Letter from Espargal: 13 of 2008

Where to start? We’re home from snowy Warwick. It’s been raining; four marvellous inches in four days although I doubt that our fellow travellers on the plane from Coventry would have shared our feelings. Our departure gave us our first taste of Coventry airport, which serves only one airline (Thomsonfly) on passenger routes. The terminal is tiny – just two check-in desks.

Ours was the only flight due to depart that morning. Even so, the whole security brigade was on duty at 4 a.m. when we arrived and, with nothing else to do, went over us with a fine toothcomb. I got random searched. One security woman even tested the small tubes I was carrying in the permitted see-through plastic bag; for what, I haven’t the faintest.

We spent the second half of our week with Barbara’s brother, Llewellyn, and his wife, Lucia, newly moved into a house they are renting on the borders of leafy Warwick and Leamington Spa, after their recent move to the UK.
The weather was chilly, especially after the snowfall that we woke up to one morning. Lawns, trees and buildings were uniformly white. The area is upmarket; the houses, although modern and pleasant, were out-graced by the cars parked beside them, as though signalling their owners priorities.

Lucia works close by. Llewellyn, who likes neatness and order, had the house looking trim within days of occupying it. I inspected his entertainment computer set-up with interest. All his music was recorded on a computer linked to an LCD-TV. One could sit on the couch, listening to music and using a wireless keyboard and mouse to surf the internet - or press a button to watch TV.

We were very well looked after; walked, wined and dined and chauffeured about in Llewellyn’s Honda CRV, a model several years younger than ours, ideal for the canine and feline family that are soon to arrive from the quarantine kennels. We were close to both Coventry and Birmingham, neither of which we had previously visited, nor, to be truthful, much desired to. But we did want to see Coventry cathedral, rebuilt beside the ruins of the old church after the war; and we were much impressed by it. It speaks to believers and non-believers alike. Llewellyn and I mounted the old church tower, ascending scores of winding stone steps (he more vigorously than I) for views across the city in every direction.


Birmingham was the real surprise. Our expectations were not high but we found the city centre graceful and modern and designed for easy pedestrian access, with great sweeps of paving leading from one impressive building to another. Llewellyn guided us around like a Brummie born and bred. From the city’s delightful art gallery/museum we proceeded to the city hall for a lunchtime organ concert, delivered on a massive organ by a distinguished Norwegian organist. At least, that’s what the programme said. I can’t pretend that most of it was my kind of music and I might have nodded off once or twice.

Naturally, we did no end of walking around the countryside, along canals, past locks and through parks, visiting pubs, and charity shops, a vast open-air market and anything else that took our fancy.

The purpose of the visit was to see family and friends and a number of exhibitions.
MATISSE - THE DANCE
In particular we wanted to see the Russian picture exhibition at the Royal Academy, the Terracotta Warrior display at the British museum and the Tutankhamun exhibition at the Dome. To this end, I had spent a lot of time, first on the internet and later on the phone to the UK, (successfully) trying to secure tickets. All three exhibitions were superb, if one could abide the crush of fellow viewers. We were constantly aware that we were looking on sights that we were most unlikely ever to witness again.
PATRICK HENRY BRUCE
Just as satisfying was a “Coming of Age of American Art” exhibition at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, down the road from the home of our London hosts, Ann Christine and Julian Andersen (for whose welcoming and gracious hospitality we say a big thank you).

We took the opportunity to duck into London’s newly renovated St Pancras station, now a smart eating and shopping centre, as well as the terminus of the Eurostar trains that swish passengers off to Paris and Brussels a great deal faster and more efficiently than Heathrow’s new Terminal 5.

Let me make mention of two meals, aside from those prepared for us by our hosts; the first was a dinner we celebrated with London friends, Penny and Richard, and our niece, Erica, at a restaurant near the couple’s home in Islington. Like them, Erica – a post-grad student at Goldsmiths - is deep into the art and design world. She had just returned from a visit with fellow students to Barcelona, where she had found a hairdresser to fulfil a longstanding wish of hers – to dye her blond hair black. The second was lunch with Barbara’s former NBC colleague, Nancy, and her two student children, both down from St Andrew’s for the Easter break.

Both meals were reminders of the life and friends in London that we left behind us when we sold up and moved to Portugal. Barbara loved being back in London. She said it felt like putting on a comfortable pair of shoes again. For me, it presented an opportunity to see people and do things that I couldn’t do elsewhere. But, unlike her, I felt not the least desire to live again amid the noise and confusion of a big city.

Travelling into London on the train from Gatwick, I had to accustom my eyes to the grime and graffiti that lined the track. Not a wall had escaped the attentions of the spray-paint artists. And I was struck time and again by the contrast between the well-spoken, fashionably-dressed visitors to the exhibitions and the dumpy bread-dough figures much in evidence on the streets; different nations sharing the same city.

It was as good to get back as to go. Our house-sitters have handed over our beasts and taken themselves off to the west coast for two days. The sun is coming and going, ducking in and out of the grey clouds. The views from the window are now of damp green fields and trees bent over in the wind. In our absence our beans have thrived. JONES PICKING BEANS
We picked pocketfuls of big pods after a walk and had a delightful bean salad for dinner. The garden has gone absolutely bananas. The growth lining the road has exploded to the extent that there is barely room for the car to pass.

Natasha is cleaning downstairs. Some of the attractive music that Llewellyn shared with me is playing on my computer. I am expecting one of my English class pupils, who has asked me to help him fill in an American tax return on behalf of his elderly mother, who gets a small US pension.

WATCH JONES FEEDING THE PUPPIES

Jones has gone down to feed Serpa and her pups, now bigger, bolder and delighted, like their mother, to get their noses into the doggy foods we are providing them. We think that we may take one of the two pups – the question is whether we do so before our Canadian trip in just over a month, or afterwards.

En route back from a visit to Loule, I dropped in on Vitor’s workshop to find my tractor back in one piece, with the engine turning happily. It was a good engine, Vitor assured me. I fetched the tractor the following day, driving home as close to the edge of the highway as I could, my eyes weeping in the cold wind.

The showers and squalls have eased. The local river, usually just a few damp pools and occasionally rousing itself to a brisk stream, has swelled into a swirling brown flood that roars over the low dam wall. It’s a lovely noise. I wish that we could hear it more often.