Letter from Espargal: 22 of 2008

BEFORE
Where does one start writing about a week whose focus has been on saving a neighbour’s tree? The neighbour, Humberto, lives at the bottom of the village. The tree is a magnificent old fig on the “running field”, just below our land. And the villain of the piece is bramble, whose thorny embrace had already stifled another tree close by.

SUFFOCATED FIG
The fig is one of several fruit and nut trees on the plot. Jones loves the plums and figs that they produce; I’m partial to them myself. We pass through the field most days with the dogs. Humberto, who like most of us is retired, is not interested in selling it or capable of tilling it. Over the years it had become completely overgrown. When we asked him if we might clear it at our own expense he had no objection. Clearing the open sections with the tractor was straight-forward. But tackling the bramble has required hand-to-hand combat.

AFTER
Bramble is a worthy adversary. It’s tough, vicious, swift-growing and capable of completely smothering even large trees. It tends to establish itself under branches and along the edges of fields, finding a purchase between rocks and fiercely resisting attempts at removal. Spraying keeps it in check but seldom eradicates it completely. When it’s entwined five metres high in the branches, there is no option but to take it out one spiky tendril at a time. This we have done, putting in hours and hours of prickly, painstaking labour. The result has been highly satisfying, as the figs should be in a few weeks’ time.

BANCO'S BROADWALK
Jones has also continued cutting back in the garden and along Banco’s Broadwalk, the lane at the bottom of our property that villagers use as a shortcut to the square. Over the years she has planted succulents and creepers along both edges of the lane until it’s become a garden in its own right. We trot along it daily as we go to fetch Zeferino and Bobby for our morning walk.

I’m thrilled to say that Bobby has been reborn. He can hardly credit his good fortune. Not only is he no longer imprisoned in his hot, dark shed, he’s also been taken off his wire run and allowed the freedom of the yard. Zeferino proudly tells us how the dog now follows him about in the fields.

He intends to take Bobby out with him when the carob-picking season starts in a few weeks. Master and dog still come back with us to the house each day. Zeferino and I get apple juice. Bobby, who is trying to cope with the onset of adolescent urges, gets a romp with Raymond. He can’t make up his mind whether he wants to mate or play and keeps on trying to impregnate Raymond’s head. What a hoot!

ZEFERINO

Speaking of such things: we went to the cinema to celebrate our Quintassential neighbour, David Davies’s birthday. I had studied the reviews of all the films on offer and suggested one entitled “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”, a chick-flick that enjoyed good write-ups and an excellent mark on the IMDB. It was a mistake. The movie was more soft porn than chick-flick, not what we were expecting. The language was as biological as the action. I don’t mean to sound prudish. It just feels a bit out of place – like finding yourself at a service in the wrong church.

Behind us, two bored pre-pubescent girls amused themselves while Daddy watched the entertainment on screen. I do hope his daughters didn’t understand English. Why the reviewers so liked the film is beyond me. If Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction warranted a half million plus dollar fine, then Sarah Marshall’s antics would have closed Hollywood down.

That wasn’t the only scheme that didn’t go entirely to plan. At the weekend Jones and I attended the annual Senior University banquet where, as customary, the volunteer teachers were presented with a gift in recognition of services rendered. This year’s trophy was a handsome plate in blue rippled glass. I set it up on Jones’s desk to admire while we considered where to keep it. We didn’t have to consider long because, as I opened the patio door to find out what was upsetting Raymond outside, the wind caught the plate and tossed it to the floor.

I was mortified as much by my stupidity (the law of unforeseen consequences) as its loss. While Jonesy kindly picked up the blue shards, she suggested that I phone the university to see if a plate was going spare. The boss invited me to drop in the next day. I did and came home with the last of his plates. I have carefully set it up in a display cabinet.

On Tuesday morning, after breakfast in Loule, we went around to Natasha’s digs to help her change the lock on the front door. She has been uneasy for a while, having heard nothing from Dani in weeks and having no idea when he might return. He took a key with him when he left and she is fearful of returning home from work one day to find him in situ – in what is now her bedroom. She doesn’t like surprises, she confided, a sentiment with which I sympathise.

We arrived at the house to find Natasha looking glum. She said the owner, an elderly fellow who passes most of his day in cafes, had refused to allow the lock to be changed. We couldn’t find another solution. The door to Natasha’s bedroom is both fragile and damaged and will not take a lock. So she either has to live with the situation or find somewhere else to stay.

She came back with us to Espargal to clean the house. She's super-efficient and we stay out of her way as far as possible, Jones in the garden and the dogs in the car - the best place in the world, they reckon. Afterwards, as usual, I meant to run Natasha down to the bus. I’d forgotten, however, that the service had been discontinued over the school holidays. So we had to run her back into town again in the evening, a 20-minute ride each way.

It’s the kind of journey that we’re trying to avoid, with petrol now costing over 1.50 euros a litre and heading steadily upwards. In a way we feel it’s a good thing. A pain in the pocket reaches parts that global warming doesn't; pity about the workers losing their jobs as the big US car-makers close down factories producing pick-ups and 4x4s. Americans, who think they’re hard done by, have no idea how expensive fuel is in Europe, where it’s taxed, often heavily. Portugal’s fuel, like the UK’s, is among the most expensive. Thousands of Portuguese motorists regularly fill up across the border in Spain, where the tax is much lower.

One afternoon I took the tractor down to Vitor’s garage for an oil change - a service he willingly performs. Tractors generally require new engine oil every 100 hours. It’s a dirty job - not a difficult one; I’ve done it often enough. But it makes more sense to go to Vitor, who as well as being more flexible than I am, has a grease gun to service the nipple points and a compressor to clean the gunge off the radiator.

Vitor is both knowledgeable and helpful. He knows exactly what makes tractors tick and deals with some problems before I’m even aware of them. One of the rear lights was coming adrift as the result of a collision with a branch. Vitor cut, drilled and fixed two small metal plates beneath the light to secure it. For an hour’s work (on top of nuts, bolts and a spare light bulb) he charged me 10 euros. I made it 20 and considered it cheap at the price.

Another bargain is the cost of refreshments in Benafim. It was to the café there that we took ourselves on Friday morning as a reward for our labours under the fig tree. Two coffees, two cakes and a generous glass of medronho came to less than 4 euros. Afterwards I took a couple of snaps of Jones and the dogs standing under a brilliant bougainvillea across the road from the café. I mention this really just as an excuse to stick a picture on the blog.

My current reading is “Mind the Gaffe” by R. L. Trask, a gift from Cathy. It’s my kind of book. I hesitate to describe it as a pedant’s delight lest I do myself a disservice. If you want to know the difference between “discreet” and “discrete”, it’s invaluable – a blogger’s handbook. My task isn't always an easy one. Not only do I have to convince Jones that my word-choice is apposite, I also have to suffer the slings and arrows of critics who point out slips like calling our tree a Cyprus rather than a Cypress.

On a sad note, an English neighbour has died of cancer. She had been ill for some time, nursed by her husband. We have seen very little of them. But we understand from friends that his devotion and care have been extraordinary in the most difficult circumstances. The couple bought down here a few years ago and moved in after his recent retirement. As so often, we count our blessings.