There hasn’t been any particular outpouring of sympathy when I have previously related the stresses of retirement living and don’t suppose I’ll get much now. Still, I’d hate you to be in ignorance of what awaits you when you finally land in golden pond.
If you wonder what on earth I’m talking about, just look at this past week. Saturday evening we went to dinner at the Auberge, the restaurant below the Quintassential that, before its revamp, was known as Ollie’s. It was our first visit since the restaurant’s reopening (one of many) under new management. Our God-daughter Caitlin joined us and other friends. Two of them, Mike and Lyn, had just flown in from the UK for a holiday, and the occasion was to celebrate Lyn’s birthday.
We found the Auberge full, mainly of expats, mostly British and speaking in those expensive offputting accents. Because there was “live music” (a singer-cum-musician) the menu was fixed and there was a premium to pay. That much we knew in advance. While the service was good, the food was indifferent, the music was loud and the bill was wrong - in the restaurant’s favour. Afterwards we agreed that the Auberge could do without us. That’s to say, I agreed. Jonesy thought that we might give it another chance.
Sunday morning we went for a long trek with the dogs along the paths that run between the super-luxury development of Quinta da Lago and Faro estuary. It’s a beautiful area, studded with stretches of tidal water and home to numerous birds. Apart from the scenery there are the palatial houses, just across the water, to ogle. Even the littler ones cost millions. Much of the path runs alongside the golf course. I particularly enjoy this section as it offers passers-by living proof that golfing skills cannot be bought, not even by those wealthy enough to play at Quinta da Lago. Golf balls can often be retrieved from the mudflats, where the golfers themselves decline to tread.
Sunday afternoon we were joined by Mike and Lyn. While we were taking tea they received a phone call to say that their son-in-law, Jeremy, had fallen gravely ill. He has long suffered from an inoperable tumour on the brain, which the doctors have been trying to keep in check. Our visitors, poor things, booked themselves back on the first available flight.
Monday morning we went to Loule. Jones and Caitlin went shopping. I dropped in at the bank and the university (the term starts in 10 days) while the dogs waited patiently in the car, as they usually do, until I was able to take them around to the park for leg-lifters.
Mid afternoon I met the girls at the bus-stop in Benafim. Caitlin was very pleased with herself and the shoes, boots and dress that she had acquired.
It was the last day of her stay with us. She has come walking morning and evening, her long legs marred by pink splotches from the occasional mozzie bite. We took her to Faro airport early on Tuesday. Also in the queue to check-in were our near neighbours, David and Sarah, who commute several times a year. They were returning to invigorate the heritage society that occupies much of their time in Cowes on the Isle of Wight. On the way home we fetched Natasha in Loule. She wasn’t in high spirits. She’s getting over a feverish cold. Also she’s been suffering from back pains and had been for x-rays at Faro hospital – the results of which she awaits. What’s more, she said, Dani had badly cut his fingers at work and had to have the wounds stitched. So it wasn’t their week.
I spent much of the day searching for my main set of car keys. They love to hide in a pocket for a few hours but generally allow themselves to be found without much ado. This time, they had been absent for the better part of a week. I scoured my clothes, my cupboards, the car, Casa Nada and the wooden shed. There was nary a sign of them. One neighbour reported that (according to another neighbour) one had to offer St Anthony a sum of money in order to find them again. This smacked too much of indulgences for my liking. Very frustrating.
Mid-afternoon, Jones dropped them on my desk. She had found them lying in a box of melons that we had received from neighbours. And she had come across them only because some of the melons had gone off and had to be thrown out. It’s not a place that I should ever have thought of looking.
Wednesday morning I took the car in for a major service. Honda had warned me that it would take the whole day. So I arranged to hire a car from them - a Fiat Panda and a reminder of how the other half lives. Jones said it was fine. I guess it was, if by fine you mean it goes and there’s just enough room for two adults and three dogs. We all piled in to take it back late afternoon. The Honda awaited, along with the bill. Ouch. The workshop manager said I needed two new tyres on the back as the inner treads were worn.
After doing a bit of shopping we went to the beach for a walk to watch the sunset. Prickles ran around like a little hairy white spider, barking ecstatically. Ono chased him. From time to time packs of inquisitive dogs came down from the fishermen’s huts to inspect us. Prickles wanted to tear them limb from limb for their audacity. He has absolutely no sense of proportion. Then we went to the airport just the other side of the estuary to meet Barbara’s brother, Llewellyn, and his wife, Lucia, who are spending a few days with us on their way back to RSA from the UK. Finally we returned to the beach for supper under the stars. The moon cast a golden highway across the waters.
Thursday morning, after a long walk with Lucia, I took the car to get new tyres fitted. Llewellyn came along for the ride. The tyre firm said it didn’t have my specs. So we ordered them and promised to return the next day to have them fitted. Then we stopped at Gilde’s hardware store to buy brackets (14) and long screws (56) to strengthen the pergola (following the damage done by the storm). Isidoro wondered whether I intended to put in all the screws by hand. He clearly didn’t think it a good idea. I agreed with him. Also, he happened to have a special offer on an electric screwdriver in a presentation bag, together with a free torch that worked off one of the spare batteries. It was too good an offer to refuse.On the way back I stopped off at the Parish office to enter myself (and hopefully Jones) in the 10-km health walk to take place on Sunday week. Waiting in the office was an old woman who lives in a house on one of our walks. We call her the crone. If you saw her, you’d know why. She likes a natter and is very hard to get away from. I offered her a lift home, anyhow, and she was grateful for it. Except it turned out that she wanted to be taken to Alte, 10 minutes away, to fetch her pension from the bank. So we went to Alte and fetched her pension and then we took her home, declining her offer of coffee. Thursday p.m. I picked carobs. We’ve another day’s work to finish picking our trees.
Anybody still there? I told you it was a pretty hectic week.
Oh, I nearly forgot. One day Jones exclaimed that she had forgotten to put on her mascara, remarking that: “I must look very ugly.” Caitlin reflected that Jones didn’t look any uglier that day than she had the previous day, which didn’t exactly cheer Jones up. I wondered (half honestly) exactly where girls put mascara, and reassured Jones that I loved her just as much with or without. Jones declared that she put on mascara as much for her own sake as for anyone else’s. It makes her feel better. She often reminds me, when I’m sent back upstairs to improve my appearance before going out, that I don’t have to look at myself and she does. I suppose she’s got a point.
Do you know how many ants it takes to move a dog biscuit. The answer is nine - err, no eight. (Strange, I could have sworn I counted nine when I took the picture) Two big tawny owls have moved into the district. They are the most beautiful birds. At night they can often be heard calling to each other, either in long “hoos” or in a 4-note quavery hoo. They’re a welcome addition to the little owls that have long been resident. The little guys sound more like cats than owls when they call to each other. Other visitors have been the wild pigs, whose traces – both hoof prints and scuffed earth – Jones found in the adjacent field.
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