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.