Letter from Espargal: 1of 2008

We have successfully made the transition from 2007 to 2008. That’s the good news. If you’d looked more closely, you might have seen me limp into the New Year with a sciatic leg and Jones stumble in with an upset tummy. What counts is that we made it. Afterwards, Jones and I had a discussion about relative suffering. I took the view that, unlike many unfortunates over the festive season, we had not been massacred, mutilated, blown up by suicide bombers or worse. What’s a gammy leg or a grumbly tummy between friends? Jones argued that it was pointless to compare one’s problems with those of other people, given that one has to cope with one’s own problems and not with anybody else’s. You may decide the issue for yourself.

Sunday we went for a most marvellous walk around the salt pans and lagoons that lie between the Quinta da Lago colony and Faro airport. The water was alive with birds. Hundreds of people were out to enjoy the day - walkers, joggers and cyclists. It took us the best part of two hours to complete a circuit that took us back to the beach carpark. The tide was out and shellfish pickers (cockle pickers?) were planted in the mud, digging out their catch. I struggled to take their pictures on my phone-camera as the sunlight blotted out their image on the small screen.

Sunday evening we had neighbours around to the house for drinks before retiring to Idalecio’s restaurant, next door, for a festive meal. Idalecio excelled himself. The guests included several younger folk, which – nice as our neighbours are - made a change. (One’s concept of younger mutates down the years, as I’m well aware.) Virtually all of the expats in the village are retired. The only exception I can think of is a Scottish artist who runs a metal-working business. The majority of Portuguese villagers, too, would be retired if the local farmers ever retired. They don’t. They drive their tractors and tend their plots until they fall over.

Monday morning I took myself (Jones and the dogs) to Messines where I had booked an appointment with a British physio. I left Jones in the car with the assurance that I would be out within 20 minutes or so. In the event it was more than an hour later after a somewhat bruising session. I warned the physio that my yells would scare any waiting patients out of his consulting rooms. He assured me that none were due until well after he’d done with me. He used to tend a football team and I fear that he treated me accordingly. The jury is still out on any benefits that I may have derived.

We had a fairly quiet New Year’s Eve, supping with neighbours, who had gone to great trouble to prepare a meal for us (and for other guests who were not well enough to enjoy it). Jones stayed on to join them and a horde of locals at the top of the hill to watch the brilliant firework displays along the coast. I returned home for a quiet evening, spent mainly listening to Radio 3’s replay of the last night of the Proms. It was lovely.

Tuesday’s excitement was provided mainly by the animals. Idalecio’s bitch is in season once again and Joaquim’s big Belgian shepherd has been making vigorous efforts to woo her. At least three times he’s bashed a hole in Idalecio’s fence, not necessarily big enough for him to get in but certainly big enough for Serpa to get out, which comes to the same thing. We have found the pair of them frolicking outside our gate. Serpa is invited into the garden while the hose is turned on her lover. If she has been saved from his passionate advances, it’s only by the disparity in their sizes.

JUST FRIENDS
Ono and Prickles have decided – as they do from time to time – that it’s fun to chase the outside cats. I caught them at it one afternoon and had some stern things to say to the pair of them. You can tell when the dogs are at it because the outside cats fail to turn up for food and lose weight.

That evening we went to an early New Year’s concert in Loule. For once the Cine-teatro was full, which was a welcome change. The conductor was a young Russian, a slim, handsome fellow who used his body as much as his baton to lead the orchestra. His subtle, sinuous movements, sometimes bordering on the suggestive, had the musicians smiling as they played – and the music was good. So were performances from a tenor and a soprano.

Wednesday brought an unhappy Natasha. She confessed that she had spent most of the previous day in tears. Her relationship with her partner has broken down and they are now being held together only by their small son and their inability to afford separate lodgings. We spent 30 minutes talking things over with her, trying to get a sense of whether there was any way of assisting them to resolve their problems, short of going to court. We couldn’t see any. She is disciplined and earns enough money to set aside regular savings. He, on the other hand, is unable to hold down a job, and that’s when he can find one. His constant penury and the consequent rental arrears are a cause of much friction between them although, in essence, they seem to be completely incompatible.

Thursday I took myself to the doctor – a new doctor, mainly for an introductory consultation. We’ve reluctantly given up on “our own” GP as the man has, unfortunately, found God and now dispenses more religion than medicine. On the advice of neighbours, I made an appointment with a Portuguese doctor who consults in Alte, 15 minutes away. His receptionist informed me that he sees national health patients in the mornings and private patients in the afternoon. Much of the village seems to prefer his services to those of the GP in Benafim, closer by. It’s several years since last I had a check-up and I thought it prudent to introduce myself. Also, if the man had any ideas about how to see off my continuing sciatica, I was interested to hear them.

I found him equipped with a pleasant desk-side manner and a high-tech desktop. After the preliminary chit-chat, he used some miniature electronic devices to carry out tests that I’d expected to wait for a later consultation. I’ll spare you the details. But it’s clear that I need to lose weight and stay away for a while from the rich pudds, festive cheeses and smoked hams that I enjoyed so much over Christmas. Jones continues as slim and healthy as ever. She is not into doctors – not unless life is at stake and not always then.

Friday the sun returned after two wonderful, welcome days of rain. We’ve had over 40 mms. We could have done without the wind that swept it into the north patio and drummed it off the windows but we didn’t really mind. In the fields around us, beans are sprouting happily. Our own beans are not yet showing because they were planted rather late, on my return from Canada. But they will be soon. And while I’m on such matters, let me tell you that we have spotted the first orchids of the season. What a pleasure they are to behold.

Portugal, like France recently (and much of the EU) has introduced legislation that prohibits smoking in most public places, including restaurants and cafes (unless these are able to subdivide their space). This is quite extraordinary, given that these places have been half hidden in smoke fumes for years. We wait to see just how effectively the legislation is enforced.

Although you are not likely to be aware of it, since you don’t get paid in sterling and spend in euros, the pound has been diving against the euro. More accurately, it has simply been diving. The exact cause – as always in these matters – is not clear although the poor outlook for the UK economy this year seems to have a lot to do with it. As one pundit put it, Sterling is simply over-valued. This is not good news, not for us. I wish that I had seen it coming. I have belatedly been scrambling to move a few savings from sterling to euros. Should the decline continue, the expat community here is going to grow noticeably thinner. If the worst comes to the worst, I shall put up an address to which the charitably-minded may send food parcels and old clothes.