiful girl on the cover. No, she smiled at me, adding that she did have some with beautiful girls if that was what I would prefer. I thought I’d better stick with the one she’d given me. I unrolled it to reveal a Christmas doggy with a bow – not exactly my taste if blandly inoffensive. Speaking of which – we have brought out our Christmas lights and arranged them in the shape of a tree upstairs on the patio railings and pergola. It is visible for miles around at night. Much as I have my doubts about the wisdom of having Christmas I quite like our tree.

Thank you to those correspondents from whom we have received Christmas letters. We greatly enjoy them.

Letter from Espargal: 48 of 2006

(Gisa: Jones loved Egypt and says she would gladly go back. She took lots of pictures but none of herself.)

Jones is home. She arrived at Lisbon airport early on Sunday morning. When she left I had promised to meet her and I kept my word. Having been rudely roused by my mobile phone alarm at 01.00 and, after showering and putting the somewhat surprised dogs in the car, I set out. En route I stopped in Loulé to fetch Dani, Natasha and Alex. Natasha had asked for a lift as she had business to enact at the Russian Consulate in Lisbon the following day.

The night was clear and moonlit and there was virtually no traffic on the toll-road north. The occasional BMW or similar cruised past me, scornful of my tortoiselike150 kph. We made a couple of motorway stops to take on refreshments and give the dogs leg-lifters. In spite of a wrong turn we made it on time to the airport where, because of a snail-like baggage service, we had to wait an hour for Jones to appear. When she did, her welcome would have warmed the heart of a queen.

The sun was rising as we returned home. The fields were green and frequently waterlogged on either side of the road. And the hunters’ guns were popping as we made our way back up Espargal hill. In spite of her tiredness Jones was unable to rest until she had restored the house to the shape in which she’d left it. That’s not to say that it was untidy or dirty. Natasha had laboured all the previous day to remove the last speck of dust. But there were objects out of place, pots unreturned to their rightful drawers and unusual arrangements of odds and ends. All of these had to be righted before, with harmony restored, Jones felt that she could begin to unwind.

I downloaded the 200 plus pictures that she had taken during her travels and got brief descriptions from her of the places involved. She gave me a rundown on some of her adventures, which were many and of which I’d heard little. For over a month we’d enjoyed only the briefest text message and email communications, followed by a couple of phone calls during her stay in South Africa. I have suggested to Jones that she write an account of her trip or at least dictate her diary to me. She feels that this is not near the top of her priority list.

On the Monday we walked the dogs 5kms to Benafim, sticking to the roads because the plain that separates our hill from Benafim’s hill was swimming. En route we encountered Zeferino (80+) who was on his way back after walking to the town himself to meet someone who wasn’t there. He stopped for a chat and welcomed Barbara back. Further along we bumped into more neighbours who gave her a further welcome. It took us closer to 90 minutes than the usual hour to reach the town.

After topping up on salads at a supermarket we made our way to Rui’s Café for truly delicious ham and cheese sandwiches, washed down with tall glasses of cold red wine. We sat at a table on the pavement, with the dogs tucked under our feet. Occasional scraps made their way down from the table to the grateful animals. The café itself was packed and smoky. Lunchtime news blared from the TV hoisted up on the wall. The local police parked carefully on the pavement and popped in for refreshments. It can truly be said of Benafim that what you see is what you get. Pretensions it has none. Jones said that she felt that she had really arrived back home.

Monday my internet link and the phone started to play silly b.gg.ers. Tuesday they gave up the ghost altogether. Portugal Telecom said they were treating the repair as urgent, given my status as a ISDN customer (paying twice the standing charge for a dual line). Tuesday, as promised was damp. We took ourselves to Alte, where the sun came out long enough to allow us a walk and a fig-and-almond-tart lunch at Luis’s place. In the afternoon we sorted through Jones’s pictures. Afterwards she took the dogs for a quick walk, just in time to run into a shower and to return with two soggy animals. Hardly had we lit a fire and dried them off when the area was shaken by a squall that bent the trees double, whipped shutters from their clasps and rattled the house. It’s the closest I’ve come to experiencing a hurricane and as close as I ever want to come.

Wednesday got screwed up by my efforts to stay flexible enough to attend within short notice to the Portugal Telecom engineer who failed to show up to fix the phone. (One has to arrange to meet the man at the local school and lead him back to the house.) So did Thursday. Still no engineer. Calls to the Portugal Telecom faults number brought only a computer voice informing me that the fault was being attended to. I’m beginning to understand the withdrawal pains that drug addicts endure, a case of cold cyber turkey.

Thursday afternoon our expat neighbours came around for refreshments and pre-Christmas conversation. They arrived half an hour before the vacuum cleaner demonstration man whom I’d agreed to entertain in order to assist friends - who’d already agreed to buy one - to obtain a discount. The appliance is a Rainbow, confidently described by the demonstrator as the best in the world. It’s certainly a remarkable machine. It’s also, undoubtedly, the most expensive of its kind – around 2,500 euros if one obtains the discount available by purchasing before the end of the year. The female neighbours wandered upstairs to watch bits of the demonstration.

At the request of the demonstrator, I pulled back the sheets on the bed to expose the lower section of the mattress. The fellow then ran the nozzle over the surface for a half a minute before removing a filter and revealing the mass of dead bed-mites and their droppings that the machine had sucked up through the surface material; at least, that’s what he said they were and we believed him. It was kinda scary. Even so, Jones does not consider the astronomical price worth the machine’s considerable advantages; it’s a dust remover, air purifier, and perfumer as well.

We have been letting the kittens into the house to try to introduce them to the dogs. They rush around madly, exploring every corner. There’s no problem with Stoopy. She just growls if they get too close. Ono is not happy about the introduction, especially as the kittens have no fear of him and run up eagerly to smell his nose (bad news) or his bum (worse). Yesterday, the kittens got into a noisy bust-up with their two muscular half-siblings, an encounter that the dogs rushed eagerly to disperse. It’s going to be a while before we can relax with a harmonious household.

At this point, Friday morning is heading towards Friday midday. It’s sunny and there’s a cold wind blowing. We have just returned from a long walk through the valley. We bumped into a Portuguese neighbour who gave us a bag full of lemons and a Dutch neighbour who was walking her dog to Benafim. The Dutch neighbour was not very happy because she made a mistake while filling out the forms required for her to matriculate her car in Portugal and she is now going to have to pay the full import tax. The customs authorities are not proving in the least sympathetic or helpful.

Before setting out on the walk I spent 20 minutes on the (mobile) phone to Vodafone finding out (a) how long it would take to activate a Connect Card if I bought one today [answer: 24 to 48 hours] and (b) what sort of signal strength I could expect if I tried to use one here [answer: pretty low]. So I cancelled my plans to drive to a shopping centre to purchase one and arranged instead to borrow a friend’s internet connection this afternoon.

On Monday I shall travel into Loulé to complain bitterly to Portugal Telecom about their service. What a bummer.

Letter from Espargal: 47 of 2006

(The Marco Polo arrives in Cape Town)

I have reason to be grateful that I live up a hill because many of those Portuguese residents who live on the plains have spent the week bailing themselves out. It has been a very wet week. Downpours last weekend raised the Douro River, which we so admired during a visit to Porto a few months ago, a total of 7 metres, inundating riverine sections of the city, including the famous port warehouses that line the bank. (During a tour of one of the warehouses, a guide showed us marks high on a wall, indicating the levels reached by previous floods. The staff had cut loose the port barrels, allowing them to float up with the water.) The story was the same for dozens of towns and villages across the length and breadth of the country although the Algarve got off lightly.

On Tuesday, it was the turn of the Algarve to get a dousing. It happened to be the day that I was taking the car in for a service at the Honda workshop on the outskirts of Faro. I fetched Natasha and young Alex on route, as she wanted to buy him a tricycle on a sale that was about to end. In teeming rain the Honda minibus dropped the pair of us off at the Algarve Forum shopping centre. It’s a very smart shopping centre, keenly aware of its upmarket status. But its drainage system was incapable of dealing with the torrents of water falling on its spacious inner courtyard. A large and growing pool lapped ever closer to the shop doors where fashionable merchants were trying desperately with mops and squeegees to repel the tide. There was something pitifully puny about their efforts.

At a perfume store I asked a shop assistant if she would guide me to a couple of 10 euro bottles of spray, explaining that I wanted to give small Christmas gifts to two delightful women who work in the Benafim parish office. The assistant explained apologetically that the cheaper perfumes started at 30 euros. I thanked her and retreated to familiar ground. In the Jumbo superstore I came across rather less expensive products although the two I chose were placed over the wrong price tag and I found myself paying double what I intended. (When I went back to check I found that the products were correctly priced – just misleadingly stacked.)

The rain was dying away by the time the Honda minibus fetched us again at 11.30. I assisted Natasha who was coping with Alex, his stroller, a large box containing a tricycle and several other purchases. How single parents ever manage alone, especially on public transport, is completely beyond me. The car was waiting and I got back home in time to watch the lunchtime news. It was full of the floods in Faro city centre and in nearby towns.

Rain apart, the week got off to a good start. Idalecio came over on Saturday afternoon to try to cure a longstanding problem with the chimney. Because of a gap between the metal chimneystack and the surrounding brickwork, soot has tended to drift down into the lounge. Jones found this extremely irritating. I found it quite annoying myself. I tried blocking the gap at the lower end of the chimney where it emerges through the ceiling but this solution was only partially successful. I feared that Idalecio would have to bash a hole in the chimney in order to reach the stack. Happily he found that the shaped top-section of the chimney was just a heavy piece of reinforced concrete that could be shifted aside to allow him to do the job.

Next we removed the netting that I had draped over the solar heater panels to keep the sparrows out. In spite of my efforts, the sparrows had long since returned, worming and squirming through the netting and building another series of nests in the hollows of the tiles under the panels. With the hose we cleaned the nests out. They were full of muck. I’d already taken steps to stop the water flowing into the cisterna.

Inevitably the sparrows will be back. The technician who came to replace a leaking valve earlier this month said the only solution was to raise the panels on a frame as we did at the Quinta. It means that the panels will be more visible but I think this is the lesser evil.

Between us, Idalecio and I got through a couple of other undemanding jobs that required two sets of hands. Within an hour or two we were done. I had a great sense of achievement and he made some easy money, reluctant though he was to take payment. I pointed out to him what it would have cost me to get somebody in – and that I would otherwise feel unable to ask his assistance in future.

When I bumped into some English neighbours later that day, I was taken back to hear that Vitor’s dad, stricken with cancer, had died and been buried two days earlier. I’d wanted to go to the funeral and was exasperated to find that I’d missed it. The usual practice is for the undertakers to stick up an obituary notice in the local hamlets but for some reason they’d failed to do so. I made my apologies and expressed my condolences to the widow.

I had a poignant moment the following day when, after buying several loaves of freshly baked bread from Hans the German baker, I dropped a loaf off with Portuguese neighbours. The front door to their house was opened, not by the wife as usual but the husband whom I mentioned in my last letter. He’s the fellow who has been stricken with some form of dementia and who recently attacked his wife. To avoid a repetition, his spouse no longer sleeps at home. The old fellow looked at me miserably and wailed: “I have no wife,” clearly uncomprehending of the circumstances. I gave him the warm bread and wished him well. I wish I had a wand.

On Monday I spoke to Jonesy for the first time in a month. She and Maureen were in Durban, being taken on a tour of her old student haunts by a friend. She was frustrated by her inability to respond to my text messages, for some technical reason. She’d tried various configurations without success. This frustration aside, she was having a nostalgic time in Durban and was looking forward to the end of the trip in Cape Town on Wednesday.

Subsequent calls have indicated that she’s been having a ball in Cape Town, where she has extensive family. She is staying with her half-brother, Llewellyn and his wife, Lucia. Jonesy flies back to Johannesburg and on to Portugal on Saturday. The dogs and I are planning a reunion at Lisbon airport early on Sunday morning. [For the two accompanying pictures on my blog, I have to thank Llewellyn (the ship) and Annelize (the dinner party)]

My email correspondence this week included a note from the Portuguese Financas, saying that I should look on their website for a response to our application for a temporary exemption from local taxes (a one-time benefit to the owners of a new house). Let me say that it is now possible to conduct all one’s normal fiscal business with the Department online. Parts of Portugal are rapidly going high-tech. After logging in and finding the response (in spite of misleading instructions) I was pleased to see that we had been given a four-year exemption – from 2006 to 2009. No reference was made to the two-year period during which we have been awaiting the Department’s response. Its conversion to high tech doesn’t seem to have speeded anything up

Wednesday and Thursday brought the usual lessons. Before classes, I went along with Natasha to the Social Security office in Loulé. Natasha had informed me that in spite of her illegal status she was entitled to sign on for social security if she had a valid employment contract. That didn’t make any sense to me, especially in the light of what a lawyer had told us a few months earlier. However, Natasha’s contact at the office bore out her story. The clerk said that recent changes to the law meant that foreigners were eligible to sign on as long as they were employed and had valid passports. Valid visas were no longer required. I was most surprised.

The long and short of it is that we have sought out accountants to draw up the necessary contract. The employer is required to commit him(her)self for a year to pay a modest monthly fee to the office plus 70% of the minimum wage to the employee. This (the minimum wage) is less than 400 euros a month. As a young mother, Natasha stands to benefit from the arrangement. She may even be able to legalise her status, something that she would love to do. Danny, I regret to say, has more or less disappeared off the radar.

Letter from Espargal: 46 of 2006

I received two suspicious emails at the start of the week, one with an attachment, from a man whose name meant nothing to me. After wondering whether to zap them, I took a back- door peep and discovered that the author and his wife had been fellow diners with Barbara and Maureen on the Mediterranean cruise. What’s more, they’d been kind enough to attach two pictures of their group, which you may find on my blog. (I’ve stopped attaching pictures to my letters for the moment because some correspondents are restricted to dial-up internet connections and don’t appreciate large files.)

Jones, I’m glad to say, has had a much better week. Once again, I’ll let her text messages speak for her.

(Sat) “Just coming into Mombasa at 0500 and hoping for a signal after such ages. Still dark. Big clouds. Going on a morning tour.

Sorry for silence but could not leave cabin for 3 days. Doctor’s orders. Neither could M for 2. Also am flustered by net centre although guy very helpful. Very expensive. 15 dollars each to send two (very brief) emails.

Mombasa mainly chaotic but old part interesting. Portuguese fort well preserved.

Everyone up on deck using wifi. Long 8 days for all.

(Sun) 0003 GMT. We about to leave for game park. Back late evening. All is going well.

(Mon) Tsavo excellent. Check internet for Voi Lodge. Must go there. Stunning panorama. Mombasa road worst ever. An experience. Good animal viewing. Sunrise as we enter Zanzibar harbour. Calm and warm. Tour due through old town. Feel fine.

(Thur) Seem to have signal. Trying for 2 days. Miss you and can sense the sights of home. Batteries down on camera. Missing 2 days of shots. Mayotte beautiful but tatty. Today Nosy Be with lemurs. Probably out of touch 3 days until Durban.

(Later Thur) Amazing day in Lekobe Forest.

My (Terry’s) week has managed to embrace nearly all my good deeds for the year. The first was to offer old Zeferino a bucket of fertilizer as he made his way up the steep track beside the house to tend his carob saplings in a plot at the top of the hill. (It took us some time to get to grips with his name, which comes from the Roman Zephyrinus, itself derived from the Greek Zephyros. This is a country whose copper and gold deposits were mined by the Carthaginians and then the Romans hundreds of years before the Arabs came ashore here.)

Zeferino was glad to accept my offer. He stopped for a quick chat. Did I know, he asked me, that X, another villager, had gone mad. I told him that I was aware of X’s problem. It’s a very sad story. The man concerned has gradually developed a dementia that recently resulted in an attack on his wife. They are both in their sixties; maybe early seventies. The police were called but declined to take any action, presumably because she didn’t press charges. So was an ambulance but since X refused to get in, it too went away. X has been prescribed pills that he takes reluctantly if at all. Nobody knows what to do about the situation.

As Monday was a lovely sunny day and I had long since promised a friend that I’d take my chainsaw around to trim some branches, I kept my promise. The tree concerned was a huge old pine that could easily shade a dozen cars. It must have been there long before I was born. The lower branches were drooping uncomfortably close to the ground. I spent half an hour clearing them to a height of some two metres. It’s hard work holding a chain saw at arm’s length or above one’s head. I reckoned that this good deed should safely see the year out.

On the way home I passed the odd couple pushing their ancient wheelbarrow along the road to the village. The barrow, which is pre the pneumatic age and should have been retired 50 years ago, was loaded with twigs, obviously intended for the fire. Getting the barrow up Espargal hill was a challenge that I couldn’t see them meeting. I started the tractor which, as it happened, had a load of firewood stacked in the link box and drove down the road to meet them. Together we heaved their barrow on board and I drove back up the hill to their cottage where I left the load. The only drawback of such kindness is that it always meets equal kindness from the other side, generally delivered in the shape of half a goat or worse – in the same ancient barrow.

Finally, at the request of another neighbour, I attached the extension ladder to the tractor, took the chainsaw, and went to the far end of the village to trim a large carob tree. The tree in question, like the pine, had obviously been around for a very long time and offered a welcome area of shade at the bottom of the garden. Its problem was a collapsed bough that dangled dangerously a couple of metres above the ground. This, after a bit of high altitude chain-sawing, I managed to bring down, much to the gratitude of the owners of the property.

That’s all my good deeds. I am going to check Wikipedia and any other sources I can find to determine how to grade good deeds and to establish how many “good deed points” one needs to get to heaven; that’s if Richard Dawkins is wrong and there is one. (I’ve just finished his God Delusion – interesting book!) With luck I should be in credit well into the New Year.

I nearly forgot. There’s one more to report. I went along to a workshop where Vitor the mechanic fixes cars to see what progress he was making with a car belonging to an Irish couple who commute back and forth. They’re away at the moment and their car has to go for its annual inspection by the end of the month. I’d promised them to follow its progress. The car was awaiting a new generator and then its test.

Vitor himself was a bit glum about his dad, who is in hospital with terminal cancer and not expected to survive very long. The old fellow has been a village institution for as long as most people can remember, an Andy Capp figure who, after retiring from the building trade, was most often seen passing on his moped, stompie glued to his lips, as he headed to or from the bar at Alto Fica. I hope there’s a bar in heaven, or wherever Vitor’s dad is likely to be going soon.

On the domestic front I seem to have spent most of my week caring for animals. That’s the two dogs, the two kittens, Tommie fat cat, the two black cats that arrive for food morning and evening and, since Marie and Ollie are away for a week, Nosey and her brood of four remaining kittens over at David and Sarah’s place. The hardest part has been keeping rival pairings away from each other, especially as the kittens have grown restless with the back patio and I’ve tried letting them out for short spells. Braveheart is quite reckless and hastens to meet any other animals, generally with bad results. His sister, Dearheart, is quite the opposite and very nervous. I shall be pleased to hand over kitten duties to Jones in just over a week.

Wednesday evening I joined friends David and Dagmar for a meal and a film. The meal made a welcome change from my standard evening diet of raw veges and tinned fish. Thursday brought the arrival of a “poltrona” (I wonder where that word comes from) the arm chair that I ordered from a specialist firm of chair, bed and mattress makers some weeks ago. It’s one of those chairs whose base kicks out to support the sitter’s legs and which inclines back at an angle. It’s very comfortable. I tried it out in front of the fire and last barely five minutes into a TV programme.

The chair is intended to replace a most uncomfortable “bargain” leather chair and stool that we acquired in London years ago and which we seldom sit in but have been too mean to throw out. I shall try to persuade Jones to donate it to a worthy cause. I hope that you like the new chair Jonesy, which is currently parked in the lounge while it awaits assignment to either the south patio or upstairs to the study. I’m not putting it on the patio yet as it’s very comfortable in the lounge and I fear that the kittens would not treat it kindly.

Thursday also brought the first drops of rain of a storm that is meant to rage over the Iberian Peninsula this weekend. I have loaded the wheelbarrows with firewood and parked them in a dry spot to help see us through. The wood-burning stove is a pearl of great price. I think I shall get this off early lest the power or my internet link should go down.

Letter from Espargal: 45 of 2006

(Siesta time!)

My week has sputtered along, marked (maybe marred) by a couple of late-night films and sleepy days. I’m finding it hard to maintain an easy rhythm in Jones’s absence. For her part, during the week-long voyage to Mombasa, Jones went down with a virus that was touring the ship. According to the online itinerary (http://www.orientlines.com/destinations/africa/33d_passage_africa.htm ) she’s due to arrive in port on Saturday morning early. I have heard little from her, as you may glean.

“As far as I can count this is midpoint of trip so not so long till home.

Passing through strait to Gulf of Aden.

Watching sunset over distant coast of horn of Africa. Four days at sea over. Four to go. A bit boring.

Try to message as we pass close to land. Have been sick with ship virus along with 60 others. M okay.

(by email) Have been in quarantine for the ship bug from Luxor. This (Wed) is first day out, sorry long silence. Am now fine, will sms from mombasa.

(by email) Don’t know if you saw my line yesterday, but today netcentre guy eldon has helped me. am now fine after the luxor virus, looking forward tho to being on land again. have not had opportunity to read all the emails, hope am not missing abything importnat. is it still ok for llew to meet ship, do you know? will sms him later. Can’t remember all the things was going to say. still bit flakey after 4 days throwing up and runs. o for baggies.”

Cathy flew home at the weekend after a very pleasant and easy stay. The showers that dampened the first half of her visit were replaced by a series of blue-sky days that gave way to another spell of rain midweek. Before it arrived, I managed to sow six more rows of beans that ought to provide us with a handsome crop in due course. The rule is a handful of blue fertilizer granules and half a dozen beans in the furrow every half metre or so. What’s more, I weeded the bean plants that I sowed last month, having seen a previous crop all but overcome by the jungle of weeds that sprang up simultaneously. Our carob trees should also be smiling soon. They’ve enjoyed generous scatterings of ammonia fertilizer around their trunks.

Acquiring the fertilizer meant a trip to Benafim where two of the small family-run supermarkets in the main drag are tied in with building supply businesses directly over the road. Women folk manage the former and men folk the latter. Come to think of it, one of the women concerned was recently widowed when her husband wiped himself out on his motorbike. She employs a men in our village to do deliveries. He wasn’t there when I called so she trotted over the road with me to help me load a 50kg sack of fertilizer.

Running these businesses requires multiple crossings of the road and loading of lorries in the street, hazardous stuff given the number of world speed records that are set in Benafim high street. In a bid to slow the traffic down – there are no traffic cops for miles around – Benafim council is now putting a traffic circle at the main crossroad. Big machines have been grunting around for a couple of weeks. Half the job seems to be trying to persuade the local drinkers to move their cars from their favourite parking spots outside the adjacent café-bar. Habits die hard in this part of the world.

Eddie and Lesley Vanko came around just before Cathy’s departure to assist me with some plumbing

problems. That’s to say, Eddie worked on the plumbing (with a couple of minor useful suggestions on my part) while Lesley passed an hour or two with Cathy and a magazine before we all went to the Adega for lunch.

Although I hesitate to confess it, two of the tasks involved a dripping tap and a loo cistern with an obstinate mechanism. I write as a handyman (of sorts) who has replaced any number of tap washers and fiddled around in the innards of numerous loo cisterns. But I had never dismantled a combined hot-and-cold-water tap before, nor had I worked on a double-flush loo. Both appeared to be seemingly undismantleable. This was because, as Eddie demonstrated, an alan key had to be inserted into a tiny aperture in the tap while in the loo cistern there was an all but invisible retaining screw. In spite of his professional efforts, both the tap and the loo have continued to play up intermittently and I may have to procure new innards for the both of them.

A bigger job was to prepare the mains water supply pipe for the installation of a water meter at some point in the future. To facilitate this, the parish offices supplied free to all householders a section of plastic piping with brass fittings at either end. These fittings had to be connected to the pipes in the water supply box, leaving the short length of pvc to be replaced by the meter in due course. (Sarah and David, I have a fitting waiting for you.)

In the meanwhile, Eddie has connected the mains water supply directly to the house plumbing. The pressure is a huge improvement on the efforts of the cisterna pump. Taking a shower is a real pleasure. On the other hand, the valve on the solar water heaters freaked out. It started leaking so much water down the roof tiles that I felt obliged to disconnect the mains and replug the pump, pending a visit by a technician.

I see that the Al-Jazeera English TV channel has been added to the free stations available on the satellite signal that we receive. I watched bits of its opening night and was quite impressed by the extent of its coverage and its emphasis on third world issues, aims set out by its British editor in radio interviews earlier in the day. I can see it becoming a strong contender against BBC World and CNN. France launches its own international channel shortly, although I’m not clear whether it’s to be only in French. You may be aware that Al-Jazeera’s Arabic channel has not gone down well with the Americans.

Thank you to those correspondents who have brought me up to speed on Connect Cards. All considered, I’ve decided to stick with Telecom’s broadband service at home and to use wifi services when I travel.

Wednesday and Thursday brought the regular language lessons. The dogs came with me as they usually do. I put down a blanket in the corner of the classroom and they plonk themselves down there for the duration of the lesson (more or less). There are no objections.

I left the car at a tyre service outlet on Thursday, after encountering a disconcerting and growing low-speed wobble from a front wheel. The outlet manager heard my description of the problem and immediately said that the tyre concerned was “torto” – twisted or bent (as he later illustrated). I left him to put on two new tyres while I went to lessons. He had to order them in and didn’t have the price which, as it happened, was somewhat high. Nor did he have a book to give me an official receipt (although he promised to have one next time I dropped by) – meaning that he could pocket the VAT. I consoled myself that at least I didn’t have to waste a couple of hours at another outlet.

The sun’s back and the dogs are waiting for their walk.

Letter from Espargal: 44 of 2006

(Cathy and Tommie: It's not a new picture. Jonesy has the camera)

Cathy and I have been practising our 21st century communication skills. She sits downstairs scanning her emails and the internet on her laptop while I’m on the desktop upstairs. The router is happy to accommodate us both. Each time she gets a pertinent email or comes across an interesting item on the web, she emails it to me. I return the favour.

Similarly, anything she needs printing sails up here electronically and sails down again on sheets of paper. We find the system works well. One thinks back to the old days when one actually had to walk up and down stairs to perform such exchanges. In due course, no doubt, if we are not all frizzled up by global warming or laid low by bird flu, we shall find our legs shrivelled up and useless. (I have a picture in my mind of a little green baddie with a big head who used to perch on a hovering cushion in the Dan Dare comics of my youth.)

I was sitting at the computer on Sunday morning, not dressed for company, when I heard a car draw up at the gate and the dogs starting barking. A peep through the window revealed a Portuguese neighbour. I tried to pull on my jeans over long undies and a t-shirt but they stuck fast on my shoes. After a five-minute tussle I managed yank them off and went down to meet the driver. He seemed to think that I was within the limits of estrangeiro eccentricity.

He was clutching a sheaf of documents from his brother in law, who owns a field adjacent to mine, a field that I have long had my eye on. I had bumped into the brother-in-law in the village square a few weeks earlier and asked him whether he would sell it to me. He was interested, at the right price. On this we quickly settled. The plot concerned forms an L around a rectangle that we already own, and I shall be thrilled to acquire it. Other people who own contiguous property have to be consulted first, and given the option to improve on the price. I wait with fingers crossed.

On Monday it poured. While Natasha was cleaning the house, I took Cathy along to Algarve Shopping at Guia. It was her first visit and she liked the place. While she explored I nipped into the electronics store, FNAC, to inquire about the bit of gadgetry that was intended to fit into a slot in the side of my notebook computer. An assistant explained that it took connect-data-cards that permit internet access on the move (for the sum of 100 euros down and 40 euros a month. Don’t worry too much about this paragraph, mother!)

Alternatively, one can buy a card that plugs into a USB port and can be transferred between notebook and desktop computers. The cost is less than I’m paying Portugal Telecom for broadband access. If anybody has experience of such cards, please let me know. Presumably, in areas where one gets poor mobile phone reception there would also be a slow internet connection or none at all.

Tuesday the Portuguese news bulletins were full of the floods that have ravaged parts of the country, cutting roads and rail lines, submerging fields, drowning animals, fouling houses and generally making life miserable. Many of the dams that were reduced to puddles during the recent drought are filled to bursting.

Wednesday the sun reappeared. I reploughed Sarah and David’s field to get rid of the green carpet. My beans, at the top of the field, are already a foot high. The ground was a mite too wet for comfort and a mud trail followed me back home.

Cathy and I play in turns with the kittens, which have grown tired of their patio home and long to explore the world around them. They come bursting through the door the moment we open it. Stoopy ignores them. Ono doesn’t approve. Ono, meanwhile, has suffered a recurrence of his stairs phobia (after twice tumbling down). He now descends very slowly, looking from side to side, until he reaches a point about five stairs from the bottom, and then he tries to leap to the floor. As the stairs are made of wood and are slippery, it’s a bad strategy. I’ve taken to leading him down a stair at a time.

Friday we got Natasha in to clean for the second time this week. As always, she did a great job. But somehow a patio door was left open and when Cathy returned the kittens from her bedroom to the newly-cleaned patio, the kittens went awol. Cathy didn’t notice until the silence from the patio struck her as odd. Then we all went looking. Within a few minutes Braveheart returned. Of Dearheart, there was no sign.

So we were not in good spirits when we set out for supper and a film with our friends, the Davieses. On our return we found the missing kitten back on the patio. What joy and relief. I don’t know what we’ve had said to Jones if the kitten had taken off for good. Cathy returns to Berlin on Sunday.

Jones continues her cruise. She’s on the high seas and I don’t expect to hear from her for a few days until the ship gets back within range of a network antenna. Last contact was from Safaga on the Red Sea coast. I shall let her speak for herself: the brackets are mine:

ATHENS:
“600 passengers got off and a new lot got on today.

On high seas bound for Port Said. Am up on deck. Nobody around yet. New people at table, American retired teacher with pony tail and a Swiss German gentleman.

It is self service in the mornings. Entire housekeeping and catering crews are Filipino. Very informal. Perhaps over friendly with eye on end of trip tip.

Just docked Port Said. 05.00 gmt. Will see if roaming works. (It did)

We are in middle Suez. Dawn just breaking. Takes about 16 hours. Our convoy passes northbound convoy in lake.

10-bus convoy with armed police truck and onboard guard. Roads cleared of traffic as we passed. Pyramids great.

Stationary in canal at moment. Await north convoy pass. Warmer today. Some sun.

Am helping tech-phobe Aussie learn SMS. (You may not appreciate the irony of this statement!) What costs SMS rough price?

Beautiful morning. En route to Aqaba and Petra. Much walking ahead. Not sure how M will cope. Suez was interesting. Were delayed as another ship in convoy grounded.

Have just discovered ship has live web cam. Maybe you can see it. (We can’t.) Very disappointing. Petra trip cancelled because of (Suez) canal delay and high winds.

High winds prevent docking at Aqaba. Passengers mutinying. Like a hive of angry bees. M suspects captain of trying to save port fees.

Windy on board. Hope does not affect docking at Safaga. Great arid jagged mountains on coastline.

Due to overnight in Luxor. Been on board two weeks – a long time.

Luxor incredible. Early to the Valley of the Kings.

Just back after overnight stay Luxor. Great Moevenpick hotel. Temples astonishing. Convoy 15 buses. Military escort. Traffic cleared. Now 8 days sea to Mombassa.

Still in Safaga. Some problem in getting enough water on board for 8 days at sea. Seems this is first such voyage for this ship. Late arrival at Mombassa would affect some passengers’ return flights. Engines just started. Goody.”

So there you have it.

Letter from Espargal: 43 of 2006

It’s wet and sunny in turns. Another low pressure system is working its way across the peninsula. The rain is turning the green carpet around us into a jungle. The bean plants that I sowed in Sarah and David’s field a few weeks ago are already six inches high. One can virtually watch them grow.

This is true also for Braveheart and Dearheart, who have been upgraded from the guest bedroom to the south patio to permit my sister, Cathy, to occupy the bedroom in their place. They have taken to their new quarters with gusto. After an interrupted night midweek I reported to Jones that I felt like Old Mother Hubbard. In spite of several nocturnal trips downstairs, I failed to find the cause of the crashing noises that woke me. All the windward shutters appeared to be firmly secured. When the racket resumed at dawn, I went down yet again to find the kittens playing with a metal bar that was banging against a door.

Just as I was getting back to sleep, Tommie started squalling for his breakfast – and then Stoopy threw up on the upstairs carpet.

Come back Jones, all is forgiven.

Jones and I continue to exchange daily text messages via our mobile phones. It is just over a week since her boat left Venice. It has tended to sail at night and lie up during the day while the passengers, Barbara and Maureen included, go exploring. Her latest messages have come from Athens. I’m sure she will not mind if I give you a flavour of what she has had to say:

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Venice. Just back from sunset boat trip. Dinner at Danielli hotel. Glamorous and pricey but great.

Just made it on board. Now unpacking. Cabin fine if I stay tidy. Still need to explore ship.

Sorry. Long silence. Busy day. Room-service supper.

At breakfast. Many Americans. I am off to tour glass factory.

Just coming into sight of Croatia coast. Very rocky. Light cloud. Joining walk tour of town. Email very pricey, very busy.

Am sitting (on an island) in a quiet spot shaded by pines, looking across Adriatic to mainland Croatia. Water lapping at my feet.

Three thirty and just sailing from Corcula.

Corfu today and all day tour. Captain’s party last night. Wore the dress (a birthday gift from Kevin and Ann). Had photo taken with him and M. Cloudy warm calm sea.

Done Corfu. Coach trip across mountains via small functioning monastery and coves to east coast and lunch on west. Drove around Corfu old town. It’s okay. Many bars.

Didn’t explore. Tomorrow visit ancient Olympic site on Katakalon. Many cats on Corfu.

Already docked in to ancient Olympic site. Now having usual muffin and coffee. Last night saw Willis film, Sixteen Blocks.

Olympic ruins and museum wonderful. Katakalon much more quaint and clean than Corfu. Met two pleasant Americans.

Who won world series baseball please? (This at the behest of the Americans)

Thanks for baseball info. Charlie impressed. Patmos today. Is in bible, Book of Revelation.

Just docked Izmir. Visit Ephesus. Early start. Last night Filipino crew gave song and dance show. Quite moving. Patmos stunning.

Just back from Ephesus. Mind blowing. Pouring rain. Forgot brolly. M shared. She in good spirits but feels officers not paying enough attention to us.

Bad weather due. Now sailing to Istanbul. Had great visit to carpet factory, prices out of my league. Look forward to a day without touring on Thursday.

Driving rain, heavy seas. Not sea sick. Today blue mosque and Topkapi Palace.

Just back from Turkish dinner, belly dancers. Great city and mosques. St Sophias. Just leaving port now. Flood-lit skyline. Rest-day tomorrow.

Six in the morning, watching sun rise over Dardenelles.

Despite glamour here, envy you. On open sea heading for Athens.

Just done ten times round the deck. Now for a shower and a show, then dinner.

Docked in Piraeus for Athens. Vast cruise liner alongside. Busy port. Will have morning tour of acropolis.

Acropolis was amazing but crammed. Athens much cleaned up. Traffic abominable.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

My own week has been dull by comparison.

On Monday I went looking for some computing equipment.

On Tuesday, with rain looming, I ploughed our three bits of field. All three had already been covering in a fine green baize since their last ploughing a few weeks ago. I was quite proud of myself for managing to plough the steep Casanova field along a contour route, as advised by a neighbour, instead of from top to bottom as I had done before. The neighbour ploughed the adjoining field in the same manner to show me how it was done. There were times when I chose to stand up on the tractor and to lean against the slope although I’m sure my neighbour would have laughed at me.

Wednesday was a public holiday. That meant that there was no early morning bus from Loulé so I had to fetch Natasha. She cleaned inside while I tidied up outside ahead of Cathy’s arrival. The dogs and I went to fetch Cathy from the airport mid-afternoon and were very pleased to welcome her back to the Algarve. I took her to supper at the Adega. It was as good as always. The owner confessed that he was hoping for a small turnout that evening as he and the staff had been worked off their feet over lunch.

Thursday brought the usual English classes. Cathy helped me walk the dogs from the car to the building and then occupied herself for an hour. The dogs came to classes with me.

Then we drove in the drizzle to Almancil to fetch an elderly friend plus large dog and to take the pair of them to the vet in Loulé. His house floods easily after heavy rain. As usual, the water was lapping around his front door.

And Friday Cathy and I bought the weekly papers and took ourselves to Alte for coffees, toasted sandwiches and a catch up of the news. Jones will sigh when she reads this as it’s one of her favourite activities. And in spite of her exotic and glamorous adventures, she sighs a little for home.

I have assured her that she will be back soon enough.

Letter from Espargal: 42 of 2006

Jones is on her cruise. Last I heard from her, she was sitting under pine trees on an Adriatic island, staring across at the shores of the Croatian mainland. She’ll be glad of the peace and quiet. She flew out of Faro on Monday night after much careful preparation and packing. (Each time she left her open suitcase to fetch a garment, Fatty Fatcat would hop back inside.) Together we ticked off her checklist.

The dogs and I saw her off at Faro airport on Monday evening. She arrived at Gatwick shortly before midnight and was lucky enough to be able to recheck her luggage immediately – EasyJet having declined to check it through to Venice. She then killed a couple of hours in the terminal before clearing security and heading for the departure lounge when the place reopened. She doesn’t have my gift for dozing so she was fairly bleary-eyed by the time her flight took off at 07.00. After arriving in Venice she caught the water-bus from the airport as her friend, Maureen, already in Venice, had advised her.

But she caught a public water bus not a private one as Maureen had done and meant Barbara to do. So Jonesy got lost. Her map proved of little use. To make matters worse Venice was flooded by an extra high tide and streets were several inches under water. Not that this discouraged the thousands of tourists who were wading in every direction. Jones had the choice of joining waders in the water or fighting her way, with suitcase in tow, through the scrum using the elevated wooden sidewalk.

She says it took her over an hour, multiple enquiries and several phone calls to find her hotel. It is tiny and not well known. Along the way she stopped to marvel at the amazing sights the city has to offer. I had no idea of her difficulties until I got a text message after her safe arrival. By the time I called her at the hotel she could see the funny side but she must have been shattered.

She didn’t even have a restorative tipple of our neighbour, Jose’s finest fig liqueur with her on her travels – given the latest security regulations. We were presented with a litre and a half of the beverage in a water bottle when we passed Jose’s storeroom with the dogs one afternoon. He wished to thank us for the carobs we’d collected and given him. He was horrified to hear that I intended to mix this nectar with coke. No, it was too good for that, he protested, and should be taken neat.

Jose doesn’t actually make it himself. Local people take their figs along to a hamlet where somebody has a still and exchanges the figs for liquor. Such production is unlawful because the liquor is not taxed. However, the practice is time honoured, the locals would be very dismayed to see it brought to an end and, fortunately, the police generally have better things to do.

Once again the week has been delightfully damp. We’ve had rain for 12 consecutive days, as long a spell as I can remember. The start of the week brought thick mist and a downpour. I had a call from Natasha to say that she was at the bus station in Loulé, having missed her bus after battling to get young Alex to his carer. She was due to work for a friend of ours in Almancil who has little grasp of Portuguese while Natasha has equally little of English. Normally don’t need to talk much. He fetches her from the bus stop in the town and drops her off again. She just gets on with the job.

She asked me to call him and explain that she was taking a later bus. That was cancelled – more phone calls. Eventually it all worked itself out. The friend concerned has a house on a flat piece of ground that floods after heavy rain. When I spoke to him, his garden had vanished under a sheet of water that was creeping into his garage and threatening to invade the house itself. Happily the storm passed over in the middle of the day and the flood resided.

Tuesday Natasha cleaned here. Given the weather conditions she had to take extra care to keep the animals apart. Squeaker and Squawker stay outside. Fatty Fatcat (aka Tommie), who gets harassed by them if he goes out, camps up on the bed all day. The two kittens have to be shuttled between the guest bedroom and the south patio while cleaning is underway. And, of course, they must be kept away from the dogs and the dogs from them. So far, the two pairs have stared in fascination at one another through the glass sliding doors. At some point introductions will have to be made. I’m not in a hurry.

During a trip to Loulé I dropped into a computer store and bought myself another 256 mb of RAM, which doubled the memory on my aging (nearly 4 years old) desktop computer. I reckon that one computer year equals ten human years. The computer has been struggling under the weight of the English and Portuguese dictionaries along with email, browser and elements of Office, to say nothing of virus checkers, firewalls and spyware filters. Although I had difficulty fitting the memory strip into a narrow slot behind a mass of ribbons, it worked. The computer instantly recognised that it had extra potency and now opens my programs with satisfying promptness.

With the restraining hand of Jones out of the way, I also took myself to an appliance store in Loulé and bought a flat screen TV, an appliance of modest dimensions that fits neatly into the space available in the lounge and gives a brilliant picture. Usefully, it can swivel 20* to the right or left. That happened on Wednesday when our Portuguese teacher forgot to turn up (he called me aside during my English class on Thursday to apologise) and I found myself with an hour to kill. The shop assistant assured me that it was easy to set up and so it was. One just has to inform the set what country one is in and it then configures itself. According to the instructions it offers a huge range of different modes and settings that I may get around to one quiet evening.

The quiet evening I had in mind last night was disturbed by a call from the two Dutch women who have moved into a new house in the village. They had run into problems trying to matriculate their car – no surprise – and sought my advice. By the time they came around I had printed off the relevant instructions in Dutch that are available to members of a foreign residents association. The pair confessed that they had tried, with virtually no Portuguese, to begin the process themselves and had erroneously signed an importation form that left them liable for 4,000 euros in import tax – this on a well-used combi type vehicle. I directed them to the Automobile Club of Portugal in Faro to try to sort the mess out. Portugal still fiercely protects the local (heavily taxed) car industry by imposing either punishing taxes or a bruising bureaucratic load on imported cars.

Not that such bureaucracy is confined to Portugal. It so happens that I’ve had dealings lately with both our British and Portuguese banks. Troubles began when Barclays blocked our cash cards on my last visit to Canada. They advised me to inform the bank next time I intended to travel. But when I tried to do so, I found there was no channel. They wouldn’t accept emails or letters. One had to go in person to the branch concerned or involve oneself in lengthy international phone calls. The only way around this was to become a premiere client by keeping 100,000 pounds in the bank. So I wrote and complained. In fairness I got a prompt and sympathetic phone call saying that the matter was being investigated.

In Portugal, on the other hand, because we keep a modest credit balance (as we do in Britain) we find that we have been upgraded from the “mass market” branch (their description) to the personal clients branch where most things can be arranged by simply lifting a telephone or sending an email to one’s account manager. There’s little doubt in my mind about which bank I would chose to deal with.

Before I sign off, let me tell you that Jones has not been encouraged to try the ship’s internet facilities. In an SMS she reported that “email very pricey very busy”. I don’t think that she will be spending much time at the keyboard. I shall be happy to pass on any news by text message at such times that we can communicate. There shouldn’t be much problem for the next week or two while she’s off the European coast. Thereafter it’s a case of fingers crossed.

Letter from Espargal: 41 of 2006

This is quite a big day in our lives, seeing it’s the day we got married, some time back in the last millennium. We both knew that it was imminent but it took a congratulatory email from my sister this morning to remind us that it had arrived. Or, maybe, just to remind me. Not that Jones said anything when we woke, rather late, given the mist and drizzle that envelops the house. Intermittent gaps in the mist give us glimpses of the valley below.

In fact it’s been wonderfully drizzly and grey for most of the week. Astonishingly for us, the next ten days look to be equally damp, that’s if one credits weather.com’s ten day forecast. I’ve often seen ten little sun logos pictured in its forecast but never before ten drizzly clouds. In anticipation of the wet weather, I planted beans last weekend in the upper section of Sarah and David’s field, an area that I’d already ploughed. The field is narrow and sloping, as well as being dotted with awkwardly placed trees, making it difficult to work with a tractor. I was pleased to learn that my efforts had won compliments from one of the local farmers - no small achievement.

Most of the locals are of the view that it is still a bit early in the season to be sowing beans. If I went ahead, they advised, I should plant the seeds slightly further apart than usual. Later plantings could be closer together. I took their word although I missed the finer points of the explanation.

The sun was still shining last Saturday when Jones returned from feeding the kittens at Sarah and David’s – the Old Bakery -, clutching a cat basket containing the small tabby female kitten that she wanted from Nosey’s latest litter. The kitten was promptly named Dearheart and introduced to the spare bedroom where her previously miserable brother, Braveheart, gave her a delighted welcome.

The two of them have settled down really quickly. They now come running each time we enter the room and are happy to be fondled, especially at feeding time. Their appetites are large and, for two small kittens, they make surprisingly generous use of their sand-tray. We have yet to introduce them to the dogs although the latter have come to terms (of sorts) with the kittens’ half brothers, Squeaker and Squawker, who have been designated “outside cats”. Any correspondence regarding cats – the increase of - should be addressed to Jones.

Which reminds me. Jones is off for her cruise on Monday. She flies to the UK that evening and then on to Venice, where she and Maureen will join the ship. The vessel departs on 26 October and arrives in Cape Town on 29 November. During this time Jones should be contactable by phone, fax or email. I suggest email only as the other two options are decidedly expensive. Her ship email address ought to be:

bbenson0614@marcopolo.cruisemail.net

I suggest that you address any emails to her personal address, as well, at:

barbarajbenson@gmail.com

Should you wish to phone her, you will be required to supply details of your credit card (costs $7 a minute), the ship’s name (Marco Polo) and the cabin number (D614).

The phone number is: 00 1 732 335 3295 (although I suspect that the first two digits will depend on the caller’s location. The fax number (at approx £10 per fax) is given as 00 873 330 869 311.

This week saw the start of the “Senior University of Loulé’s” academic year. Serious academicians might suspect this institution’s credentials (in much the same way as people harbour doubts about North Korean democracy). But that’s not the point, given the good work that its voluntary teachers do among Loule’s (mainly) older citizens. We returned to Portuguese classes on Wednesday. My English class the next day brought several welcome and familiar faces as well as a host of new ones, among them that of Natasha, who wants to improve the schoolgirl English she learned in Russia.

Also present was the widow of the man who used to run the small car repair shop just below the Quintassential. To my shame, I failed to recognise her until she spoke. In mitigation I must plead that I had met her only a few times, on the last occasion at her husband’s funeral in Loulé, where dozens of expats joined the Portuguese community to pay their respects to Joe. Joe was simply a guy who would bust a gut to help people out. He loved working on cars as much as he hated working out the bill. If there’s a part of heaven set aside for mechanics you’ll find Joe there.

Midweek I took advantage of a break in the clouds to burn piles of old branches that had been lying around the Casanova field. I know that burning off rubbish is now taboo and I did so reluctantly. Any new prunings get turned the same day into firewood or mulch. But the branches in question were too dry to shred and not worth the trouble of cutting into numerous small twigs (of which I already have a large stack). It took me three firelighters to get a blaze going in the damp conditions and two hours to get rid of the branches, which had to be dragged from the edges of the field. A shower came along as I finished to dampen the mound of ash that was left in the centre.

Wednesday evening we were entertained to supper by friends whose names I’ll omit lest they or their acquaintances read this (now available at - http://www.letterfromespargal.blogspot.com/). Not because we were not handsomely wined and dined but because their cat came in half way through the meal, hopped up on the couch where I had left my coat and proceeded to bring up its supper on the garment. Our hostess was most apologetic for the beast’s unseemly behaviour and, having cleaned the coat, offering to have it dry-cleaned as well. That would really have been abusing her hospitality. It wasn’t the sort of coat that visits dry cleaners. Moreover, as I was able to report the following day while walking in the drizzle, it seemed to work as well as ever.

Thursday we had friends around for pre-lunch drinks, really to catch up on their news and show them all the stone work that Idalecio had been doing around the garden, before going off to lunch at the little village of Nave de Barao. The adega there serves both excellent and inexpensive meals as well as boasting a tempting range of affordable wines. It’s a favourite.

One evening I spent downloading the latest version (7) of Internet Explorer – much improved (although I’ve long preferred Mozilla Firefox) and trying to renew my Norton Anti-Virus programme. With the latter I failed, as the company insists that one supplies a (non-existent in my case) subscription number obtained with the previous purchase. I’ve decided to give up on Norton, which is getting very expensive anyhow, and go with AVG instead. I’m interested in the new Microsoft OneCare, which looks like good value but it’s not yet available outside of North America.

Today, while I was writing this letter, Jones asked me to call a small workshop in the hamlet of Torre, where several women run a business making wooden toys and decorative items. Jones wanted a few small objects to take with her on her travels. The women said we’d have to hurry because they closed at 12.30 on Fridays. So we promised to be prompt and they said they’d wait for us.

We’d never been to Torre before. It’s a tiny village (no café, shop or even children) in the hills on the far side of Alte, one of numerous places that have really only stayed alive because of the foreigners who have bought up and restored the derelict cottages. Half a dozen dogs inspected us as we arrived. The woodworking women, three of them, have turned the old primary school into a carpenter’s shop. They were working away, shaping, sandpapering and gluing bits of wood. Along the walls there was a good selection of machinery as well as dozens of hand tools.

The scene took me back to Dad’s garage, its workshop to one side, and all the lathes, saws and other equipment he loved to work with over the weekend. But I grow unduly nostalgic and, anyhow, my page is up. I might add only that we celebrated our anniversary with toasted sandwiches, baggies and inimitable fig and almond tart at Luis’s place in Alte.