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.