Letter from Espargal: 30 of 2007

My legs are reminding me that like their owner they are retired. I’m warding off the temptation to sit back in my reclining chair for a spot of quiet meditation.

The three dogs are curled up in their baskets here beside me, out for the count. Like us, they’ve had an energetic start to the day. We are back from a 90-minute circuit through the valleys and up Puffer Hill.

For the last few days, Erica (my niece, 24) has come with us. She says she’s not fit but she has forgiving youth on her side and we certainly haven’t had to wait for her. Cathy (her mother) has preferred to catch up on her reading.

Erica has delighted in the green space and silence of our ambles, a refreshing change from the underground commute she faces in London each morning. The dogs, as always, have strained for a sighting of rabbits. These have been thin on the ground, possibly because there are so many carob-pickers about, rattling the branches and filling their sacks with the black pods. We’ve stopped for a word with them, sharing their pleasure in the cooler mornings with just a hint of autumn in the air.

We bumped too into Horacio (the builder) who is constructing a small pump house in the grounds of his (newly sold) country villa. He sounded very pleased with life. The borehole drillers had struck water at 218 metres, he reported, and the electricity department would be running a line out to the house at greatly reduced cost. Little wonder that he was pleased. The house has hung for years like an expensive millstone around his neck.

From the village below us come the rat-a-tats of pica-paus (Portuguese for “woodpecker”) One digger is bashing the rocks in the back garden of the Dutch ladies, who are putting in a pool. Another is hammering away at the remains of the rock-shelf blocking access to Vitor’s property. Vitor is perched on his quad-bike in the road below, surveying the slow progress.

Our moment of excitement came as we returned home from a visit to the sand sculptures at Pera. At the steepest point of the road that winds its way up Espargal hill we found a group of villagers surrounding the van from the community centre at Benafim. With them were the occupants, three women clad in blue smocks. It transpired that their van had lifted a wheel when they tried to park it to unload passengers. It was clearly going nowhere until it was towed out.

As we took in the situation, Joachim rode to the rescue on his tractor. I passed his tow-rope through the hitch under the van and he easily pulled the vehicle back to level ground. It would have been a model rescue had the van driver not braked, causing the rope to part with a loud twang. Happily, this did no harm. The community workers climbed in and drove away the hill, leaving the villagers to discuss the finer points of the drama. You may think this a very small drama indeed but that’s how we like them.

PERA SAND SCULPTURES
(We) tractor drivers are all too familiar with the problem of lifted wheels. Tractors, having zero suspension, lift wheels very easily. Happily, tractor manufacturers add a pedal that locks the differentials and generally resolves the situation. If the ground is steep and loose, however, as ours is, all four wheels are liable to spin, causing the tractor to dig itself into a hole. This has happened to me more than once. I have been on the point of asking for help but given the loss of face involved, I have managed, with much perspiration and cussing, to extricate myself by dint of packing rocks and planks under the wheels.

As for the sand sculptures, they are truly impressive and are much better seen than read about. They occupy about a hectare of ground close to the village of Pera. Entry costs 7 euros, quite pricey by local standards. Even so we thought it money well spent as we made our way along the paths that wind through the exhibition. Each sculpture is accompanied by a description and a little historical background, along with the name and nationality of the sculptor/s. East Europeans were much in evidence. The sculptures last for several months, shrugging off the wind and occasional showers. Although the theme of the carvings changes from year to year, historical figures and famous monuments tend to predominate.

Back in Espargal, an Irish neighbour was more than happy for Erica to come along and stretch out on the lawn beside his pool when I went to give him a weekly computer lesson. Erica found his daughter of similar age (down from Dublin for a few days) already taking the sun. When I emerged from the cottage an hour later, the two girls were deep in conversation in the manner of life-long friends. Erica has the knack of being instantly sympathetic. We met up with the family again at the Hamburgo for supper.

The week has been as convivial as any I can remember. Restaurants grateful for our custom include the Madeirense – for supper (after we’d dropped Natasha and taken a peek at the installation-art exhibition in Loulé’s old convent); the Black Sow (Porca Preta) at Monchique for lunch (our first visit to a delightful country art shop-cum-restaurant run by a German couple); the Riverside Inn at Alte for lunch, and Quinta dos Valados for a Moroccan evening. I won’t tire you with a litany.


Erica, taking a break from her student life in London, has considered herself to be in heaven at such a plenitude of good things. She has been allocated the divan on the enclosed back patio, an area she shares with the cats and an occasional dog. We have the pleasure of her company for several more days. Cathy returns to Germany early on Saturday.

Following contacts with our lawyers, I have had a brief meeting with an architect who undertook to find out what is happening with Casa Nada (a reroofed old house on the property that we use as a storeroom and tractor shed). The original owners preferred not to register it with the authorities, presumably to avoid paying tax on it. The architect informs us that the house is on record with the tax office but not with the registry of title-deeds. He is of the opinion that it can be properly registered without too much difficulty. That would be lovely – almost too good to be true but lovely nonetheless.

Still on this business of bureaucracy, Natasha (our occasional maid) has been along to see the Portuguese authorities in Faro in a bid to legalise her position. The easiest way would be to do so via her partner, Dani, as he is now entitled as a Romanian citizen to work in the EU. But he first has to obtain a work-contract from an employer and there’s none in sight. There is another possibility but the bureaucracy involved is just horrendous and quite intimidating, given the lack of interest shown by the Russian consulate here in assisting its citizens.


I am acting as a conduit for the exchange of emails between Natasha and a former parachuting friend of hers in Russia. The emails arrive with pictures of people in full parachuting gear. Natasha sighs for the sport. She says she made 53 jumps as a student member of the parachute club. We thought that was quite a lot. “Oh no!” she told us. She knew of people who had made ten thousand. I guess that just about everything's relative.

Letter from Espargal: 29 of 2007

In an era of sub-prime loans, global conflicts and natural disasters, it’s not always easy to convey the full significance of events here in Espargal. For instance, there was the afternoon that Cathy arrived and Prickles was taken by a sudden need to poo during our afternoon walk. We were passing a farmhouse beloved of the dogs as it always has enticing sacks and piles of produce lying on the threshold. They like nothing better than sticking their noses into the heap and signing off with a couple of squirts. Prickles was in mid-labour on a pile of almond shells beside the front door when it opened and the farmer emerged.

What can one do? I made such grovelling apologies as I could and, as soon as Prickles would permit, we fled the scene. The farmer wasn’t impressed. (I think there’s a relevant proverb but I can’t remember it.)

Beyond the shed is a field that has recently been cleaned up by Vitor, the village mechanic (who’s still in the family home, along with wife and new-born son). We understand that it’s his intention to build a house. The new property has poor access - a steep track, just wide enough to take Vitor’s quad-bike. All week, a digger with a pneumatic drill has laboured to widen it. It’s a tough job. The bank is solid rock, and there’s a tall, dry-stone wall towering above it. The digger is now at a point when any further drilling is liable to bring down the wall. We wait to see what comes next.

Before going to the airport to meet Cathy, we took an old friend to lunch. He’s been living alone for several months while his wife has been receiving medical attention in the UK. Of course, the dogs came along as well. (They know their rights.) We left the car in the relative cool of the underground parking at the Algarve Forum and threaded our way through the holiday throngs to a restaurant upstairs. It was a restaurant I’ve mentioned before, one that seldom has any clients in the evenings. For once it was pleasantly full. The meal was good.

En route to the airport, Jones said she felt a mess (even though she had just had her hair cut). She generally makes this remark when she hasn’t had enough time for a leisurely shower and for all the stuff that girls like to do before they go out. The strange bit is that she never looks a mess. She’s innately neat and tidy in her habits and her appearance.

On the other hand, while I frequently look a mess - I don’t say this with any pride; it’s just the way things are - I never feel a mess. The height of comfort is a pair of paint-stained jeans and a shirt with collar up and unbuttoned cuffs (to keep the sun off neck and hands), pretty much what Adam wore in the Garden of Eden. I told Jones that feeling a mess was in her head. She didn’t find that very helpful. She said that I should consider the pain that I inflicted on the people who had to endure my appearance. Personally, I don’t think this really figures on the scale of human suffering.

We went with Cathy (and the dogs, naturally) to look at the wind turbines on the far side of the valley. There are now three of them in the hills beyond Alte. I reckon they’re about 25 metres high with 15 metre blades. Although the wind was not strong at the time, the middle turbine was turning energetically. Nearby, we found an old cottage that Jones liked. She said that’s where she wanted to live when I went off with my bimbo. As is common in country areas, we had to stop to allow a shepherd to get his flock across the road. Sheep are growing fat on the summer produce that’s too ripe or mis-shapen to sell at market.

On the advice of a neighbour, who spoke of their advantages, we have acquired wireless head-phones. I found a pair in an appliance shop in Loulé after we’d run Natasha home one evening. They were quite expensive but, as I told Jones, they saved us the cost of driving 30 minutes to the shopping centre. Although I set them up using the instructions (a simple enough process), they didn’t work very well. The mini-jack had a faulty connection and, whatever I tried, the right earphone remained stubbornly silent.

The next day we drove to the shopping centre (horribly crowded with a shaven-headed tourist rabble) where I found a used pair marked down, along with a much better audio link. That pair works fine (in both ears). We can now enjoy Proms concerts in stereo while watering the garden.

Next, I took the first pair back to the Loulé where I explained the problem to the old shopkeeper and offered to demonstrate it. He wasn’t overly helpful. I had to wait for 30 minutes until his technician arrived to confirm what I’d told him. The old man supplied me instead with a slightly cheaper pair (that work properly). I still had another wait while he tried (and failed) to adjust the cash-card payment. As the shop was about to close, he eventually paid me the difference in cash. I don’t think I’ll go back there any time soon.

Most mornings I’ve been picking carobs.
Today Cathy and Jones came carob picking too. We drove down into the river valley where we worked hard in the shade of the trees, along with Leonhilda and three members of her family. In 90 minutes we filled nearly four sacks. That’s quite a lot of carobs.

Another morning, I felt compelled to climb into the branches of a tree as the cane I was using to whack down the pods grew ever shorter. Getting up took some effort. Perched in a fork like a monkey, I could reach the carobs in the upper canopy. Getting down was another story. Is it my imagination or does the attraction of gravity increase with time?

My neighbour, David, who was working alongside me, saved my dignity and my skin. Afterwards Dona Caterina (Leonhilda’s elderly mum) presented us with a bowl of figs to thank us for our efforts. They are the most delicious figs. Even so, we open them first to peer inside in case the bugs have got there first.

David and Sarah have now finished their mega-reroofing project. Following Idalecio’s departure from the scene, they have been painting and adding the finishing touches. The changes have given them a house that is bigger (extra attic room) and more comfortable (layers of insulation), as well as a flat roof with views across the country. Their new chimneys look elegant. The couple admit to being rather pleased.

According to the weather forecast, we it may rain tomorrow – the first rains of the season. That would be very nice. It takes the pair of us (mainly Jones, if the truth be told) about an hour each evening to water the garden. Jones divides it into three sections and waters one section each day. My duties include spraying and watering the pumpkin plants. Although I haven’t said so to Jones, we’d have saved ourselves a great deal of water and effort by buying a couple of pumpkins rather than waiting on our plants to grow them.

Our tomato plants, on the other hand, are making modest efforts to please us. Idalecio’s dad, who has whole fields under tomatoes, has presented us with two large boxes, one of which Jones had turned into jam. I have complimented her upon it. It’s a winner.


Jones has also finished the re-arrangement of the section of garden immediately above the cobbled driveway. It has won compliments from our neighbours and from Cathy. No doubt it will do so also from (Cathy’s older daughter) Erica, who arrives from London tomorrow. We look forward to a convivial week.

Letter from Espargal: 28 of 2007

You will sympathise with us that we have hardly had an early evening all week, so pressing have been our social engagements. Last night we attended a dinner at Ollie’s restaurant to mark the 60th wedding anniversary of the first neighbours we encountered in Cruz da Assumada when we arrived there in 1987. You may think it quite difficult to be married 60 years (especially to the same person) but Tom and Joyce, who embraced in their teens, appear little the worse for the experience. They were really our mentors as we came to terms with the peculiar ways of Portuguese bureaucracy.

As for Ollie, he was born in the house that we bought and named the Quintassential. In the 90s he built himself a new home just down the road from us and opened a restaurant a stone’s throw away. Its location was perfect and it proved very popular among our acquaintance. Many an evening we (and Quintassential guests) trooped down the driveway for supper at Ollie’s – and later staggered up again. (It was – in fact still is – a very steep driveway.) To our great regret, Ollie moved away to reopen a much bigger establishment on the eastern outskirts of Loulé – where he remains.

Wednesday we accompanied neighbours to the Madeirense, a restaurant that takes its name from the owners’ origins in the island of Madeira. It was the feast of the Assumption, a public holiday in Portugal as in much of Europe, and the Madeirense was choc a bloc with diners, inside and out. Fortunately we were among the first to arrive. The restaurant is justly famous locally for its chicken and for the giant kebabs that it serves on long skewers. With us, in the car, came Robbie and Kayleigh, our neighbours’ “adopted” grandchildren, plus the three dogs. The kids really love the dogs (which return their affection) and have come walking with us most mornings and evenings.


They have also spent several mornings helping me to pick carobs. This service was really on behalf of a Portuguese neighbour, Leonhilda, whose husband is not well enough to bring in his crop this year. As carobs are the couple’s principal source of income, the matter is serious. We and other neighbours have been assisting Leonhilda where we can. Her carob trees are scattered among a number of properties in the area. We would arrive by tractor, Robbie and Kayleigh seated on folding chairs on the way out and on bulging sacks of carobs on our return.

To my great embarrassment, during one return journey, a panel that I had secured (not very well) to the tractor’s link-box came loose and jammed itself up against a wheel. We were travelling slowly and the incident caused us no harm. However, there was no way that I could remove it. The tractor sat unmoving in the middle of the narrow dirt road, unable to travel either backwards or forwards. What’s more, that happened to be the day that a fleet of vehicles was using the road to reach Horatio’s house where a rig was drilling a borehole. Within the hour, they would be coming back from lunch to find the road blocked.

I wasn’t pleased. We were rescued from our predicament by nearby English neighbours, who responded to my call. To resolve the problem we had to free the link-box by knocking out a stubborn pin with a hammer and chisel. It took ten minutes of sweaty effort. Once that was done, we were able to retrieve the errant panel and to continue on our way. It’s an episode that I would probably not have recounted had I not been nudged by Jones to own up to it.

Much of one morning I spent at Jones’s behest sewing up Ono’s lover. This object is a cushion-sized chunk of foam rubber, encased in old pillow-cases. Although, like our other pets, Ono has been snipped, his condition does not deter him from a daily dalliance with the object of his affections. In fact, his favourite trick when we have guests is to drag his lover downstairs for a display of canine virility.

The problem with Ono’s lover is the damage it suffers during our ritual evening tug-of-war (a contest that leads up to the seduction finale). As you may imagine, it doesn’t take long before the pillow-cases start to come apart, causing bits of foam rubber to fly around the study (and Jonesy to say bad things to us).


For her part, Jones has also been doing some sewing up, mainly of the knees of my older pairs of jeans. Like my well-worn garden hats, they have been showing the strain of late. Jones’s free hours have gone into clearing a strip of severely overgrown shrubbery on the opposite side of the driveway. The area has long been a tangled jungle of thorny creepers, trees and shrubs - and these two brief sentences hardly do justice to her persistent efforts to clear the area up.

Our lower strip of garden, (a right of way below the fence) that we call Banco’s Broadwalk, has become a favourite evening visiting spot by several Portuguese neighbours, especially Maria of the Conception. I have installed several logs and large stones where walkers can rest and admire the view. (There are, by the way, at least half a dozen Marias in the village, all older women. None is called simply Maria. There’s Maria of Sorrows, Maria of Lourdes and so on – a hearkening back to the days when the church called the tune).

Last weekend we went to a folkloric evening in Alte, known as the “bodas” (wedding feast or anniversary). Like so many events in Portugal, it started late. People sat around shivering in the amphitheatre stands. Many had arrived scantily dressed on a warm evening that turned cold and windy. We cheered up at the eventual appearance of the “wedding couples” but then had to endure a round of dull speeches before the folk dancing got underway.

ROBBIE & KAYLEIGH THANK YOU NOTES
It was interesting to compare the variety of styles adopted by groups from different parts of Portugal. What we really wanted to see, though, were the visiting Turkish and Greek troupes; but when by 11.30 there was still no sign of them, we gave up and came home. We brought Robbie and Kayleigh with us, leaving parents and grandparents to sit it out. (They later reported that it was well worth the waiting).

Robbie and Kayleigh’s family spent much of their time here looking for and then attempting to buy property. They found a small registered house – really just a couple of rooms - on several acres in the west coast, for which they put in a successful bid. That was the easy part. Then they tried to get fiscal numbers – the first step towards buying anything in Portugal. After waiting in line for hours at the Finances in Loulé, they were informed that they had to come back with someone who had a Portuguese residence card. Next they queued at the bank to open an account, only to be told that they first had to provide evidence of employment. Welcome to Portugal!

The family strolled over one evening for a barbecue that Jones planned to hold just outside Casa Nada. She went to an enormous amount of trouble with the preparations, as she is wont to do. The evening wind got up as usual, however, and we thought it prudent to move ourselves into Casa Nada instead. After opening the windows, I actually brought the barbecue indoors for what proved a most pleasant evening.

We had a meal up at the Hamburgo as well (but I think you’ve had enough restaurant reports). The interesting bit of the Hamburgo visit was the installation (which continued noisily as we ate) of two air-conditioners in the walls. Much as we like the venue and the food, we have found the place freezing in winter and hot in summer. Our future visits should be much more comfortable.

I sat up one night to catch a glimpse of the Perseid meteor shower that was promised us in the media. Ten minutes’ watching of the northern skies brought me one impressive orange falling star. That was it. So I went to bed.

Letter from Espargal: 27 of 2007

SUNRISE
Had you wished for a slice of Portuguese village life you could not have done better than to accompany us last weekend to a large yard in the upper reaches of the small community of Santa Margarida. The village lies in the hills above Alte, some 10 kms across the valley from us. The occasion was a dinner dance, organised by the community, to raise funds for a youth named Samuel, who had been diagnosed with cancer and required urgent treatment.

After making one or two inquiries we found the premises. Outside, a couple of perspiring men were grilling chickens and streaky pork over a large brazier in the street. Beside the gate to the yard a handwritten sign declared that all entering had to pay at least three euros but were welcome to pay more. The money was delivered into a hand that appeared through a hole in the wall. Our party of eight arrived early, which was fortunate because there was a great demand for seats and tables, many of which had “reserved” scribbled across them.

It was a hot, very unusual August evening, with a hint of rain in the air. The wind swirled around the yard, tearing at the paper tablecloths and whirling serviettes about. The skies, lit up with lightning flashes, had gone an ominous black. There was a great demand for both drinks and eats, all of which had to be pre-paid. This meant joining the scrum that had formed around a single cashier.

The lady concerned, one of several volunteer organisers, was seated behind a counter, wearing a revealing dress that did what little it could to preserve her modesty. She frequently felt the need to rush over and discuss some matter with her fellows, who were dishing out food as hard as they could go. That only encouraged more jostling in the scrum. Locals felt that they were entitled to push to the front.

Village dogs wandered around the yard, confused by the din. Small children chased each other and tried to ride on the back of a large, unenthusiastic bitch. A one-man band started up with an amplifier that rattled the glasses and pounded our hearts within our chests. Undeterred by the racket, couples of all ages whirled around the concrete floor.

Every so often the lights would fail, plunging the whole scene into darkness. Nobody seemed much to mind. The beer was cheap and plentiful and the chicken was excellent. So was the choice of desserts. More people were rolling up as we left. With such a community to support him in his hour of need, Samuel has much to be grateful for.

Jones has been redesigning a small section of her garden. Feeling dissatisfied with the arrangement, she removed plants, rocks and earth from the area before laying down sheets of newspaper (to discourage the weeds) and covering them with gravel. My part in this was to move the heavier pots involved as well as fetching the gravel in the tractor and handing her buckets of it to disperse. While I was permitted to make suggestions, this was on the clear understanding that these would be discarded if they were found wanting, as most of them were.

Jones is very particular about her garden and likes things to be exactly thus. And why not? Relationships work best, don’t you think, when each party is allocated areas in which he/she leads the way. The difficulty arises with the allocation – and, come to think of it, when the decisions affect the interests of the other partner. Anyhow, where the garden is concerned, Jones is the boss.

Here is a snippet of conversation. It arose, more or less as quoted, after it had been implied by one of us that the other wasn’t always the world’s most accommodating spouse.

“Am I really difficult to live with?”
“No, but you’re a bit strange sometimes.”
“Aren’t we all a bit strange sometimes?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, doesn’t that mean I’m perfectly normal?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really lived with anyone else.”
Puzzled silence.

For my part, spare moments have gone in touching up the interior walls of the house. To my joy I discovered a can of the pinky-cream interior paint whose specifications I had lost. With this, I have repainted the earlier touchings-up that were either too pink or too cream. The result is a perfect merger and the disappearance of the minute cracks that have begun to disfigure some of the walls. I can’t recall how things were in South Africa, and our former UK flat doesn’t qualify for comment as most of the partitions were board; but in Portugal plastered walls develop cracks after a time, both inside and out.

Also cracked, as evidenced by the startling growth of the plants at its base, is the concrete tank at the bottom of the garden. This is intended to collect the waste water, which has already passed through a filtration tank. When we built the house we were instructed by the authorities concerned not to use this water on the garden but to have it pumped out and to keep the receipts as evidence.

Thus far, there hasn’t been enough to pump out. In summer only a trickle of water reaches the bottom tank as most of it is sucked up by the jungle of plants that almost hide the filtration tank. Now that trickle is busy escaping from a crack into the surrounding garden. We don’t really mind as there’s no smell and the plants just love it. But sooner or later I fear it’s going to become another job for Idalecio.

Some mornings, Robbie and Kayleigh have come walking with us. At one point, when we stopped for a breather, a hare leapt out in front of us and fled, ears laid back, across a field. At the end of their leads the dogs wailed with frustration at their inability to chase it. Deep in the valley we met some villagers already busy collecting carobs. Others say it’s still too early, as not all of the pods have yet turned completely black. August the 15th is the correct date to start, one neighbour informed us (as if divinely informed), by which time the carobs will have achieved their maximum sweetness.

We have not yet begun collecting our own crop. But we have been getting ready. At a rate of 3 euros an hour, Robbie and Kayleigh have spent cooler mornings assisting me to clear the thorns and other growth away from beneath our carob trees. It’s hard, prickly work. Jones has made relieving visits bearing welcome glasses of ice-cooled fruit juices and a platter of biscuits. Afterwards, we pile the branches on to the back of the tractor and take them across to Casa Nada where we put them through the shredder. One lunchtime I drove our young helpers a few hundred metres home on the tractor. They were seated in two chairs in the link box. Jonesy said they both wore huge smiles.

At Sarah and David’s house I found Idalecio putting the finishing touches to the two chimneys he is building on the new flat roof. They look very smart. Algarvian chimneys are traditionally hand-built with individual designs sculpted in tiles or cement. Idalecio's both incorporate an unusual feature. While most chimneys have a lattice-work of tiles and bricks at the summit to allow the smoke out, his new chimneys boast an arrangement of tiles inside the chimney parapet.

This design permits the smoke to escape while preventing the rain from entering. Rainwater is directed by the tiles to a small gutter inside the chimney, from which it then exits via half a dozen holes drilled through the brickwork. David carefully tested both chimneys (using a watering can) to ensure that they worked as intended – and they do. We expressed our sincere admiration.

We are trying (yet again) to register Casa Nada. I am awaiting a call from our lawyer, who informs us that under new legislation we may have only until the end of this month to put in an application. I am fearful of a new bout of bureaucracy. But I guess the prize is worth a few bruises.

Letter from Espargal: 26 of 2007

Hello from Espargal on a windless, C25* cicada-whistling morning. We are just back from our usual tramp through the valley, with the tractors growling through the fields around us. Ahead lies a morning of stripping a forest of suckers off the trunks of the olive trees and shredding them.

This week we have been trying to stay cool and watching the carobs turn black. Such news as we have concerns the longstanding drama of the house of Horacio. Horacio is the local builder. Not only is he an excellent builder, he combines this quality with honesty and agreeableness – an exceptional combination (as I’m sure my builder brother, Brendan, would agree). We wish we’d known about him when we came here.

The house concerned is one he really built to live in himself - a labour of love – and he would have if his wife hadn’t put her foot down. That’s because the house is isolated. His wife didn’t fancy spending her days alone about a mile from her nearest neighbours, however glorious the views. Also, it lacks mains electricity. The EDP wanted a fortune to run out a line. They said it would require a medium-tension supply plus a transformer to downgrade the voltage for domestic use. Horacio thought it better to find a buyer first and talk about electricity afterwards.

Then, irony upon irony, within months of the house’s completion, a line of high-tension pylons marched across the hills and past the house. When the wind is up, the large plastic balls attached to the wires (to warn low flying aircraft) make the very devil of a racket - the music of the spheres (or of the wires, as Jones prefers). Whatever the case, tuneful it’s not.

Last weekend it seemed that the house had finally been sold. As we passed by with the dogs, we glimpsed a stout woman and hubby unloading their possessions from a large trailer and struggling inside with them. We’d heard rumours of a sale to Belgians the previous evening from neighbours who accompanied us to a production of Mozart’s “The Impresario” at the open-air auditorium in Alte. (That’s another story.) The Belgianness of the occupants was confirmed by their vehicle’s (red-lettered) registration plate.

Monday we congratulated Horacio when we bumped into him in the village square. He was early, clad only in shorts and boots. Like us, he was trying to beat the heat. It was 7.15 and C30* already. (The Portuguese ‘met’ office declared it the hottest day of the year.) Horacio beamed but let us know that our congratulations were premature, as the house hadn’t actually been sold. He was hopeful that the deed would be signed that day. (And we understand that it was.)

The Impresario was something else. After supper in Alte – a little town visible on the distant hillside - we made our way up to the auditorium. Accompanying us were two neighbouring expat couples, neither particularly fluent in Portuguese. What we expected was a 60-minute opera. What we got was a 90-minute drama with some singing, much rushing around and a largely impenetrable Portuguese dialogue. This was partly because we were seated fairly high up, our view obscured by weeds and our ears full of chatter. (The Portuguese don’t believe in remaining silent during a performance.) Even so, we got the idea. I guess it was all quite fun. Jones points out that there was a beautiful moon.

The Beethoven concert in Faro the following evening was simply superb. It was the last in the series of his concertos and symphonies, presented at the new municipal theatre on the outskirts of the city. A young Portuguese soloist won over the audience with his performance in Beethoven’s violin concerto, while the 7th Symphony, after the interval, was a delight. I do hope that there is divine music in heaven and that Beethoven has regained his hearing.

Sunday evening we went to the annual fair at Sao Bras. It’s one of our favourites. It’s held at a school in the town and some how manages to pull together all the ingredients for a good show. After supper and a tour of the kiosks with the usual handicraft, we made our way to the art tents.

Jones took a real fancy to some works of art that were created on a computer and then printed out on a board. After much inspection of the pictures and some discussion with the artist, we came away with a large flower graphic that Jones fancied and a fish cum seagull composition that took my eye. The flower graphic has gone up in the lounge, above the leather sofa. You may judge its merits for yourself.

Monday we simply sweltered. The thermometers in the car and on the front patio swore that temps reached C38*. North of us, in the Alentejo, they were well into the 40s. By comparison, a mere C35* on Tuesday felt quite relieving. Wednesday brought a delightfully cool breeze. I rejoice in the thought that we have survived July and that only August remains to be endured before we can relish the prospect of autumn. It’s so much easier to stay warm in the cold than cool in the heat.

August is the month when carobs are picked – whacked down from the trees with long sticks. Some trees are already heavy with black pods while those around them remain virtually bare. Apart from collecting our own carobs, we strip trees belonging to some English villagers and pass the carobs on to Portuguese neighbours.
It’s a thank you for the supply of fruit we enjoy through the summer. As it happens, Jones has just returned from a plum-picking raid on the houses of Leonhilda and Idalecio. I am invited downstairs to help her prepare the plums for the pot. I’d better go.

Tuesday I repainted a wall in our guest room to hide some ugly cracks. I had to do the whole wall because I lost the reference for the paint concerned and the replacement is a bit too pink, just enough to mark the contrast. I’ll try mixing it with white paint to tone it down. Jones has mooted repainting the entire interior of the house but the prospect fills my heart with dread. The walls are several metres high in places and it’s going to mean chaos while we shift furniture and scaffolding around. For the moment, if I can get the paint right, I’ll stick to touching up.

Thursday Natasha came, supposedly to do a half-day’s work. She wants to send pictures of her young son, taken on her Sony mini-cam, back to the family in Russia. So she volunteered me instead into transferring the pictures to a CD. That, at least, was the idea - for I had warned her that my CD-recorder was playing silly burgers. The first step was to install her mini-cam software on the computer. Then I tried to transfer the video directly to a CD-R. This the computer declined to do. But it agreed to burn them on to my hard disk. From there I was able to re-burn the first ten minutes on to a CD-R, at which point the disk said it was full. There were still 50 mins of pics to transfer. We called it a day. Maybe there are ways of compressing video. I’ll ask my contacts at Inforomba.

After we’d run Natasha to an early bus, Jonesy tried to snatch a nap on the couch. Every time she drifted off a fly would land on her and wake her up again. (That’s one of the most irritating things that can happen to a person, especially as the flies nearly always land on one’s nose.) Eventually, Jonesy cried out in frustration. I offered to come down from the study and kill the fly. But she declined. Her sleepy inclinations had vanished and it was time to get up, she said.

A second wind turbine is going up in the hills above Alte, beside the first. There are rumours that half a dozen more are to follow. That’s fine by me - anything to slow down global warming.

When we came to take (our neighbour’s dog) Serpa Fish for her afternoon walk, we found her full of fleas (again) in spite of dusting her with flea powder. They persisted, even after we’d given her a bath with insecticide soap. Jones has made her a new bed and we have burned the old one in the hope of killing the mites at source.

Sarah’s family have returned to Espargal after camping for several days on the coast. Robbie (15) and Kayleigh (12) come walking with us most mornings.
Robbie has formed a strong bond with Ono, having walked him in my place on a previous visit when I had rebellious knees. Now he is required to take Prickles for the first half hour. By that time Prickles has tired of pulling his walker’s arm out of its socket and can be quite an affable companion – until he spots a rabbit, at least.

Tomorrow we are going with neighbours to an open-air supper in a village somewhere above Alte. It’s being organised by the local hairdresser to raise money for a youth who has just been diagnosed with cancer and has to have his arm amputated.

We count our blessings.