Letter from Espargal: 16 of 2007

I have risen early to write to you, leaving Fatty Fatcat to occupy the bed alone. Beside me in the study, Jones has left her desk and has started ironing. The dogs are curled up in their baskets. They are not natural early risers. From the TV set in the corner comes the murmur of the BBC World Service radio news.

WITH EDDIE AND LESLEY - READ ON

As usual, I had woken at five, when Jones’s alarm clock goes off, and listened briefly to the news, before plunging back into a dream-ridden sleep. I found myself once again preparing news bulletins for the BBC – a common and troublesome theme. The chair at my office desk was too low to be comfortable and I was making a hash of a report that detailed reasons why some event had not occurred. (News reports emanating from the speaker beside my ear tend to work their way into my dreams.)

In my frustration I eventually tore up my page but before I began the next one it occurred to me that I might be dreaming. To test this theory I woke up. I was pleased both to find that I was right and not to have to prepare any more bulletins in my sleep. Writing letters at my real desk is far less taxing. It would be a relief to be able to throw off my subconscious past once and for all.

The sun has just climbed above the rim of the eastern horizon and beamed itself into the study. It’s going on for 7. a.m. This time next week we shall be packing for our travels. We fly to Berlin for a few days with Cathy; then to the UK, where Jones will stay while I continue on to Calgary.

In the rundown to our departure we have been trying to complete a list of tasks. Jones wondered aloud why we now have to make so many preparations for a trip when once she would just pack a bag, close the door and go. It’s because once did she didn’t run a household, I told her, one that frequently extends to caring for her neighbours’ animals as well.

At present she goes next door each day to give some tinned cat food to a delighted Wendy, who is nursing 6 small kittens. Jones has already taken down a large cardboard box to supply Wendy and litter with a more suitable home than the small one in which they were accommodated.

We had a stark reminder of the culture gap concerning animals when we passed the cottage of the odd couple, Dina and Chico. Dina was outside and evidently unhappy about something. So were a visiting young woman and a small boy with her. Of old Chico there was no sign. I gleaned from the woman that they were upset because Chico wanted to get rid of a litter of kittens.

CHICO AND DINA
We hesitated before going on our way. I tried to convince Jones that it was sometimes better not to get involved. As we made away across an adjacent field we could hear yells and shrieks coming from the cottage. Dina hates it whenever Chico destroys an animal, whether for food or because the creature is surplus to requirements. That’s the way he’s lived for his 80 plus years, however, and he’s not likely to change in those remaining to him.

The other face of Portugal was reflected in a phone call I made to the Finanças helpline after failing to log in to the website. It is now possible – indeed encouraged – to make one’s tax return online and to review one’s tax position (income tax, local tax, car tax, VAT) at any time. The woman who (eventually) answered my call, spoke fluent English, having spent – she confessed – several years in the UK. She patiently guided me through a number of puzzling areas before putting me through to a colleague to resolve my log-in problem. The colleague informed me that this was due to my (inadvertently) requesting a new password during my last visit to the site. With luck it’s already in the post.

Returning to my theme, we are making progress with the preparations for our departure. Yesterday we made our annual pilgrimage to the Portuguese AA in Faro to acquire an international driving licence. Afterwards, we lunched on the patio of a favourite restaurant at Faro beach, dogs curled up under the table. The strong breeze that discouraged sunbathers was a boon to the kite-surfers who skimmed across the water in front of us.

In my English class we have been talking about food. One of the class presented me with a jar of her home-made marmalade. The name for this product derives from “marmelo”, the Portuguese word for quince, and from the culinary adventures of the English armies during the Peninsula Wars. If in Portugal you ask for marmalade (pronounced mar-ma-laa-da), however, you get quince jelly. It’s one of the little ironies of the language, like “puxe” (pronounced push) meaning “pull” and constipation meaning a stuffy nose.

Back at the ranch, we have picked about half of our beans. These are now fat and swollen after the rains. We plan to pick the rest before we go lest we return to find the remaining pods black and hard as we did last year. There’s a large bucket of beans waiting to be shelled. Jones has cleared space for them in the freezer.

It took me the better part of a day on the tractor to clean up our big field. The little fields still await attention. The rain intervened. I then had to remove the scarifier in order to tow the trailer down the steep track past our side gate to the road below the house, where I hitched it to the car. This was with a view to helping Dani and Natasha move apartment. We chose April 25, the holiday when Portugal celebrates the anniversary of its carnation revolution.

Dani and I managed the move in a single trip, with the trailer groaning under a load of boxes and the Honda filled with the overflow. Happily, there was very little traffic in Loulé and I was able to find parking right outside the “new” apartment. I passed the lighter items directly through the ground floor bedroom window to Dani inside.

Dani was probably grateful for my help and I think he would have thanked me if he had not been suffering such cold turkey from his lack of cigarettes. He explained breathlessly as he took the last box from me that Natasha was refusing to lend him any money for tobacco. Could he please borrow 20 euros? For the first time, I turned him down. He’s long since far exceeded his borrowing facility and I fear that his partner’s hard line is justified.

I am in danger of overlooking the highlight of our week, the capture of a swarm of bees. We heard about the bees when we met our friends, Eddie and Lesley, for lunch in Messines last weekend. Eddie said his hive had swarmed just as the couple was leaving home. That’s to say (if I have it right) that the number of bees had grown too large for the hive. A new queen had been born and her older rival had led half the bees out of the hive into a tree above it in search of a new home.

When we returned to their house in the hills north of the town, we found the swarm still clinging to a branch. Eddie summoned his bee-keeping mentor, a local builder, who arrived soon afterwards. The pair of them donned their protective suits and, armed with an empty hive, approached the scene.


While the builder held the hive in position, he whacked the branch and most of the bees fell into the hive. The remainder were enticed into a cylindrical cork trap, lined with wax, and then persuaded (with great shakes of the trap) to enter the new hive. It all made for fascinating viewing. One would not easily believe that Eddie used to be very nervous of the big bumble bees that whizzed harmlessly around the Quinta.

Letter from Espargal: 15 of 2007

It’s Friday, late morning, as I write. The dogs are in their baskets. We are returned from a walk down the cork tree avenue in the valley and back through the orange groves. It was pleasantly uneventful. In spite of their raised hopes and best efforts, the dogs failed to rouse any rabbits. Some other dogs barked at them and they barked spiritedly back.

I shall not try to mislead you. Our news is modest. But, still, we shall share it with you if only in the hope that you will return the compliment. To those correspondents whose letters we have already enjoyed, our thanks.

We are waiting for some promised rain. As we scan the skies around us, we fear that the weather may renege on its promises. In spite of the depression that the satellite picture shows passing over us, such clouds as we can see are high and thin. Elsewhere, it’s been a different story. Parts of central Portugal were hit by fierce hail storms last night, with deaths and injuries on the roads. We listened to the news on the car radio as we returned from a concert in Faro.

The concert was given by a visiting orchestra, that of the conservatory of the University of Vienna. It’s a huge orchestra, easily twice the size of the local outfit, and found little room to spare on the large stage of Faro’s municipal theatre. There were at least 40 players in the string section alone. The first work was Rachmaninoff’s 2nd piano concerto, a favourite of ours. A Portuguese pianist was the soloist and was much applauded, even if one of our party thought that his rendition bore little resemblance to the recording made by Rachmaninoff himself.

It was followed by Mahler’s 1st symphony. Mahler is a composer whose works are far less familiar to me than his name and reputation. We’ve never heard his symphonies performed by the Orchestra of the Algarve, whether because of their complexity or maybe because of the large orchestra they require. Either way, his 1st symphony was a revelation to me, an extraordinary mixture of elements. Jones, on whose culture I lean, said she first heard it at the Proms in London some 30 years ago.

The week is proving to be a social one. Last weekend we bade farewell to our house sitters but not before we’d joined them on a long walk through the countryside. The dirt roads had been badly eaten away from a heavy downpour during our absence in the Alentejo. At one point as we walked down a slope, I lost my footing and went sprawling headlong on the loose gravel. It hurt. When I later inspected the minor grazes I had to show for my fall I felt somewhat disappointed. They didn’t do justice to the bruising I got. There’s nothing like a spot of blood to prove a point.

Midweek we had lunch with friends from the UK, who will be part of a group joining us at Idalecio’s restaurant again this evening. The friends are bird-watchers and orchid spotters, a couple who often house sit for us and who have inducted us into the wealth of Algarvian bird life and orchid varieties. We took them to a restaurant on the banks of the stream that runs through Alte, a place where one can lunch outside with the dogs, now including young Prickles, under one’s feet. He was spotted and fussed over by a group of Scottish women lunching at an adjacent table. The little guy really knows how to turn on the charm.

I must say that Prickles has settled into the household effortlessly - with cats, dogs and people - and the others have accepted him in turn. He is now responding to his name and to “COME” calls – some of the time, anyhow.

One complication that’s arisen concerns our twice-weekly classes, Wednesday for Portuguese and Thursday for English. The other two dogs have long been accustomed to come to class with us, an arrangement they find infinitely preferable to being left at home. They settle down on a blanket in the corner of the classroom and simply vanish for the duration of the lesson. But we haven’t felt that we can inflict a third dog on our classmates, especially as Prickles is much given to little whines whenever he wants anything.

The week’s post brought a glossy brochure from Honda, singing the praises of the new CRV and inviting me to test drive it. It’s an invitation I plan to take up. Jones was sitting beside me as I opened the envelope. “We won’t buy one this year,” I assured her. “Not ever,” she responded. (Jones does not believe that cars are a good investment, as you are probably aware.)

That’s a bit tough. Our current model is getting on for 7 years and has over 110,000 kms on the clock. I have been thinking that a new CRV might be a good idea when this one approaches the 200,000 km mark, say in three years’ time when I become an official pensioner. For older people (I can’t think of the euphemisms one sees for OAPs on health insurance and prepaid funeral blurbs) the reliability of a new model becomes a matter of some importance – don’t you think? Pensioners are not meant to lift the bonnet and start fiddling with the engine when things go wrong.

However, I do sigh over the prices one has to pay in Portugal. The CRV range starts in Canada at less than C$ 28,000 (according to the Honda Canada website). Here, the starting price is 39,000 euros – equivalent to 60,000 dollars – more than twice the price. It’s not just ridiculous; it’s positively painful.

Changing the subject - the European Bee Eaters are back, swooping overhead and sitting on the wires to display their glorious colours – shimmering rainbows. They’re a delight. I wish that you could see them - and our garden. It is green and lush, sprinkled with the flowers that Jones labours over so long.

Hiding in it somewhere is old Fatty Fatcat – aka Tommie, aka The Lynx – the huge tabby who migrated to us many years ago at the Quinta, where he found our cat food superior to whatever his owners were feeding him next door. Tommie is coming to the end of his days. He staggers arthritically upstairs and needs assistance getting down. His eyesight is poor. He bangs into objects and tips over the edge of the patio.

Jones spends hours tending him; carrying him in and out, feeding him, looking for him in the garden, loving him. Several times I have expected to find him expired in the morning but he surprises us each time. In spite of his infirmities, his appetite remains healthy. We wonder, if he continues to hang on, how he will cope when we start our May travels – now less than two weeks away. I’m not sure that we can inflict him on our house sitters, who are already going to find more animals than they bargained on. (I do not include the 6 kittens that the neighbour's cat has just produced.)

There’s some thunder in the background and a big black cloud over Benafim although here the sun shines. Things are looking more hopeful,I think.
ALAN JOHNSTON WAS A COLLEAGUE OF MINE AT THE BBC. I HOPE THAT HE IS STILL ALIVE AND THAT HE WILL SOON BE FREE

Letter from Espargal: 14 of 2007

This letter begins at the Quinta dos Avós (Quinta of the Grandparents) on the outskirts of the town of Campo Maior (Larger Field) in the northern Alentejo. The Quinta is an old country house, the equivalent of an English manor, that we found through the local tourist office. We have exchanged a few words each evening with the gentleman in charge. His wife has been in Lisbon for the birth of their granddaughter.

From Rosa, the maid, we gather that the property was inherited in poor condition from the owners’ grandparents. It’s comfortable in the way that old houses are when they come with modern electrics and ample hot water. The rooms are spacious and the bathrooms en suite. All that troubles us is the poor dog that spends loveless days guarding access to the property. (We were delighted on the Saturday of our departure to find the dog running around while its master looked on.) The house is within walking distance of Campo Maior if one is willing to brave the traffic on the main road into town.

We arrived here after spending two days at an establishment close to Castelo de Vide, a town further north, where Jones was content and I was not. On the basis of an internet search we had booked ourselves into a rondawel on a 25 hectare guest farm (mixed camping, caravanning and housed accommodation). Its Dutch owners are trying to do much the same sort of thing that we used to do at the Quinta.

As so often, it was a case of expectations met or not. I didn’t expect to have to walk 50 metres to a bathroom or 150 to the car-park, especially down narrow stony paths in the wet. Nor to have to squint at my book at night under 12-amp lights until the solar-powered battery supplying our unit ran flat and plunged the place into darkness. My richest curses were reserved for a top-loading wood-burning stove that seemed designed to fill the room with smoke before extinguishing itself, at least until we got ourselves a supply of fire-lighters (after which it worked like a dream).

If she were writing this letter, Jones would be raving over the magnificent mountain landscape, the birds, the flowers and the walks, and rightfully so. I was annoyed at myself in such a marvellous setting for not being able to suppress my irritations, the more so for being much better off in the showers than nearby happy campers. But in spite of this, my restlessness grew. So when our third day dawned wet under brooding skies, we called it quits, made our apologies to our hosts and departed.


Before our exit we got in some impressive walks. The best of these took us 90 minutes along a narrow centuries-old stone-paved road that wound up the hill overlooking the farm and snaked down to Castelo de Vide on the far side. The town, as its name implies, (like most in this region) is overshadowed by its ancient castle.

Returning to Campo Maior - the outer fortifications of the castle here have been turned into informal living quarters. Where stone is missing, corrugated iron sheets fill the gaps. During a walking tour of the town we made our way past the families that live in these spaces, to reach the castle gate; thence up steep steps to the battlements and the towers. Although its walls are in reasonable shape the castle itself, sadly, now offers sanctuary only to acres of weeds and litter.

The string of fortifications along the border reminds visitors that this is a region where armies have clashed from time immemorial. Its history predates the Phoenicians and the Carthaginians who set foot here. Long before their arrival the region was populated by people who left it studded with hundreds of stone monuments, menirs (pillars) and antas (tombs). These still stand, many of them, mute and mysterious. One menir we visited was over 5 metres tall and, according to a plaque, weighed 18 tons. There are no records to show who these people were, where they came from or where they went.

We spent a day at Elvas, the most impressive of the fortified towns in the area. The extensive old town, occupying a hill, is entirely contained within vast fortified walls, surmounted by the customary castle and keep.
A tall aqueduct – still in good condition – supplied water to the town. The tourist route takes one along narrow lanes where front doors still open on to streets barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. The mosques of the old Arab quarter were long ago converted into churches.

In a corner of the town we came across the “English Cemetery” and a group of Brits who have dedicated themselves to looking after it. It provides a resting place for some of the soldiers who fell in the Peninsula wars against Napoleon. In two battles in the area, some 11,000 British, Dutch, Spanish and Portuguese troops perished. No idea how many French. We lunched in a small restaurant where friendly-fierce disputes raged over the merits of Lisbon’s two top football teams; a pity that Napoleon didn’t concern himself with football rather than conquering the world.

Another day we took ourselves to the Spanish town of Olivenza just across the border.
A handsome new bridge crosses the Guadiana river frontier close to the remnants of the old stone bridge. We drove up the river bank looking for a spot to picnic but found it hard to escape the litter that previous visitors had strewn around the place. In one town we were accosted by a slovenly woman who, after dropping a paper wrapper on the pavement in front of us, had stuffed some food into her mouth. When she thrust out a hand for money, she got a double admonition not to litter.

Olivenza itself has an excellent museum and some striking old churches to recommend it. Most of the Portuguese who go there, however, do so to fill their petrol tanks at much lower Spanish prices.

Another visit was to the town of Vila Vicosa in the Portuguese marble-quarrying district. Mountains of marble rubble rise on the approaches. The town’s streets are curbed with marble, its sidewalks paved with marble chips and its public benches made of solid marble. We arrived just in time to join a tour of the great palace (newly restored) of the Braganza family, as rich in furniture and furnishings as any in Europe.

From time to time we exchanged text messages with our house sitters, who reported that all was well if occasionally very wet. They arrived last Sunday morning to a slightly complicated canine situation. With our neighbour, Idalecio’s dog, in season, and serious contenders for her favour prowling the fence, we found it necessary to keep our lot inside, especially little Prickles. He was all for tearing visiting Alsatians limb from limb. Although Idalecio has a good fence around his property we discovered his gate smashed open - and feared the worst for little Serpa, who normally sleeps outside. Happily, for once, she was safely indoors.

We returned home from the Alentejo via the newly completed Alqueva Dam - the biggest artificial stretch of water in Europe, some 250 sq kms of it. From the viewer platforms on the dam wall we peered down the 100 metre fall to the Guadiana river below. Following placards advertising boat trips on the dam, we found a pier with half a dozen boats tied up awaiting visitors but sign of life, other than two distant ostriches (on an ostrich farm) across the water, there was none.

So we repaired instead to the brand-new tourist centre to learn more about the dam and its construction. The tourist staff happily put on two brief films for us to watch. Both of these were really just public relations blurbs to say what good news the dam would prove for all concerned and we emerged little the wiser. We had thought to find ourselves a dream hotel overlooking the water at which to spend our final night. Finding nothing of the sort we came home in time to walk the dogs and to enjoy a barbecue with our house sitters.

Letter from Espargal: 13 of 2007

This has been a week of little things. Things like watching a favourite Portuguese neighbour rip up the about-to-bud poppy plants along the fence, declaring to Jones as she did so that the chickens absolutely loved them. No doubt the chickens did. Poor Jones somehow managed to bottle up her feelings as she watched her poppy plants being marched down the road to Maria’s chicken coop. She could hardly complain as she’d just accepted a gift of six fresh eggs from Maria. As always, the poppies in the fields are glorious, a deep, lustrous shade of red.

That was Monday. Monday evening we went to see a film at the Forum Algarve on the outskirts of Faro. Jonesy wanted to see Music and Lyrics, probably the best of an indifferent selection. Usually, a Monday is the quietest evening of the week but since the kids were out for the Easter break, the place was heaving. Most of the youth brigade, thanks be, were going to see Mr Bean. Long live Mr Bean. Music and Lyrics was okay as chick flicks go although it would have been more gratifying if the villain had got his proper comeuppance.

Tuesday we got to meet Prickles. Our first intimation of his presence came as we were wandering down the road mid-afternoon between showers. We bumped into Zé-Manuel, who was taking the afternoon off in view of the weather. He warned us that there was a small stray dog down in the square, shaking his head is disbelief at the callousness of people who abandon dogs. We agreed with him heartily. It happens lots in this part of the world and it’s horrible. Sure enough, Prickles was in the square, lying damp and cold on the threshold of house.

Prickles is small, thin, brown and wire-haired. He probably wasn’t called Prickles by the owner who abandoned him but that’s what I thought we should call him, given certain of his characteristics. Jones gave him two biscuits that happened to be in her pocket. Prickles promptly got up from his stone bed and followed us down the road. He probably just wanted food and company although Serpa (our neighbour’s little bitch), who is in season, may have proved an added attraction.

As we arrived back in the village at the end of our walk we debated whether I should fetch the car so that we could drive home with our dogs, leaving Prickles behind. But we decided against it. So Prickles came back with us and made himself at home in Banco’s kennel. Jones sighed.

Wednesday we took, John, an old friend to lunch at the beach. John is looking after house and dogs while his wife is back in the UK waiting for heart surgery on the national health. It’s proving a long wait. There was a cold wind blowing at the beach, with just a few hardy souls in evidence. Restaurant diners were even fewer and they preferred to sit inside out of the wind. We braved the elements on the terrace, the dogs at our feet. We had taken extra clothes in anticipation.

Afterwards we drove around to the nearby municipal theatre to book for a series of concerts over the next month or two. It was John’s first visit there. Ditto to the nearby Algarve Forum where we showed him around. He doesn’t much like driving and limits his outings to a big grocery store in Almancil - a town close to his home.

En route we stopped off at The Griffin, the English bookshop in Almancil. I wanted some more reading matter and the shop always has a good selection. After 30 minutes’ browsing I came away with four books and a fifth ordered . I’d spent some time on the net the previous evening choosing books from Amazon UK – mainly the Aventis science prize contenders - but when I saw how much the postage and tax charges added to the bill (more than the books themselves) I abandoned my efforts.

Thursday Prickles came walking with us again as he had on Wed. He likes to trot slightly ahead, making multiple diversions into the bushes to investigate good smells.

Up in the field above us, two farmers were busy with a chain saw cutting down boughs from an old carob tree and pruning olives and almonds. In the afternoon I joined them for a chat, along with half a dozen other worthies. We discussed the state of the Portuguese economy, especially the agricultural economy, a favourite topic. Although there are still lots of holes in my Portuguese, I’m able to chat away fairly easily.

I complained that while I was taken for a German in Germany and an Englishman in England, nobody ever took me for a Portuguese in Portugal. This raised a great hoot of laughter. They explained that my favourite wide-brimmed white hat, of a kind that no Portuguese had ever been seen wearing, was famous in the area. The first thing I would have to do to espouse my adopted country would be to wear the caps that pass for country headgear around here. Given my sensitive skin and aversion to the sun, I fear that I shall have to remain a foreigner.

Friday during a long walk through the valley, the dogs spotted a couple of rabbits in a field. While Stoopy and Ono strained at their leashes, Prickles took off, showing an admirable turn of speed and his hunting instinct. On our return, I gave Prickles a bath, possibly the first of his life. Later in the day I bought him a collar. I fear that he’s going to have to go on to a leash like the others.

It’s becoming clear, although we haven’t discussed the subject, that Prickles is going to stay. Jones has put an old duvet in Banco’s kennel and she adds a hottie at night. But before very long I expect that Prickles is going to make his way inside. As long as he learns the rules about behaviour and furniture, I don’t have a problem with that.

We are expecting house-sitters to arrive Sunday morning, regulars who will look after the place while Jones and I take ourselves up the mountains on the Spanish border. As much as we have hoped for rain these past few weeks, we have also hoped that this coming week might be dry. Alas, it would appear from the forecasts that most of the rain we didn’t get when we wanted it is likely to fall in the next few days.

MEETING THE NEIGHBOURS
I had the satisfaction this past week of notching up our 600th millimeter of the season on my rain chart. 600 mms means that the region has accumulated enough ground water to see it through the dry months ahead. Two seasons ago, when we had less than half that, most of the water sources dried up.

Tonight we are going to a concert at the Faro public theatre, Bomtempo’s Requiem. It should bring back old memories of the Easter Requiems I used to sing myself – long ago, in another world in another age.