This has been a hot and windy week. It’s a villainous wind - a relentless, tree-bending, hat-thieving, desiccating wind, assisted in its ill work by a merciless sun. We take heart from the thought that with the solstice behind us, autumn cannot be too far away. I try to walk off each morning the refreshing beers that contribute so much to my evening well-being. Since Prickles’ arrival, we don’t really go for a walk. We go for a pull. The little guy must have husky blood. He starts yapping for his outing soon after he wakes and doesn’t stop till we hit the road. He doesn’t know how close he comes to being throttled.
While I’m on dogs – Bizu has been released from his hobble. Whether this was due to our pleas to his owner is hard to know. Whatever the case, Bizu walks freely again and we are happy for him. Clearly, hobbling animals is a habit with a long history. Maria of the Conception explained that a hobble between the two front paws is known as a “peia”. A hobble between a front paw and a back paw is a “trava”. One often sees horses and donkeys – especially those belonging to gypsies - thus restrained.Monday we went to the cinema to see Ocean’s 13. If you haven’t, don’t bother – although, surprisingly, the film gets good marks on the IMDB site. The Algarve Forum was heaving or, at least, so it seemed to me. Jones thought it might have been busier, given the onset of the school holidays. I changed seats in the cinema to get away from kids who were working their mobile phones. The Portuguese are addicted to their phones. They carry them around like badges. The routine when one arrives in a café is to plonk one’s mobile phone ostentatiously on the table, along with fags, lighter and keys. And you’re no one unless you get a couple of important calls while you’re drinking your coffee.
As we sat with David and Dagmar over a snack after the film, we considered a restaurant opposite us that opened earlier this year. It’s one of about 20 in a line of restaurants along the upper floor, most of which offer both interior seating and take-away meals for the adjoining public gallery. The restaurant in question has somehow failed to capture the public imagination. While the places around it can hardly keep up with the demand for service, it waits in vain for custom. We’ve never seen it busy. There’s nothing wrong with the food or the décor. It’s as if Joe public has simply decided to boycott the place. I feel sorry for the several staff who stand around trying to look engaged while the world passes by. The owner must be pulling his hair out.
Tuesday Idalecio arrived to build a base on which to mount our 1,000 litre overflow tank at the foot of the cisterna. He constructed two walls of grey “blocos” and then, at Jones’s suggestion, lined them with stones to blend them in. But the stone lining was a bit on the thin side and the cement mixture used sharp sand, which doesn’t grip very well. So, just as he put the last stone in place, the whole facia on one side collapsed in a sludge of grey cement and dirty rocks.
We decided to take a short cut by using large rocks to line the wall instead of stones. That worked well enough and saved a lot of rebuilding. It’s not the prettiest wall but – as I pointed out to Idalecio - in 6 months’ time, when it’s buried under a carpet of ivy and morning glory, no-one will know the difference.
Thursday he came back to mount the tank on the base. I went to fetch the tractor to lift the tank half way up. By the time I got back, Idalecio had somehow managed to heave it up single-handed. I accused him of showing off. He just smiled.
The rest of the day he used his high pressure hose (with compressor unit) to wash down the house ahead of painting it. We had Daddy Long-Legs spiders scurrying in every direction. (These are strange and harmless fellows that don’t make webs and often congregate in groups.) Friday we painted and painted and painted, trying to stay in the shade as the sun moved around the house. Idalecio is due back Saturday morning at 8. He’s almost as relentless as Prickles. In his book, working time is meant for working and he doesn’t believe in wasting it.
As we painted we talked. He said there was bad blood between two of his elderly neighbours. One of these old fellows, Zeferino (a sprightly 80 plus) got Mario, the digger driver, to dump a pile of rocks and dirt on the side-road leading up to Zeferino’s house with a view to building a wall along the verge. Idalecio was to be the builder. But an even older neighbour objected, on the grounds that the wall would block a long disused (and unusable) shortcut to the main road.
To mediate in the dispute, Zeferino called in the president of the parish council, a person of no little importance. The president pronounced in Zeferino’s favour but the latter’s victory was short-lived, as his antagonist threatened to call in the building inspector from Loule. This was a low blow indeed. Building inspectors represent layers of bureaucracy that are not considered necessary to life in these parts. The pile of stones and earth looks likely to remain where it is for some time to come.
A large tractor, armed with a giant pair of scissors, has been creeping along roads in the district, cropping the tall brown fuzz of weeds and grasses along the verges. This is quite a useful function as the growth impairs drivers’ vision and is likely to catch fire from discarded cigarettes. When I awoke from a midweek siesta Jones informed me that the tractor had arrived in our road while I slept.
Jones had heard it in the nick of time to rush outside and stop the driver from zapping a promising sapling that has taken root among the weeds on the verge.
We later heard from Sarah that she too had shooed the driver away as he threatened to decapitate her young rosemary hedge plants, all but invisible in the jungle that covers their field. She and David have now laid a cement floor and a layer of insulation in the section of the house they are renovating. After they’ve relaid the tiles, they plan to set about the roof. Their energy is frightening.
Last weekend Jones and I took ourselves to Loulé’s Mediterranean festival. This is held in the narrow cobbled lanes of the old city, an area inhabited for centuries by the Moors. The city authorities close down all the access roads and then charge visitors 10 euros a head for entry. Revellers are welcome to listen to any of several bands, visit endless nick-nack-selling stalls and enjoy a meal at communal tables lined up outside kiosks and make-shift restaurants.
The ticket also allows one to visit the castle museum and an art gallery, and to examine an archaeological dig at a medieval house from which a host of Islamic remains has been recovered. All these things we did. But we were not encouraged by the crowds or the bands and made an early exit. Jones, who has a keen sense of value for money, felt she had not had her ten euros worth, and doubted that she’d been returning. I was more pained by the bill for drinks that a café dreamed up after we’d been joined at a table by friends of a friend. There are times though when it’s not worth making a fuss. It’s being taken for a tourist that really hurts.
I have acquired a new pair of spectacles. I can’t see through them very well but I believe that they add a little gravitas to their wearer. Maybe I’ll be taken more seriously now. With luck they’ll also improve my vision in due course.The flies and mosquitoes are back from their winter break. Brendan, I need more of your terrorist-zapping fly-swatters. Help!
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