It’s mum’s death that reverberates around the week. Even though it was expected, even though it came as a relief, the news was a shock. Family members were summoned to her bedside early on Tuesday morning. She died quietly soon after. Age and infirmity had taken a heavy toll on her, shrinking her to the barest shadow of herself. Rest in peace, mum. You were an extraordinary and inspiring person.That evening I lit a barbeque and opened my best bottle of wine. The day had been picture perfect and the dusk was hushed in the shadow of the hillside above us. If spirits assemble anywhere to celebrate creation, it must be in such blessed places as these of rocks and trees and glades. The flickering flames of the charcoal fire seemed to me to be a metaphor. Our tenure is so brief. There is no compromising with this mortality business, no coming to terms with it.
It’s the season of planting peas and beans, even though there’s no sign of the rains that should be irrigating the fields. Old Miguel and Raquel demonstrated to us as we passed by their little plot, how peas should be sown. They have to be buried shallow, just the depth of a digit, with a light scattering of fertilizer pellets. According to folklore, Miguel explained, the peas must be close enough to the surface to hear one walking away. Once they’ve sprouted, the soil around them should be weeded with a hoe and piled lightly around the base of the plants.
With beans, people are less fussy. Some simply plough them in with a tractor. The beans, it seems, don’t much mind – as long as they get the rain they need when they need it, not when they’re in flower. I’m sorry to report that rain remains in short supply. It’s a worry.
Even so, Jones and I spent half a morning sowing our beans in the small field at the bottom of the park (the acre of rocky hillside above us). It was hard work, bending double, tossing out the stones and then raking the soil over. My shirt was soon soaked with perspiration. This was our second bout of exercise that morning, following our usual 90-minute walk. With all this exertion, I wondered how my tummy still had the temerity to peer over the top of my belt.
One day we walked with Anneke and Ermie (a Dutch villager and her dog) to Benafim for lunch. It takes an hour to trace one’s way down Espargal hill, across the fertile flood plain below us and up the far hill to the town. Our destination was the Hamburgo, a popular venue and the only restaurant in the town if one discounts the several cafes offering snacks.
We sat at a table outside in the autumn sunshine, the dogs at our feet, while Manuel served us with plates piled high with chicken – washed down with the house reserve. It was more than the dogs could do to ignore the tantalizing smells. While minding their manners, they reminded us discreetly, chin on knee, of their own needs. There is something about a simple meal served in such a blissful setting, especially after a brisk walk, that conveys a sense of the good life.Work has begun on two new construction projects in the village. In a small community like ours, a new house is an important development and a talking point. The first of these is near the bottom of the “running field”, which gives us “green” access to the main road, 100 metres below our house.
Mario has levelled the site with his digger, piling a mountain of earth beside it. We wonder if we shall still be able to pass through the field with the dogs. It is very likely that the future occupants will fence it off.The other house will be constructed just off the village square by Horacio, the principal builder in the area and a very good one too. It is destined to become a second holiday house for Fintan and Pauline, a retired Irish couple who live in a cottage near us. The first such house they built, close by, has delighted them with its success in their first season. It offers visitors luxury accommodation in a village setting with easy access to the coast. Any marketing that we might be doing for Fintan is entirely accidental.
These projects come at a time of fundamental changes that the government is proposing to Portugal’s sclerotic planning process. In essence, it will remove responsibility for building projects from leaden-limbed local bureaucracies and give it to supervising architects. The bureaucracies will still make the rules. It will be up to the architects to acquaint themselves with local regulations and then to ensure that any buildings they design comply. In short, the architects will carry the can. In theory, this could give warpdrive-like acceleration to the moribund planning and approval process. Horacio thinks it’s too good to be true. I have to confess that I harbour my own doubts.
I have spent some hours acquainting myself with my new mobile (cell) phone. Calling it a phone hardly does it justice. It’s a sophisticated multi-media device and it’s clearly going to take a lot of getting to know, like learning to use a computer all over again. Progress has been intermittent, satisfying when I make it and frustrating when I don’t. I’ve got my head around the camera, the video camera, the GPS and the internet browser. What I haven’t yet managed to do is to install the voice-guided satnav programme. (My techie brother-in-law) Llewellyn’s struggles with his own smartphone, colourfully recounted by the man himself, spring to mind. What I really need is a short course, or at least a book in the Dummies series for Christmas.
Fintan has called around to help me replace a complicated mixer tap in the kitchen. As he might have pointed out, but kindly refrained, the task is much easier if one simply removes the old tap rather than dismantling it. Next time I’ll know.I had an hour with another neighbour who has just acquired a new computer and was having a problem burning files to disk. Her computer didn’t seem to like the disks she was using. Ripping and burning is not my strong suite. But I offered my services anyhow. To her surprise, her new computer behaved immaculately and, with just one minor hiccough, did all that we asked of it. Why didn't it behave that way with her, she wanted to know. I pointed out that computers were human too, and like us they had good and bad days.
Natasha is cleaning the house. I have warned her that the chimney sweep is coming to call and is likely to mar her efforts.
Outside, Dani is rubbing down and painting the gates. The pair of them were due here earlier in the week but they missed the bus. It wasn’t the first time. Previously I have gone (20 minutes) to Loule to fetch them. This time I hardened my heart – although I was happy to rearrange their visit. Their real problem is that young Alex keeps them awake into the early hours and they then have the very devil of a job trying to wake up.Friday we are going to Portimao, where Fatima (who runs the St James shoe shop) has found me a pair of my favourite soft-soled Ecco boots – or so she assures me. I sought a pair during my visit to Calgary but couldn’t find them at any of the three Ecco outlets that I tried. Maybe that was fortunate.
What I did discover was the price: $300 dollars. Clearly, not everything in Canada represents good value.
Friday evening we plan to visit Loule’s Christmas fair. It’s an annual must.
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