Letter from Espargal: 15 of 2008

Natasha remarked that the Algarve has only two seasons, autumn and summer. As a denizen of deepest Russia, she was speaking from hard experience of what it means to have four seasons a year. It was difficult to argue otherwise. Our conversation had turned to the seasons as it seemed to us that summer had arrived that very day. It was hot. We were in the car with the air-conditioner blasting away, en route to the house, having picked up Natasha after my late-morning English lesson in Loule. She works an extra half-day for us each month, to make up her share of the social security we pay on her behalf.

After finishing the ironing and cleaning a couple of our large windows (set into 2 metres x 75 cms sliding doors), she joined Jones in the garden. The garden, like much of the countryside around us, has been overtaken by a riot of exploding rain-induced greenery. Our notional paths and steps have all but vanished under the leafy jungle.

Jones has started to cut back. She resolved to get rid of the huge borage bushes that start to die off at this time of year but finds her resolve weakened by the bees that are still busy in the blue flowers. She hates to deprive them of the nutrition they find there. Even so, she and Natasha piled the tractor high with borage corpses, which I then forked up on to the compost mountain, along with a tractor load of cuttings from a neighbour. For my part, I’ve been strimming, especially under the trees where low branches block access to the tractor. The carob beans are already heavy on the trees, with an excellent crop in prospect.


DOCK
While we were working I pointed out to Jones the lovely call of the cuckoo down in the valley. Jones was unimpressed. She regarded the bird as innately immoral, she replied, and it sounded to her as if it was calling out: “F…. off, “F…..off”. I have to say that I found this a little hard on the cuckoo. Jones would like to see the creatures of the field displaying the same respect for each other that she believes befits humanity but I’m afraid that evolution has led us all astray. It’s hard to know whether to blame Darwin or the divinity.

Today is a public holiday. On the 25^th of April, the Portuguese celebrate their Day of Liberty, marking the anniversary of 1974 revolution that ended the dictatorship. As we went walking this morning, admiring the poppies still burning red in the fields, we heard festive explosions coming from Alte and could see rockets bursting over the town in the distant hills. There’s a weekend of celebrations ahead there, and we’re planning a visit.

In fact, Friday always feels like a holiday. It’s our first day off. You may think that I am being ironic but this is not so. Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays are lesson days and Tuesdays bring Natasha. That means meeting her bus in Benafim and dropping her off again at the bus-stop in the afternoon – as well as researching on the internet whatever information she might require. With staff come responsibilities.


Jones prepares a light breakfast for her, as well as giving her lunch and afternoon tea. I sometimes tell Natasha that she eats better than we do. Dani continues in Romania where, Natasha understands, he is taking his driving licence and a job. He would appear to have inherited some property on the recent death of his mother. Whatever the case, she is happy for him to be there – the longer the better in fact. Life seems to have become much less demanding for her in his absence.

After running her back into town one evening, we continued on to the vet with Serpa’s two puppies, which were due for their first inoculations. Jones has named the bigger pup, which we are to take, Reimundo. I thought this derived from Rei (king) and Mundo (world) but according to a name derivation site (www.behindthename.com/) it comes from the Germanic name /Reginmund/, composed of the elements /ragin/ "advice" and /mund/ "protector". There you have it. Maybe Jones will call him something else when she learns this (she says not).


His slightly smaller brother is temporarily being called Stormy – a name given to him by Kayleigh on account of the bolt of white lightning that runs down his neck. Stormy is due to go to another neighbour. Apart from Raimundo’s being sick in the car, both en route to the vet and on the way home, the two pups took their first outing, along with their inoculations, in their stride. They weighed in at just over and under 5 kgs. They are both going to be big boys. Idalecio has agreed to keep the pups until our return from Canada early in June.

We went one evening to view a cottage that has been on sale in the village since the death of its elderly owner a year or two ago. It is one of several old houses up for sale. Our inspection – we were joined by, Marie, an English neighbour - was made out of sheer curiosity. I phoned up a number that was advertised over the front door. A relative, who is acting on behalf of the heirs, showed us around – and very interesting we found it.

The old cottage has no garden whatsoever. It is bounded on three sides by its own walls and on the fourth by a small yard that contains a cisterna. There were several rooms inside, all in good nick, along with a large storage room that could become a double garage; but there was no bathroom and no running water or drains. That would be the first concern of any buyer, along with the need for a fossa (in the absence of any public drains in the village).

The asking price was 60,000 euros although the relative emphasised that this was negotiable – and we gather elsewhere that the price has fallen sharply since the place first went on the market. I think that the house would make a good hide-away for someone who didn’t want to be burdened with a garden. But a key question is whether a buyer would be entitled to put in several necessary windows. The relative was certain there would be no problem – he would be. The local builder is due to give us an opinion. (Portuguese law prohibits people from putting in new windows when these overlook their neighbours.)

This is all by the by. We are still trying to complete the licensing of Casa Nada, our own elderly cottage, and not aiming to become entangled in any further ventures.

Another evening we joined friends, David and Dagmar, at “Miss Pettigrew lives for a day”. Admirer that I am of Frances McDormand, I found the film tedious and the seat uncomfortable so I retired at the interval. The others later reported that the second half was much improved and that they had the satisfaction of a happy ending.


You may have noticed from the blog that I have been busy with my mobile phone camera (both with stills and video.) After taking several shots of a neighbour, who was showing us where one of his trees had burst open a slab of rock, I offered to make a print for him – a favour much appreciated by the local people.

But my printers – I have two – went on strike. The bigger printer would print anything else I asked it to but claimed to have a paper jam each time it was confronted with the neighbour’s picture. The smaller printer insisted that the existing colour cartridge was out of ink and then that a new replacement was dry. I felt like the victim of a conspiracy. A new colour cartridge finally did the job. The refill shop that supplied it warned me that they don’t keep. This is clearly the case, an expensive lesson.

Let me finish as I began. The orchid season is nearly over. They are spring flowers.
But the late orchids are still glorious, including the pyramid orchids along the road that leads up from the citrus orchards in the valley. As so often, I think that we are wonderfully lucky to live in such a splendid place.

P.S. We have lunched on our beans, picked within the hour and hot out of the pot! We dipped them in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. What more could one ask of life?