ESPARGAL HILLIf I were a rich man, I should journey at the end of May each year into the mountains – it doesn’t matter which mountains – where I should spend the summer in relative cool. And like the sahibs of colonial India, in October I should return to the plains. Because I am not a rich man, we sweat it out at home. If you take a look on “weather.com” at the 10-day forecast for Faro, you will see ten little sun icons, and that’s pretty much the way things will stay for the next several months.
So, resigning ourselves to the inevitable, we have adopted our summer schedule: walk early and late, garden mid-morning and -afternoon and hide from the midday sun. Although the real heat of summer lies ahead of us, we breathe a sigh of relief on June the 21^st at the thought that the orb is at least starting its southward journey once again. (Actually, the sun describes an egg-shaped parabola – sort of, my maths isn’t very good - which means that it lingers irritatingly near the tropic of cancer for weeks on end.)
Inevitably, life being what it is, much of the time we spend weathering events rather than the actual weather. The big event in our lives continues to be our puppy. Taking on board a dynamo like Raymond is pretty much like having a new baby – I think – or maybe like looking after somebody else’s baby.
His energy, like his appetite, is limitless. The other two dogs, tired of growling at him when he romps around them, retreat inside for a bit of peace and quiet. We have tried taking Raymond for longer walks (within sensible limits) to try to wear him down but succeeded only in tiring ourselves.Last Tuesday afternoon, he went back to the vet for his third general vaccination (against a host of diseases). He rode in the back seat with Jones. She was sitting alongside old Zeferino, who clutched Raymond’s brother, Bobby. In the front seat was Natasha, whom we were taking home at the same time. Natasha was wearing a pair of Jones’s sandals because Raymond had chewed through the thongs of Natasha’s sandals in a pretty comprehensive manner. Right at the back rode a somewhat indignant Ono and Prickles, demoted from their usual station.
Because both Raymond and Bobby had been sick the last time they were in the car, Jones and Zeferino had towels over their knees in anticipation of another bout. And it was fortunate that they did. Cries of yuck or similar accompanied the retching. At least it was on the towels. Jones spread these out to dry in the sun while I took the pups into the vet. Both dogs were diagnosed with ear mites and are having to be treated once a day with drops. This entails inserting a rubber nozzle inside each ear. The dogs are neither enthusiastic about their treatment nor cooperative. I go around to Zeferino’s house each day to assist with the administration of the drops in Bobby’s ear.
Wednesday brought my last English lesson of the academic year. We talked about the French government’s attempts to reform the country’s pension system – and the inevitable resistance that it’s meeting. (We are not, as a species, much given to recognising the greater good when it entails a personal cost.) In recognition of my services, the class presented me with a fine bottle of old bagaceira, a drop of which Jones and I shared the following night to mourn Portugal’s exit from the European football championship at the hands of Germany. In spite of their defeat, the boys put up a fine showing and we were proud to raise our glasses to the success they had achieved in reaching the quarter-finals.
As I reflected to Cathy in a text message conceding the victory, at least our drama was over. The Germans have to go through at least one more bout of it and possibly two. I wish them well – although I’m putting my money on the Dutch, who have put on scintillating performances.
Thursday, as during much of the rest of the week, I cleaned up the fields with the tractor and I strimmed the areas that the tractor can’t reach. There’s not a lot to be said about scarifying and strimming. It’s hot and dusty work; flies buzz around one’s head, sweat dribbles down one’s face and under the protective goggles into one’s eyes, while seeds are scattered in a cloud of sneeze-provoking showers. The satisfaction of beholding the area cleaned up quickly gives way to despair at sight of the expanse still awaiting attention.
Another task was to load the tractor with water containers to irrigate the further-flung trees. I'd hoped to make do with a single container, a 200-litre barrel but I shall have to get rid first of the wasps that have made a nest in it.Jones makes the same complaint about the garden, sighing “if only I could catch up”.
JONES, LOWER HALF
In the nature of things, one never does. I sometimes wonder whether there is some noble and creative calling that we are missing out on while we expend our puny efforts on trying to keep nature in check. At the same time I should say that Jones’s garden is a source of great pleasure to us and our visitors – and I couldn’t imagine not having it.
Friday we’d arranged for the vet to spay Raymond’s mother, Serpa. Although she’s Idalecio’s bitch, she comes walking with us twice a day and we feel at least partly responsible for her well-being. We took her in to Loule mid-afternoon. Serpa, like our dogs, was anything but keen to enter the portals. Jones managed, with some difficulty, to entice her into the recovery room. She said she felt awful leaving the animal there, as if she had betrayed a trust. I said there was no easy way of doing it, none that I know of, anyhow. There are some things you just can’t explain.We fetched her again in the evening. She was wearing one of those dreadful lampshade goodies around her neck to prevent her pulling out the stitches. All our dogs have endured them at one stage or another, staggering around and bashing the furniture in complete mystification. I wish there were an easier way. Jones went down to see her Saturday morning, and to give her the first of the pills she’ll need to take for the next few days. She seems to be okay.
CUTTTINGSIf this letter seems to be mainly about dogs and gardens, that’s because our lives have also been.
We went down one evening to see how Fintan and Pauline’s new house is coming along. I give away no secrets when I tell you that the Irish couple already rents out one holiday house in the village and plans to rent out the second. (For any who are interested, both are 3-bed, 3 bath villas with air-con, TV & pool – and highly recommended). The new house has its roof on – and is looking to completion towards the end of summer. Jonesy and I were most impressed by our tour. The dogs waited patiently below while we examined the rooms and the view from the sun terrace.
"RISING HOUSE"Another new house, belonging to a young Portuguese couple, is rising 100 metres below us – and rising and rising. It’s huge. We understand that the husband’s father donated the land and that the wife’s father is the builder. From the description on the licence, it appears to us that it will have a basement plus two full storeys. I hope that we’re wrong about this but I fear that we’re right. It’s doing no favours to a newly-retired Scottish couple who own a small house obliquely above it.
IT'S A FAIR COP, GUVWhatever the case, Espargal continues its inexorable progress from dusty hamlet to rustic village. If only we get a café, we shall consider its transformation complete.
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