Letter from Espargal: 21of 2007

I wish you could have seen us last Sunday evening as we set out in our glad rags for the Senior University bash down at the coastal resort town of Vilamoura. In the recesses of my wardrobe I had discovered a pair of flannels that I didn’t know I still had (having long since given away all my formal gear). To accompany them I chose my flowing Madiba shirt (thank you Lucia and Llewellyn). Jones had donned her Chicago dress (thank you Kevin and Ann).

The only fly in the ointment was the disappearance of Prickles, for whom we hunted in vain as we were about to set out. Having given up on him, we discovered him just beyond the gate as we were leaving and bundled him into the car. He didn’t mind that. On his fun list, hitting the road comes a close second to hunting for rabbits.


The bash was held in one of the several restaurants of a palatial hotel situated on the marina at Vilamoura. We had occasionally peered through the stately glass windows at the other-worldly figures in its cavernous interior but had never entered the impressive portals. The doorman indicated that we would find the restaurant situated on the lower floor – which we eventually did, in a separate building located beside the inland sea that served as the hotel pool.

The restaurant glittered with candles, starched tablecloths and all the stuff that you don’t find at the local in Benafim. Scores of our fellow teachers and pupils were present. Men’s apparel ranged from “smokings” (as formal men’s outfits are known) to golf shirts. Among the ladies some slightly wrinkly décolletages were on display. Waiters hurried around the tables, topping up wine glasses.


After the feast came the usual speeches and the presentation to the teachers – all volunteers - of a thank you gift. The gift is always something specially acquired or made for the occasion – this time a lead-crystal cut-glass bowl. Having Prickles in the car, we were able to make our apologies and our exit before the theatre-group pupils presented their customary mini-drama.

Monday first thing I took a flat tractor tyre to the garage at Salir to get a new tube fitted. Don’t’ think that this is a simple process. Although the nuts had come off the wheel with a bit of effort, the wheel itself absolutely wouldn’t separate from the hub – in spite of any amount of bashing. Vitor, the village mechanic responded to my plea for assistance. The problem was a common one, he assured me, caused by rust and best solved by levering the wheel off with a crowbar – as he promptly demonstrated.

Getting the wheel in (and out of) the car took a fair bit of grunting. Tractor tyres are filled with water to lend the tractor more weight and stability. They are not meant to be carried around. At least the Monday morning queue I anticipated at the garage didn’t materialise. In the half hour that it took the garage to mend the tyre, I got rid of our empties (we always seem to have a pile of bottles and cans awaiting disposal) and did a bit of shopping. By mid-morning, the wheel was back on the tractor and the tractor was back on the road. I felt so much better. Having the tractor out of action always makes me feel uneasy.

I spent the better part of a day scarifying our fields, all of which were turning green with weeds. Does it sound like fun, sitting on your bum, steering a tractor? It’s not - not on our hillside in the hot sun. The vehicle slips and slides and skids and spins its wheels and hooks the scarifier on rocks and roots. What I did enjoy was being accompanied by a swirling cloud of swifts that were clearly benefiting from the bugs I stirred up. (I thought of them as angels as they swept about me.) Sparrows and even a fiscal shrike later joined the party.

Maria of the Conception said it was a pity I’d cleaned up the fields because her hens were crazy for the dandelions that she had been picking there. She and Leonhilda dropped around to give Jones a bag of dried flowers to make a “sleepy tea” (not that Jones needs any such assistance). Poor Leonhilda is still leading a half life, spending most of her time hiding from her disturbed husband in her sister’s part of their semi-detached house.

WAS THAT A RABBIT?

Maria’s dog, the unfortunate Bizu, is still hobbling around unhappily – a rope securing a back leg to a front one – supposedly for his bad behaviour. It turns out (according to witnesses to the event) that the little boy who was allegedly “attacked” by Bizu last week, had been teasing local dogs while riding his bike. At some point, possibly frightened by the dog, he fell off the bike and suffered some grazes. His screams alerted his mother, who rushed out of Dina and Chico’s house (where she was tending their needs) and shrieked blue murder.

The child was first patched up by our Irish neighbours. He was then taken up to the health centre by Maria’s husband, Joachim, to have his grazes examined. Joachim drew a line, however, at the mother’s demands that he pay for one or other medication. Signs of a dog bite there were none – and one would most definitely find distinct traces of a Bizu bite. Nonetheless, Bizu is being punished and everyone is very unhappy about the situation. It is generally thought that it would be more sensible to hobble the little boy.

TIME FOR A TRIM
On Tuesday evening all the local expats went along to the Adega to celebrate what turned out to be our neighbour, David’s birthday. I thought that we were celebrating the acquisition of their new (second-hand) car, a handsome green Kia 4x4 that looks remarkably like our Honda. It even has the same age and mileage. As if to rub the salt in, they can boast a lower range of gears that the Honda lacks. There could be very little doubt, as I told them, that they were endeavouring to keep up with the Joneses, possibly even to gain a lead. And, as I told Jones, it was time we upped the anti by getting a new car ourselves. Jones was not impressed. It takes a tough argument to impress Jones when it comes to spending money on new cars.

David and Sarah have stripped one of their bedrooms and taken up its floor in preparation for the latest renovations of their old cottage. The floor comprised only elderly hand-made ceramic tiles laid directly on the earth – no cement base or grouting. (Mould, damp and ants had been coming through for years, Jones adds.) They plan to re-lay the tiles on an insulated screed before replacing the old roof with a modern insulated one as well. This they will do themselves with a little help from Idalecio, and possibly an occasional neighbourly hand.

Idalecio is coming here shortly to build a base on which to raise our 1,000 litre (overflow) water tank. An additional metre plus of height will give us welcome additional pressure when we water the lower garden flowers.

I drove up to Benafim, towing the trailer, to purchase cement and grey cement “blocos” for the job. Building materials are acquired via one of two adjacent supermarkets in the high street, each of which sits opposite a builder’s yard and has a depot just out of town. The womenfolk do the groceries and the men the construction stuff.

The Quim Quim supermarket boss despatched Victor, a big Ukrainian, with me to load the trailer with the cement and the blocos. He had to watch where he put his big boots as he got into the car because Prickles was riding in the passenger footwell as usual. Did the dog bite, Victor asked. I was able to assure him that he was safe from attack. As we loaded the trailer, Victor told me how cold it got in Ukraine and I told him that I'd seen enough of Canadian winters to know exactly how it felt.