Letter from Espargal: 43 of 2007

It’s a bright, breezy and cool Friday. The animals are stretched out on the south patio; this area is a suntrap and always the warmest part of the house. To take the chill off the rest of it, I have lit a fire in the wood-burning stove, from which emanates such a cosy glow as people who live in centrally-heated dwellings can barely imagine. The stove is very effective; unless one damps down the fire, almost too effective. Allied with a couple of glasses of wine over supper, it is liable to provoke one into a hopeless doze in front of the TV.

This week is mainly about pictures. Taking last things first: last night we took our neighbour, Idalecio, and his son, Eduardo (5), on our annual jaunt to admire the Christmas lights in Loule. Loule takes great trouble with its Christmas lights, illuminating the main streets of the town with novel and dazzling designs. We arrived in town around 6 p.m. Loule, evening rush hour. Like the streets, the pavements were crowded. Although darkness had fallen, there was still another hour of trading before most shops closed – and several hours before the (spreading) Chinese shops closed.

Shop windows were replete with Fathers Christmas. Eduardo does not appear to have reached an age when he questions the authenticity of this ubiquitous red-robed figure. Nor did he question Santa’s multiple representations. Sensibly, he seemed happy just to accept the good vibes that Santa represents. In a mini-square off the main road we found a small round-about whizzing kiddies around, and Eduardo enthusiastically joined in the fun. We supped at a pizza restaurant on the fringes of Loule’s lower square. Eduardo shared his father’s pizza. I preferred the lasagne. Jones opted for chicken salad. Over supper we caught up with Idalecio’s busy life. He spends most of his time at his house and garden construction business, with firewood supply and under-floor heating sidelines.

In the course of our wanderings we bumped separately into Dani and then Natasha with baby Alex. Dani and Natasha had spent the day at the house, she at her weekly cleaning tasks, he continuing to rub down and paint the metal railings around our patios and the gates.
This latter task is taking longer than I budgeted or expected. Either Dani is being extremely thorough or rather slow. Since he has no other work lined up at present, Idalecio speculated that it might be a bit of both.

Earlier in the day I had fetched from the fringes of a carob plantation a tree stump that Jones had spotted and wished to add to her collection. Idalecio’s family, who owned the plantation, bid me go ahead. They are not into tree stumps, except when they can be cut up for firewood. Dani helped to drag the stump off the back of the tractor and arrange it as Jones required. What she really wanted was to set it up in the south garden but we were unable to oblige, as the stump was far too big and heavy.

Wednesday brought my last English lesson of the year. We talked about “water-boarding” and the moral dilemmas that an ex CIA man confessed the practice posed for him. While he clearly didn’t much like it, he was deeply appreciative of the quality of information that those subjected to it tended to provide. The practice was clearly a great loosener of tongues. Little wonder that Mr Bush is so reticent about it and disinclined to call it torture.

Tuesday I took myself to see a young man at Loule’s podiatry clinic. More accurately, he is Loule’s podiatry clinic. He is obviously much in demand as I had to wait several weeks for an appointment. Jones had been to see him once to have a corn removed and found him quite competent. In my case it was to have him check out a swollen and sensitive Achilles tendon. He made me carry out various minor exercises before prescribing and supplying me with silicone heel inserts that I am to wear for a month before reporting back. He was happy to take cash and gave me his card, with hand-written hours of opening, in lieu of a receipt. If the silicone inserts work, I shall not complain.

Tuesday evening we had the village expats around for a festive barbeque. Given the success of my previous sausage grills (as opposed to slightly dubious chicken and kebabs) it was decided that we would confine ourselves to sausages – along with plates of goodies that Jones spent much of the day preparing. Jones also set out an extended table on the south patio. Very good it all was too; the evening was pronounced a decided success. We are to have a minor repeat this coming Tuesday evening to welcome back Sarah and David (and their son) and to entertain one or two other neighbours.

Other than our final Portuguese lesson, I can’t for the life of me remember what we did on Monday, apart from the usual stuff (walk the dogs, get rid of the ashes from the fire, tend the garden, pour baggies and watch telly).


Oh, yes. During our morning walk we bumped into Idalecio and one of our elderly Portuguese neighbours, Zeferino, who were out cutting wood. That’s to say that Idalecio was cutting up the boughs of dead trees while Zeferino looked on. Zeferino is a remarkable character. He’s well into his 80s, fit and healthy and never at a loss for something to do in spite of being illiterate (like many Portuguese of his age, who enjoyed virtually no education).

We come across him most mornings. He’s always about to set off on foot - either to check or water his trees or to pay his bills in Benafim (5 kms away) or simply to see how some village project is progressing. He’s interested in everything and knows all the local news. If the world needed a model on how to lead a happy and healthy old age, in spite of being seriously poor and badly educated, Zeferino would be the man. (Jones reminds me that he gave her a bucket full of wild bulbs, which she has planted around the garden.)


Last Sunday, for a change, we took ourselves for an extended walk along the fringes of the Quinta da Lago (the Algarve’s fanciest resort) golf course and the adjacent salt pans. The salt pans are fascinating – large rectangular depressions lined with wooden shuttering along the metre-deep banks. Some were full of water, plus occasional floating seabirds, and others empty. Channels allow the water to be piped in and the summer sun does the emptying. A salt mountain nearby attests to the efficiency of the age-old process.

Late news: Friday evening – a baggy at my elbow: We are back from a trip to the vet. Jones was worried about the health of Dearheart, her small, grey and white, female cat, who was having difficulty breathing. The little beast has a lung infection and has been prescribed anti-biotics, a second course. She’s just come off a first course for some other problem.

Just before sunset we drove 200 metres to Leonhilda’s house to fetch some large branches from her newly-pruned fir tree – ideal for Christmas purposes for ourselves and our neighbours. Leonhilda warns us that she will be going around to her village relatives this weekend to assist with the slaughter of a pig – another Christmas tradition – and will be tied up (in a manner of speaking) making sausages for several days thereafter. This will be the second pig to offer itself up for villagers’ Christmas. The first squealed so loud and long during its despatch (while I was in Canada) that Jones nearly fled the house. (Jones says the animal didn’t squeal; it screamed.) I have promised to take her and the dogs on an excursion this time to spare her further suffering.