Letter from Espargal: 3 of 2008

You will have to forgive a few ramblings and ruminations, both literal and figurative. Let me begin at the start of the week, which for us is Monday, and which brings Portuguese lessons and grocery shopping. To ease our way into such stressful activities we take ourselves first to Campina, a café-restaurant on the outskirts of Loule that bakes on site. Campina’s bread and pastries are always fresh and delicious.
We have only to catch the eye of Cristina, who knows our order well, for breakfast to arrive on the table. Jones saves a few scraps of ham for the dogs, which await their treats impatiently in the car.

We noticed last week that Campina had closed off part of its covered patio to provide a section for smokers, as now required by law, leaving the rest of the building blissfully free of its former fug. I have to say that we found it a welcome development. Cristina told us that clients had accepted the changes without murmur although there’d been a small fall-off in trade.

Not everyone has been as understanding. There is an ironic story in the local press of a café owner in Quarteira who called the police to deal with a smoker who refused point blank either to extinguish his cigarette or leave the premises. By the time the police arrived, the recalcitrant had disappeared. The police, looking around, discovered that the café owner had failed to put up the requisite “no smoking” signs and fined him instead.

Reminds me of a cruel story a couple of years ago when a hoaxer put word around that revolutionary new breast-cancer checks would be carried out by a satellite due to pass over a rural town at a certain hour. Ladies had only to expose themselves to the skies accordingly. Some of the town’s more gullible residents did just that – and were understandably outraged later to find themselves so wickedly duped. They got short shrift from the police, who said the only evident offence had been one of indecent exposure by the complainants. It’s a bad world out there.


Jones spent an afternoon at Leonhilda’s house with another neighbour, learning how to make fish rissoles (a favourite dish among the Portuguese) and "biscoitos" (which are not biscuits). Certainly, those she brought back home with her tasted pretty good. Another afternoon was devoted to tea at the home of Maria of the Conception. Jones feels in a bind over these get-togethers, which are valued by our Portuguese neighbours and often involve other expat ladies. It’s all part of a milieu in which conversation is the main social activity. The visits last at least a couple of hours. While Jones enjoys the company she resents the loss of so much time to conviviality when she could be doing valuable things in the garden. The spring flowers are now making an appearance, among them the glorious asphodels.

Such interludes apart, it’s been a quiet week, disturbed only by the war the hunters wage on the creatures of the fields. To escape the crackle of their gunfire we directed our footsteps on Thursday two kms down the main road to Alto Fica, where rival cafes face each other across the street. Here the local folk gather to exchange news and views and old men cough and splutter over their cigarettes. Several elderly residents sunned themselves at the door, keeping half an eye on the cement truck and pump that were casting a slab in a house being restored by Brits.

The café owner helpfully parked a table outside to accommodate the coffees, (small) baggy and rice cake that we consumed while the dogs looked on. I gladly paid the 2-euros-20 bill and added a tip. I don’t know how the cafes stay in business. I suspect it’s got more to do with a way of life than making a profit. On the way home I stopped to peer over the fence at the new house that Horacio (the local builder) is constructing in the village. His team were running around preparing the shuttering for the reinforced pillars that make up the (earthquake resistant) skeletons of the house. He’s an excellent builder, a man whose skills I’d like to employ if ever we build again.

Changing tack - we have a special staircase in our house, made from a single metal beam to which wooden treads are attached. It’s airy and elegant - perfect for the living room. The treads are a bit slippery and it’s prudent to keep a hand securely on the banister. The dogs don’t much like the stairs because there are no risers behind the treads and they are distrustful of the gaps. Prickles refuses to go either up or down. Ono has fallen down several times and sometimes whines at the top for an escort. (Only the cats bound effortlessly up and down.)

Anyhow, what I’m coming to is that this week Natasha fell down the stairs – with a huge crash that prompted me into a sciatic sprint from my desk. She was very lucky to have been near the bottom at the time and not to hurt herself. The cause of her fall was a heel that had detached itself from a shoe. She confessed that the shoes were hand-me-downs. So flimsy were the soles that it’s a wonder the heel had stayed on at all. Jones dug in her cupboard to find Natasha another pair – they have similar foot sizes – and our maid went home better shod than she came.

We’ve seen several films and a very mixed bunch they’ve been. The best of them were “Charlie Wilson’s War” and “The Golden Compass”. I saw the first and Jones the second, when we split up during an outing with friends David and Dagmar. Each of us now wants to see the other.
After such showings, we sit down to supper in the Algarve Forum, where a line of restaurants serves both in-house and take-away food.

While shopping in a hypermarket afterwards, I came across a sale of DVDs. I’d have come home with at least half a dozen had Jones, insisting on the economies that we now need to observe, not limited me to four. As they had all been retitled in Portuguese, I chose them on the strength of their casts. The first of them was a romance, so-called, These Foolish Things. It was simply dreadful. I soon gave up on it. Jones saw it out in sheer determination to get her money’s worth. It left viewers caring nothing for the outcome except that it should come soon.

Wednesday evening brought a Beetles musical, “Help”, on BBC-4, one of the many such films that I failed to see while I was a good monk in the 60s. It was a hoot, even if few acting skills were required. Jones chortled away in her chair. That’s rare. She has a very specialised sense of humour, one that seldom mixes with mine, and it’s not often that one hears her laughing out loud.

At my English lesson, we talked about the Vatican’s decision to cancel the pope’s visit to a university in Rome in the light of protests by students and staff. The row concerned Benedict’s implied defence 18 years ago, while a cardinal in charge of doctrine, of the Church’s trial and condemnation of Galileo. I wish that I could like Benedict a little more – not that I would find much common ground if I did. After John Paul, he comes across as such a miserable little man.

After the lesson we drove 15 minutes east to Sao Bras, a town with an excellent museum that often puts on art exhibitions. Jones was keen to see the works of one particular artist. We arrived to find that his pictures had been removed, to be replaced by the lurid works of someone else. Judging by the attached price tags, their author thought highly of their merits. I am sure my artistic niece, Erica, would have been able to explain these to us but since neither Jones nor I could discern them, we made our way home instead.

Thursday evening we had our neighbours, Sarah and David, to supper, serving them the excellent remains of Idalecio’s pork. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement with Idalecio that we take any left-overs from the dinners he occasionally presents in his little restaurant. Friday has dawned sunny and blue. Once Simon Rattle’s interview on Desert Island Discs is over, we shall go walking. Later I will see whether Jodi can do anything for my ill-mannered leg. That would be very nice.