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.