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.
No comments:
Post a Comment