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.