Letter from Espargal: 2 of 2008

Jones remarked the other day that she had achieved nothing the whole day. I tried to persuade her that she didn’t need to achieve something every day. I felt that she could allow herself the odd achievement-free day without feeling guilty about it. But, like many of my responses, this one gave her little satisfaction. She clearly did not consider bringing me coffee and toast in bed, making lunch and supper, walking the dogs and much else to be achievements – at least, not in this context.

I wonder why it is that we feel the need daily to justify our existence, to offer a metaphorical apple to the little God-voice inside us. As the Book says: “Consider the lilies of the field how they grow? they toil not, neither do they spin.” I like this image, even though it can be twisted to fit a thousand circumstances. Sometimes it’s enough to be alive – and if one is happy and healthy, well, there’s a bonus.

We had another discussion – about finance. I have been – as indicated – busy trying to move most of our accessible savings from sterling to euros in view of sterling’s slide. Jones takes the view that when one’s income appears likely to decline, it’s prudent to cut back on one’s spending. The alternative view – I won’t say that I completely endorse it – is to spend the money while it’s still worth something, given that the longer one waits, the less it will buy. Reminds me of the tales from the Weimar Republic when Germans were paid twice a day in order to rush out and buy items with a currency that inflated by the hour. I guess the people of Zimbabwe would understand.

We did our saltpan walk again last Sunday. The clouds closed in and there were fewer people around. We were adopted by a big, friendly dog, which wanted to join our party and whose persistent advances were unceremoniously rebuffed by our lot. Jones walked hastily ahead with Ono and Prickles, anxious to escape the refugee’s attentions, while I trailed (still somewhat sciatically) behind. (I’m improving – thank you.)

Golfers on the adjacent course were having a poor day. While we were passing, three of them hooked their balls into the green sludge that borders the estuary. Maybe we were having a bad effect on them. We retrieved the balls and returned them to the edge of the raised fairway. I tried to take a shot of an incoming airliner as it lined up for the runway just beyond us. It wasn’t a bad pic given the camera-phone but I know that our house-sitting friend, Mike, who often camps at the end of runways and produces shots which show the pilots in the cockpit, would hardly have given it a second glance.

Jones had better luck capturing young Prickles sticking his head out of the back window of the car, an illegal practice which he is permitted only while we pass through the village. (He whines until we lower the window and loves nothing better than to exchange abuse with his peers.) Speaking of which, there’s a “No dogs on furniture” rule in the house, which occasionally isn’t kept, especially by my wife and my dog and more especially if I happen to be away – as I know. I caught the pair of them in flagrante – with nary a blush for their sins.

I had another physio session, this time with Jodi (a young woman who lives nearby and practises in Alte) rather than the gentleman who laid into me the previous week. Jodi’s ministrations were much gentler and left me feeling better, ditto the exercises she recommended and her explanation of why my sciatic nerve continued fractious long after the event.

That was on Tuesday afternoon. It had turned cold, grey and wet. I returned in good time to drop Natasha off at the bus but somehow lost ten minutes. We arrived at the bus-stop corner (with Jones, Natasha and the dogs on board) just as the bus whizzed past. A chase ensued but the bus driver was clearly in a hurry to get home and going like the clappers. Overtaking him would have meant putting my foot down in the murk of a foul evening. I thought better of it.

So we sat on the bus’s tail. It didn’t stop once all the way to Loule. Jones wasn’t pleased. Nor was I. Only the dogs enjoyed the trip. By the time we got back to the village, my bladder was close to bursting. I stopped on the road near the house to allow nature to take its course but was urged by Jones to continue on home because she was in the same state. I could hear her fiddling desperately with the front door key as I blissfully irrigated an almond tree. Wasn’t our best day.

At my Wednesday English class we talked about Hilary Clinton’s famous victory in the New Hampshire primary following Barack Obama’s win in Iowa. What a fascinating drama. It’s hard to imagine either a woman or a (nearly) black man in the White House. I wonder whether she would be addressed as “Ms President” or “Mrs President”. (No doubt she’d make her preferences known.) I guess she would find something useful for Bill to do as well; talk about role reversal. As long as it isn’t Huckabee or Romney, I can handle it. I’m not into ayatollahs of any persuasion.

Thursday was one of those “dawn of creation days”, so beautiful that it felt wonderful to be alive. The air was fresh and clear, the morning was warm. The day seemed almost to embrace us. Jones took a couple of snaps from the upstairs balcony, trying to capture the magic of the mist in the valleys below.

Later, in the village square, we bumped into old Zeferino and Dona Casimira. He told us that they were waiting for the arrival of the mobile health unit. Zeferino showed me his health card, recording his blood pressure, cholesterol and the like. (Never mind that he never learned to read and probably hasn’t a clue what it all signifies.) Judging by the record, he is in great shape. Dona Casimira, also into her eighties, still rides “side-saddle” on her (equally elderly) husband’s tractor. They’re amazing people, in many ways quite inspiring.

At the other end of the village, we found Miguel and Raquel climbing back up the hill after purchasing fish from the mobile fishmonger. As is common, they clutched a plastic bag with several small fish inside. (Squid and octopus are just as popular.) Many of the villagers do not have their own transport and depend on visiting vans for their daily fresh fish and fresh bread. Portuguese longevity is often ascribed to the “Mediterranean diet” (which includes lots of grilled fish, fruit , veges and olive oil, plus wine in moderation).

The freshness is very important. The fishing boats go out at night, lights twinkling on the mast. Before dawn their catch is on the road and by lunch it’s widely distributed. I might add that, following my recent check-up, I’m trying to shed a few pounds (like much of the rest of the world, yes, I know). I’ve cut out the easy bits and, depending on what progress I make, will decide in due course which hard bits also have to be sacrificed.

Friday is damp and grey. There’s a fire in the grate and I could easily be persuaded of the benefits of a quiet afternoon with a book. But Jones tells me that there are dogs to be walked – and Ono is of the same opinion. It's a hard life.