Letter from Espargal: 10 of 2008

FLOWERS FROM SARAH'S GARDEN
I know, I’ve said it before and you’ll begin to think that I’m in my dotage. But I hardly know where the week has gone. All I can tell you is that, where-ever it was, it was in a great hurry. Given that we had lessons on three days and Natasha and Dani on the other two, I suppose that’s not really surprising. I got masses done with Dani in the fields – strimming new growth, burning off old cuttings and bringing in firewood - while Natasha did her usual brilliant job in the house. The place is looking good.

This is fortunate because our house-sitters arrive later this weekend and on Monday morning we’re off to Germany. We’ve taken a look at the 10-day forecast for Berlin and it’s showers – rain or snow – just about every day. (It would be so nice if that were the forecast for Loule, which has loads of sunshine every day and needs loads of rain.) As you may be aware, Germany has been plagued of late by transport strikes. Cathy has assured us that Berlin’s trams and buses should be working next week even if Deutsche Bahn isn’t.

The journey entails an early train ride to Lisbon ahead of afternoon flights to Frankfurt and Berlin. It would be much simpler to fly directly from Faro but the direct trip is vastly more expensive. During our stay, we’re to hire a car and go off to explore Weimar (of The Weimar Republic and hyperinflation notoriety), staying in a country hotel whose special offer includes a visit to a local spa – all this thanks to the hard work that my sister has put in on our behalf.

Several of my evenings have been devoted to our planned visit to Canada in May. I spent hours on car-rental sites as well as those listing the available accommodation in places we want to visit and, more importantly, those offering reviews by previous visitors. This trip will be easily the most exotic we’ve ever made (of a kind we’re unlikely to make ever again, adds Jones, who also challenged my use of the word “exotic”, pulling out her own dictionary when she disagreed with the interpretations we found online).

With bookings not quite complete, it entails 2 train trips, 8 flights (1 by seaplane), a ferry ride, 1,500 kms on the road and stays in at least 11 different places. I wondered to Jones what intending travellers did before the age of the internet. I suppose they went to travel agents.

On the local front, Jones has been down to Idalecio’s twice a day to visit Serpa and her pups, taking with her small tins of dog delight. After several days of refusing to leave her pups, Serpa has got over the novelty of motherhood. She is now content to leave them to their own devices while she rushes up to the fence to seek her usual treats and favours. After initially keeping all-comers at bay, she also permits Idalecio to remove the pups (still blind) from their box and to handle them. Idalecio’s son, Eduardo (5) informs us that they intend to keep the brown pup for their own; we may have the black one, if we wish. It’s a decision that will await our return from Germany.


Another Jones mission was to visit the house of English neighbours (David and Sarah) to take pictures, at their request, of their garden, which is looking wonderful in their absence. The results you may judge for yourself on the blog. The orchids and poppies are courtesy of the fields around us. Not all of nature’s bounty is as welcome. I have spent a couple of afternoons going around our property with poison spray, knocking out some of the less welcome visitors.

We bumped into a neighbour, Joachim Sousa, one afternoon as he stood contemplating a hen that was standing nervously at the side of a field adjoining Joachim’s house. Joachim was clearly in a very bad mood. He explained to us that a stray dog, which he’d had been feeding, had broken into his hen coop, eaten one of the feathered inhabitants and allowed another to escape. The escaped hen had never been out before and, terrified out of its hennish wits, fled each time that Joachim tried to coax it back. What Joachim had to say about the ungrateful “cabrao” of a stray dog doesn’t bear recounting in a family letter.

More unusually, someone had deliberately broken off a newly-grafted section of one of his trees. We were surprised. That’s not the kind of thing that happens much in Espargal. Nobody minds whether you walk across private land but it’s on the understanding that you don’t touch.

Friday brought confusion to the village square when two huge cement trucks and an even bigger pump arrived to tend Horacio’s latest house. We looked on as the pump put down the enormous “feet” that would support it during the operation. In a practice that would stun North Americans and bewilder the English, Portuguese builders commonly lay two reinforced cement slabs in a house, one for the floor and another for the roof, thus turning the house into a quake-proof reinforced cement box. (Our house is so constructed.)
Horacio and his workers made last-minute preparations as the pump prepared to pour the roof slab. Preparations for this had taken at least two weeks while elaborate shuttering and numerous supports were put in place and the reinforcing-rods laid.

Dona Casimira and Zeferino, who must have well over 160 years between them, were among the village stalwarts who turned out to watch the proceedings. Work proceeds on two other houses as well. When we complain about how the village character will be affected by all this construction, the old people remind us that Espargal was once a thriving community with two café-bars and an active primary school (now the headquarters of the hunters). Portugal has a policy of closing any primary school with fewer than 10 pupils – and, sadly, shuts down scores every year as younger people desert the interior for the coastal and metropolitan areas.

BEE ORCHID
Thursday we lunched at Quinta dos Valados, a large country house run by a retired French couple who offer accommodation and Moroccan cuisine. Our companions were our old radio and television colleagues, Gary and Malcolm, who are frequent visitors to Iberia. They had considered settling in Portugal but decided, after looking around for several months, to remain in the UK. Lunch – based on couscous and chicken - was served on the front patio, along with Moroccan rose wine. It’s a treat. Jones likes it especially as it makes a difference from your typical Portuguese menu – not that there’s anything wrong with that. And the setting is glorious.

I nipped into the bank one morning and was very pleased to discover that I’d arrived on the same day at the new customer manager – his predecessor having moved to a rival establishment. We had a useful 15-minute conversation. One of the benefits of small town living is that common or garden clients may still have a personal relationship with their bankers instead of talking to a computer operator somewhere in Mumbai (who is intent on “meeting targets” by persuading customers to change to more profitable accounts). I like it – having relationships with real people instead of with anonymous voices and the canned music one must endure to reach them.