Letter from Espargal: 45 of 2007

This is a travelogue rather than a blog. It's brief because my back is still playing up. The account covers our three day visit over Christmas to the Quinta da Ortiga pousada on the outskirts of the Alentejo town of Santiago de Cacem. ("Santiago" is Portuguese/Spanish for St James) The town, like most in the region, clusters around a fortified hilltop that was much fought over by generations of Moors and Christians. The nearby coast features great spans of empty beaches and craggy cliffs. Our first stop was at Cabo (Cape) Sardao, where we were fascinated by the flock of storks circling over the cliffs. Closer inspection revealed several of the birds sitting on nests that were built on fierce outcrops of rocks.




The pousada itself is an old farm that was expropriated by the government following the 1974 revolution and later converted into an hotel. Its main attraction for us was the small cottage that we were offered as accommodation and the invitation to bring our dogs with us at no additional cost. The three associated pictures show the cottage, the Casa da Capela, and Jones relaxing on the couch inside. The cottage was perfect for our needs. Alongside the noisy fan heating was a welcome log fire, beside which the dogs curled up happily in their baskets each evening.





After breakfast - included in the bill - we'd walk the dogs through the adjoining forests and fields before taking ourselves out in the car. The trees were spectacular, mighty eucalyptus, ancient cork oak and umbrella pine. A flock of sheep wearing bell collars tinkled their way up the dirt road each morning to graze freely in the fields around us.





On the coast we found great empty stretches of beach where the dogs could run free and there was nothing to be seen other than sand, shells and the lapping ocean. Much of the coast has been declared a reserve area. From time to time one comes across unspoiled holiday and fishing villages, occupied at this time of year only by their inhabitants and fleets of motorhomes bearing north European number plates.








Because Portugal, like Spain, now has legislation requiring dogs travelling in cars to wear a safety harness, Ono was trussed up accordingly. The two little guys were reduced to riding behind the grill in the rear of the car - a downgrading at which they protested fiercely. Sorry guys, the police were out in force and the fines for contravening the new law were heavy.


During one outing we came across a family of black pigs in a field near the Quinta. The piglets were having fun and games, much like young puppies. We came across a very large black pig that was wandering down the road, caught up in its thoughts. We gave it lots of room. It was probably a domesticated and well-behaved pig but it was also
extremely big and we were not sure about the proper etiquette for meeting pigs.

Letter from Espargal: 44 of 2007

 

I guess this is my Christmas letter. It’s not going to be a production, if only because I have somehow managed to put my back out and my butt complains vociferously if I sit at any length. Apart from which, Christmas is not my time of year. I can never really come to terms with its commercial face or the required bonhomie, especially in the absence of family. Sorry if I wrote the same thing last Christmas. You might want to just skip this paragraph.

So, having gotten that off my chest, let me add that we’re going away for Christmas, to a country hotel halfway to Lisbon. We shall be away from Sunday to Wednesday and, quite possibly, out of cyber-contact during that time. (Horrors! I don’t know that I shall survive it.)

TREES IN A STORM
More to the point, it’s been raining, some real, serious rain, which we needed so badly and for which we’re very grateful. I don’t know to whom; we’re just grateful. We had 40 mms last night, along with showers yesterday and more today. If the timing isn’t ideal, we’re not complaining. It’s more important to renew our ground water than to please festive partygoers and people arriving for Christmas breaks.


Jones has been entertaining her Portuguese lady neighbours to a festive tea. I fetched the ladies concerned in the car so as to spare them from the weather – and then dropped them off at home again, close by. They were a bit taken aback when Ono hopped into the car beside them but only for a moment. He sat up straight in his most winning way and peered intently through the windscreen, as he does, and soon had them eating out of the back of his paw.
One of the guests told us how her husband had had his mobile phone lifted from his belt while he was waiting in a supermarket queue. He’d noticed a couple of suspicious looking characters behind him but didn’t miss the phone till he got home.

Instead of telling you about our other various get-togethers, I’m going to borrow some prose from other authors. Before I do that though, let me mention that during one of our restaurant outings,
I went to the loo and was astonished at the arrangement I found there. One would really have had to be an athlete in order to make full use of the facilities. I took a picture that I shall stick up on the blog.

Meanwhile, this text arrived on a Christmas Card – attributed to John Cage’s Indeterminacy series – my first introduction to him - and I think it’s brilliant; I mean to read his other brief essays ASAP. (http://www.lcdf.org/indeterminacy/first.html)

A crowded bus on the point of leaving Manchester for
Stockport was found by its conductress to have one
too many standees. She therefore asked, “Who was the
last person to get on the bus?” No one said a word.
Declaring that the bus would not leave until the
extra passenger was put off, she went and fetched
the driver, who also asked, “All right, who was the
last person to get on the bus?” Again there was a
public silence. So the two went to find an
inspector. He asked, “Who was the last person to get
on the bus?” No one spoke. He then announced that
he would fetch a policeman. While the conductress,
driver, and inspector were away looking for a
policeman, a little man came up to the bus stop and
asked, “Is this the bus to Stockport?” Hearing that
it was, he got on. A few minutes later the three
returned accompanied by a policeman. He asked, “What
seems to be the trouble? Who was the last person to
get on the bus?” The little man said, “I was.” The
policeman said, “All right, get off.” All the people
on the bus burst into laughter. The conductress,
thinking they were laughing at her, burst into tears
and said she refused to make the trip to Stockport.
The inspector then arranged for another conductress
to take over. She, seeing the little man standing
at the bus stop, said, “What are you doing there?”
He said, “I’m waiting to go to Stockport.” She said,
“Well, this is the bus to Stockport. Are you getting
on or not?”

EXPATS TO SUPPER

I had another story, which I enjoyed just as much, this one a personal account from an old friend, Annelize, a South African journalist whom we met in London many years ago and with whom we have remained friends. It’s a Christmas story and I have her permission to pass it on, which I do in an abridged form. She wrote:

“While I was at university I went to a Carols by Candelight in Greytown (South Africa), held at the high school sports grounds. People had to bring their own chairs or just sit on blankets on the terraces. The dominees (ministers) were down below where an organist played on a Hammond organ borrowed from the hotel.

One of the teachers presented a tableau with live animals to make things more interesting for the children. She got a farmer to bring a flock of sheep and a few donkeys and someone else to construct a crib. A little kid in a nightie climbed into the crib, its head popping up every now and again to see what was going on in the rest of Bethlehem.

We sang a few carols, the sheep stood around sheepishly and the two donkeys seemed to be intrigued by the kid in the crib. Then suddenly a bright spotlight was switched on and focused on a tree on the terrace. It lit up a big star on the tree, as well as an angel, complete with long white robe, wings and halo.

The angel suddenly began to descend down a (foefoe-slide) wire. Halfway down it got stuck. After dangling there for a few seconds, the quick-thinking angel looked down, saw that the ground was not too far away and, pulling up its robe, let go of the wire. It hit the ground and kept going under its momentum towards the crib. With a magnificent leap it managed to spring over the crib and hurtled WHAP! into a donkey. The donkey made a very strange sound and moved off uncertainly to join the sheep. Mistrusting his intentions, these dispersed all over the ground.

You have never heard a group of Christians laugh so much. It was by far the most successful Carols by Candelight Greytown ever had.”

There, that’s a much better story than any I can tell you this week. What else has been happening? Idalecio has spent a day pruning our almond trees. Can’t think of anything else. Happy Christmas!

Letter from Espargal: 43 of 2007

It’s a bright, breezy and cool Friday. The animals are stretched out on the south patio; this area is a suntrap and always the warmest part of the house. To take the chill off the rest of it, I have lit a fire in the wood-burning stove, from which emanates such a cosy glow as people who live in centrally-heated dwellings can barely imagine. The stove is very effective; unless one damps down the fire, almost too effective. Allied with a couple of glasses of wine over supper, it is liable to provoke one into a hopeless doze in front of the TV.

This week is mainly about pictures. Taking last things first: last night we took our neighbour, Idalecio, and his son, Eduardo (5), on our annual jaunt to admire the Christmas lights in Loule. Loule takes great trouble with its Christmas lights, illuminating the main streets of the town with novel and dazzling designs. We arrived in town around 6 p.m. Loule, evening rush hour. Like the streets, the pavements were crowded. Although darkness had fallen, there was still another hour of trading before most shops closed – and several hours before the (spreading) Chinese shops closed.

Shop windows were replete with Fathers Christmas. Eduardo does not appear to have reached an age when he questions the authenticity of this ubiquitous red-robed figure. Nor did he question Santa’s multiple representations. Sensibly, he seemed happy just to accept the good vibes that Santa represents. In a mini-square off the main road we found a small round-about whizzing kiddies around, and Eduardo enthusiastically joined in the fun. We supped at a pizza restaurant on the fringes of Loule’s lower square. Eduardo shared his father’s pizza. I preferred the lasagne. Jones opted for chicken salad. Over supper we caught up with Idalecio’s busy life. He spends most of his time at his house and garden construction business, with firewood supply and under-floor heating sidelines.

In the course of our wanderings we bumped separately into Dani and then Natasha with baby Alex. Dani and Natasha had spent the day at the house, she at her weekly cleaning tasks, he continuing to rub down and paint the metal railings around our patios and the gates.
This latter task is taking longer than I budgeted or expected. Either Dani is being extremely thorough or rather slow. Since he has no other work lined up at present, Idalecio speculated that it might be a bit of both.

Earlier in the day I had fetched from the fringes of a carob plantation a tree stump that Jones had spotted and wished to add to her collection. Idalecio’s family, who owned the plantation, bid me go ahead. They are not into tree stumps, except when they can be cut up for firewood. Dani helped to drag the stump off the back of the tractor and arrange it as Jones required. What she really wanted was to set it up in the south garden but we were unable to oblige, as the stump was far too big and heavy.

Wednesday brought my last English lesson of the year. We talked about “water-boarding” and the moral dilemmas that an ex CIA man confessed the practice posed for him. While he clearly didn’t much like it, he was deeply appreciative of the quality of information that those subjected to it tended to provide. The practice was clearly a great loosener of tongues. Little wonder that Mr Bush is so reticent about it and disinclined to call it torture.

Tuesday I took myself to see a young man at Loule’s podiatry clinic. More accurately, he is Loule’s podiatry clinic. He is obviously much in demand as I had to wait several weeks for an appointment. Jones had been to see him once to have a corn removed and found him quite competent. In my case it was to have him check out a swollen and sensitive Achilles tendon. He made me carry out various minor exercises before prescribing and supplying me with silicone heel inserts that I am to wear for a month before reporting back. He was happy to take cash and gave me his card, with hand-written hours of opening, in lieu of a receipt. If the silicone inserts work, I shall not complain.

Tuesday evening we had the village expats around for a festive barbeque. Given the success of my previous sausage grills (as opposed to slightly dubious chicken and kebabs) it was decided that we would confine ourselves to sausages – along with plates of goodies that Jones spent much of the day preparing. Jones also set out an extended table on the south patio. Very good it all was too; the evening was pronounced a decided success. We are to have a minor repeat this coming Tuesday evening to welcome back Sarah and David (and their son) and to entertain one or two other neighbours.

Other than our final Portuguese lesson, I can’t for the life of me remember what we did on Monday, apart from the usual stuff (walk the dogs, get rid of the ashes from the fire, tend the garden, pour baggies and watch telly).


Oh, yes. During our morning walk we bumped into Idalecio and one of our elderly Portuguese neighbours, Zeferino, who were out cutting wood. That’s to say that Idalecio was cutting up the boughs of dead trees while Zeferino looked on. Zeferino is a remarkable character. He’s well into his 80s, fit and healthy and never at a loss for something to do in spite of being illiterate (like many Portuguese of his age, who enjoyed virtually no education).

We come across him most mornings. He’s always about to set off on foot - either to check or water his trees or to pay his bills in Benafim (5 kms away) or simply to see how some village project is progressing. He’s interested in everything and knows all the local news. If the world needed a model on how to lead a happy and healthy old age, in spite of being seriously poor and badly educated, Zeferino would be the man. (Jones reminds me that he gave her a bucket full of wild bulbs, which she has planted around the garden.)


Last Sunday, for a change, we took ourselves for an extended walk along the fringes of the Quinta da Lago (the Algarve’s fanciest resort) golf course and the adjacent salt pans. The salt pans are fascinating – large rectangular depressions lined with wooden shuttering along the metre-deep banks. Some were full of water, plus occasional floating seabirds, and others empty. Channels allow the water to be piped in and the summer sun does the emptying. A salt mountain nearby attests to the efficiency of the age-old process.

Late news: Friday evening – a baggy at my elbow: We are back from a trip to the vet. Jones was worried about the health of Dearheart, her small, grey and white, female cat, who was having difficulty breathing. The little beast has a lung infection and has been prescribed anti-biotics, a second course. She’s just come off a first course for some other problem.

Just before sunset we drove 200 metres to Leonhilda’s house to fetch some large branches from her newly-pruned fir tree – ideal for Christmas purposes for ourselves and our neighbours. Leonhilda warns us that she will be going around to her village relatives this weekend to assist with the slaughter of a pig – another Christmas tradition – and will be tied up (in a manner of speaking) making sausages for several days thereafter. This will be the second pig to offer itself up for villagers’ Christmas. The first squealed so loud and long during its despatch (while I was in Canada) that Jones nearly fled the house. (Jones says the animal didn’t squeal; it screamed.) I have promised to take her and the dogs on an excursion this time to spare her further suffering.

Letter from Espargal: 42 of 2007

It’s mum’s death that reverberates around the week. Even though it was expected, even though it came as a relief, the news was a shock. Family members were summoned to her bedside early on Tuesday morning. She died quietly soon after. Age and infirmity had taken a heavy toll on her, shrinking her to the barest shadow of herself. Rest in peace, mum. You were an extraordinary and inspiring person.

That evening I lit a barbeque and opened my best bottle of wine. The day had been picture perfect and the dusk was hushed in the shadow of the hillside above us. If spirits assemble anywhere to celebrate creation, it must be in such blessed places as these of rocks and trees and glades. The flickering flames of the charcoal fire seemed to me to be a metaphor. Our tenure is so brief. There is no compromising with this mortality business, no coming to terms with it.

It’s the season of planting peas and beans, even though there’s no sign of the rains that should be irrigating the fields. Old Miguel and Raquel demonstrated to us as we passed by their little plot, how peas should be sown. They have to be buried shallow, just the depth of a digit, with a light scattering of fertilizer pellets. According to folklore, Miguel explained, the peas must be close enough to the surface to hear one walking away. Once they’ve sprouted, the soil around them should be weeded with a hoe and piled lightly around the base of the plants.

With beans, people are less fussy. Some simply plough them in with a tractor. The beans, it seems, don’t much mind – as long as they get the rain they need when they need it, not when they’re in flower. I’m sorry to report that rain remains in short supply. It’s a worry.
Even so, Jones and I spent half a morning sowing our beans in the small field at the bottom of the park (the acre of rocky hillside above us). It was hard work, bending double, tossing out the stones and then raking the soil over. My shirt was soon soaked with perspiration. This was our second bout of exercise that morning, following our usual 90-minute walk. With all this exertion, I wondered how my tummy still had the temerity to peer over the top of my belt.

One day we walked with Anneke and Ermie (a Dutch villager and her dog) to Benafim for lunch. It takes an hour to trace one’s way down Espargal hill, across the fertile flood plain below us and up the far hill to the town. Our destination was the Hamburgo, a popular venue and the only restaurant in the town if one discounts the several cafes offering snacks. We sat at a table outside in the autumn sunshine, the dogs at our feet, while Manuel served us with plates piled high with chicken – washed down with the house reserve. It was more than the dogs could do to ignore the tantalizing smells. While minding their manners, they reminded us discreetly, chin on knee, of their own needs. There is something about a simple meal served in such a blissful setting, especially after a brisk walk, that conveys a sense of the good life.

Work has begun on two new construction projects in the village. In a small community like ours, a new house is an important development and a talking point. The first of these is near the bottom of the “running field”, which gives us “green” access to the main road, 100 metres below our house. Mario has levelled the site with his digger, piling a mountain of earth beside it. We wonder if we shall still be able to pass through the field with the dogs. It is very likely that the future occupants will fence it off.

The other house will be constructed just off the village square by Horacio, the principal builder in the area and a very good one too. It is destined to become a second holiday house for Fintan and Pauline, a retired Irish couple who live in a cottage near us. The first such house they built, close by, has delighted them with its success in their first season. It offers visitors luxury accommodation in a village setting with easy access to the coast. Any marketing that we might be doing for Fintan is entirely accidental.


These projects come at a time of fundamental changes that the government is proposing to Portugal’s sclerotic planning process. In essence, it will remove responsibility for building projects from leaden-limbed local bureaucracies and give it to supervising architects. The bureaucracies will still make the rules. It will be up to the architects to acquaint themselves with local regulations and then to ensure that any buildings they design comply. In short, the architects will carry the can. In theory, this could give warpdrive-like acceleration to the moribund planning and approval process. Horacio thinks it’s too good to be true. I have to confess that I harbour my own doubts.

I have spent some hours acquainting myself with my new mobile (cell) phone. Calling it a phone hardly does it justice. It’s a sophisticated multi-media device and it’s clearly going to take a lot of getting to know, like learning to use a computer all over again. Progress has been intermittent, satisfying when I make it and frustrating when I don’t. I’ve got my head around the camera, the video camera, the GPS and the internet browser. What I haven’t yet managed to do is to install the voice-guided satnav programme. (My techie brother-in-law) Llewellyn’s struggles with his own smartphone, colourfully recounted by the man himself, spring to mind. What I really need is a short course, or at least a book in the Dummies series for Christmas.

Fintan has called around to help me replace a complicated mixer tap in the kitchen. As he might have pointed out, but kindly refrained, the task is much easier if one simply removes the old tap rather than dismantling it. Next time I’ll know.

I had an hour with another neighbour who has just acquired a new computer and was having a problem burning files to disk. Her computer didn’t seem to like the disks she was using. Ripping and burning is not my strong suite. But I offered my services anyhow. To her surprise, her new computer behaved immaculately and, with just one minor hiccough, did all that we asked of it. Why didn't it behave that way with her, she wanted to know. I pointed out that computers were human too, and like us they had good and bad days.

Natasha is cleaning the house. I have warned her that the chimney sweep is coming to call and is likely to mar her efforts. Outside, Dani is rubbing down and painting the gates. The pair of them were due here earlier in the week but they missed the bus. It wasn’t the first time. Previously I have gone (20 minutes) to Loule to fetch them. This time I hardened my heart – although I was happy to rearrange their visit. Their real problem is that young Alex keeps them awake into the early hours and they then have the very devil of a job trying to wake up.

Friday we are going to Portimao, where Fatima (who runs the St James shoe shop) has found me a pair of my favourite soft-soled Ecco boots – or so she assures me. I sought a pair during my visit to Calgary but couldn’t find them at any of the three Ecco outlets that I tried. Maybe that was fortunate.
What I did discover was the price: $300 dollars. Clearly, not everything in Canada represents good value.

Friday evening we plan to visit Loule’s Christmas fair. It’s an annual must.

Letter from Espargal: 41 of 2007

Calgary airport: Let me start by saying that this is an unashamedly family letter, full of family names and family news, and accompanied by family pictures.
DINNER AT THE CARE HOME
It’s a grey Monday afternoon. On the far side of the terminal window, crews are spraying the aircraft wings with anti-freeze. The temperature is deep into minus territory. (My brother) Kevin has dropped me off. My flight is still a couple of hours away. I’m carrying a box full of muffins, as requested by Jones. (She says she asked only for one.) Calgary security confirmed that I can take them through. I’ve said my goodbyes: to Cathy and her girls, to Kevin and Ann, to Penny and Mark and Alan and their families, and to Mum. All week Mum has been slipping gently away from us. Her time left on earth is very short.

I arrived in Calgary on Thursday the 15th to find Mum poorly but still able, during her brief waking periods, to respond lucidly to staff and family.


KEVIN & ANN
Kevin and Ann had flown in from the US a day or two before. Glad as Mum was to see us, it was the arrival of Cathy (and her daughters) that brought her especial joy. We took it in turns to be at her bedside, exchanging a few whispered words when she surfaced and ensuring that she had whatever she wanted to drink. She had stopped taking any solid food.

The nursing staff would come in regularly to check her and turn her. Several told us how they admired her. Their job is not an easy one. Many of the residents of the care home are infirm and others are foggy headed; dealing with them demands a lot of patience. It’s quite common to bump into old folk making their way down the corridor on their “walkers”, who ask earnestly: “Where am I going?” or “What am I doing”. We learned to steer them gently back towards the east wing, from which they emerge. Mum, I should add, is in the west wing.

As during our previous visits, (my niece)
PENNY (right) AT THE RINK, WITH COUSINS & HER MOTHER
Penny and Mike ran an open house. Their home is within easy reach of the rest of the family. Their hospitality was warm and untiring – and I thank them. We often gathered there of an evening for a pasta meal, games with the kids and an hour of conversation. Their elder son, Jackson, celebrated his fifth birthday during my stay with a party at a bowling alley. It was a hoot, with some of the little tots barely able to carry the bowls. That didn’t stop them from having oodles of fun. Another day I went along to watch Jackson taking skating lessons. Canadian kids take to the ice almost as soon as they can walk. Jackson is already confident on his skates and will soon be quite at home on them.

His younger brother, Wyatt, is something else. If Jackson promises to be sensitive and artistic, Wyatt looks likely to be the family hockey or football player. Their dad is 6’7” and his children seem to be following in his footsteps. (These opinions are mine alone, I should emphasise, and probably fallible.)

I joined Kevin and Ann one evening for dinner at (my nephew) Mark and Mindy’s home.

KEVIN WITH RACHEL & ETHAN
Their young son, Ethan, is a honey although Mindy confesses that there are days when she is relieved to thrust him into his returning dad’s arms. Well, that’s fair enough. Mark teaches aviation at a college in Calgary. He shares custody of his older son, Connor, with his first wife.

ALAN & ANITA
(My younger nephew)Alan (who has resumed his studies with his eye on a medical degree) and Sarah have produced two daughters to bring a little gender balance into the family. Young Esther is bright-eyed and bonny. Her older sister, Rachel, is a real character. She led the boys in great games during a family gathering that Kevin and Ann arranged one evening. The young cousins are clearly going to have fun growing up together. We missed only the Witbank side of the family, Brendan, Conal and Micaela.

CATHY & ERICA
Cathy’s daughters, Erica and Anita, were delighted to renew the acquaintance of their Canadian cousins. It was their first trip to Canada since Penny’s wedding 10 years ago. Erica and Anita are both at university; Erica is doing a Masters in Design at Goldsmiths in London and Anita is completing a Bachelor in Political Science at Constance on the Swiss-German border.

Like me, Erica and Anita were keen to exploit Canada’s relatively lower prices. (Apart from anything else, Alberta imposes a 6% sales tax on goods and services, compared to around 20% in much of the EU.) Alan, who knows everything that’s worth knowing about desirable technology and where to get it, took a morning off to lead us to a specialist mobile phone importer. There I acquired a Nokia N95 cellphone (cum camera, video camera, GPS, web browser, MP3 player, radio and much else). The device, Nokia’s attempt to compete with the “iPhone” is not yet widely on sale in Canada.

I took numerous pictures of our get-togethers, along with a few videos. Under the guidance of their Canadian relatives,
KEVIN & NIECES

my German nieces also made some very satisfactory high-tech purchases. Let me add that Alan managed to acquire and unlock an iPhone that he demonstrated to us. It was the first I’d actually seen in action. What a stunning bit of technology it is.

Let me move from high-tech to motor cars because my Canadian family is nothing if not keen on cars and enjoys little more than trading used ones in for new ones. (I tell Jones that the new ones are more environment-friendly but she's not persuaded.) As it happened, my visit coincided with vehicle purchases by both Alan and Mark, although it is their wives who will benefit most. With young families and the need for child seats, both nephews opted for mini-vans. I was wowed by their sheer space and practicality, to say nothing of the fold-down televisions, self-opening and closing doors, rear-view camera and you name it.


KEVIN
Kevin too confessed to having acquired a new vehicle, a Jeep suitable for towing. I didn’t get to see that as it’s in Chicago, parked beside his beloved Audi (RS4). The towing will be done by the mobile home that’s due to be delivered in the spring. He and Ann are both keen (mobile home) travellers in spite of a few small setbacks with their first two, and hope to spend some time touring North America. As you may be aware, the firm Kevin was heading has been bought out by a competitor and he is contentedly out of a job right now. I have urged Kevin, now that he has a little free time, to spend some of it writing to the rest of us – so that the news comes from the horse’s mouth rather than its stable mate's.

CATHY & SARAH
Espargal: I’m home, 24 hours home in fact. It’s a chilly evening after a warm, sunny day – some 30 degrees centigrade warmer than Calgary the day I left. The first fire of the season is burning in the stove. The dogs have snuggled down in their baskets beside it, just the happiest little guys. I went walking with Jones and the dogs while Natasha cleaned the house. The hills are green and damp after last week’s rains. Jones showed me the spot where she went off-route while leading our neighbours around a steep, bushy hill. The party floundered around in the dusk until Jones released Ono, who promptly led them a few metres back to the path, where they found Stoopy already waiting. Silly humans.


MARK & ERICA
In my English lesson today, we discussed the plight of the unfortunate British woman teacher who has been arrested in Sudan for accepting the vote by her young class to name a teddy bear Muhammad. She is accused of insulting religion, inciting hatred and showing contempt for religious beliefs. This strengthens my suspicion that God has disowned humans as a disappointing experiment. Certainly, if I were God, I’d raise heaven’s drawbridge.

On Natasha’s behalf I tried to fill in an online application form for the Portuguese Frontier Service but each attempt we made to submit it was rejected with an error message and an apology. Natasha is anxious to legalise her residence in Portugal. She’s not finding it easy. Ironically, she’s visited the Frontier office in Faro several times to establish exactly where she stands in the light of constantly changing regulations. The officials guide her as best they can despite knowing that she’s in Portugal illegally. It’s only if foreigners are caught working without a permit (or committing crimes) that the authorities actually expel them.

Jones is ironing. In spite of the warmth generated by the fire, she’s wearing a light jersey over her gown. She doesn't warm easily. I brought her back a few “love you” gifts from Canada. For fear that the customs authorities might challenge me over these (and other) purchases, I thought it prudent to discard the smart containers before travelling. Of course, customs showed no interest in me whatever. Security at Frankfurt airport did, checking that the mass of wiring inside my satchel belonged to the ipod, the radio, the 2 cellphones, the headphones and the notebook computer that I was carrying.


CATH (& ESTHER), SARAH & MINDY
I have always found security at Frankfurt to be exceedingly thorough. It’s the only place that my bags have several times been subject to random searches and where I’ve been asked to boot up my computer. On this occasion, the female security guard examining my belongings finally approved everything except a 200 ml container of fresh orange juice (off the Air Canada flight), even though it fitted into the small plastic bag permitted. The maximum permitted size was 100 ml. She said that she could confiscate it or I could drink it and leave the container with her. I thanked her and drank it. Thorough as they are, Frankfurt’s security officials, like Calgary’s, are also quite pleasant – not a compliment that one can pay to the leaders of the free world.

Jones has subbed my letter. She's not impressed: too much domestic detail! I tell her that nobody has to read it. The pictures may be of interest.