Letter from Espargal: 25 of 2008

If I seem distracted you may blame a lusty cicada that is making the very devil of a racket outside the study window. When I go out on to the patio to protest, he stops; sit down again and he resumes his chorus. He’s the size of my thumb-nail. In terms of noise for size, he knocks an amplifier into a cocked hat.

Let me stick with my creature theme. Fellow villagers, Mike and Liz, were showing me a goldfinch fledgling that was testing its wings on a nest near their front door. His three nest mates had already flown. I managed to snap him before he too upped and awayed. Being in on his launch made me feel quite special.

I’d been down to Mike and Liz with the tractor to help them move gravel and road surfacing material. My part was actually to drive the tractor while they heaved away with shovels, loading and emptying the box. I explained that I felt bad leaving them to do the work but that I’d probably feel worse if I joined them. They seemed to understand. They’re both retired from the UK health service, with extensive (and in Mike’s case, personal) experience of bad backs.

Even so, I haven’t stinted on my twice-weekly carob-clearing shifts with Leonhilde and Jose-Luis. Like many Portuguese, they own bits of land all over the show. I take the car down to the area concerned, leave the dogs in the shade and get to work. My task is to snip the suckers off the trunks and zap unwelcome bushes. Much ducking and weaving under low branches is required. I keep a fresh shirt and vest in the car. Leonhilde chops out the lighter undergrowth with a hoe while Jose-Luis does a little raking - puffing and cursing his troublesome legs.

Leonhilde points out the numerous traces of wild pigs – “javali”. There must be scores of them around. One never sees them. They are creatures of the night. They create private paths through the countryside, sandpapering tree trunks with their itchy backs and leaving extensive muddy brown stains on rocks. Most evident are the patches of turned-up earth, where they have been rooting. The hunters, knowing their fondness for almonds, bait known haunts with nuts and return when the moon is full.

Still on animals: Jones gave a cry of delight when our long-lost (semi-official) black cat, Squinty, strode through the door after a two-month absence and started squalling for food as ever. Jones had quite mourned him, as she often does our more itinerant animals. Where-ever Squinty went there must have been a supply of food for he looks in good nick, if somewhat slimmer. He’s simply taken up where he left off, camping on Jones’s feet when she works in the garden.

She’s continuing the mammoth task of cutting back. This week she’s been working her way into a thicket beside our driveway. It’s slow going, trying to separate the thorny tendrils of a nasty creeper, smilax aspera, from the desirable growth. I follow on behind, carefully poisoning the creeper and the new shoots of bramble. My latest project is to build stepping stones into the steeper parts of the path that leads down the hill through the “park” above the house.

Jones is often just finishing up of an evening, baggy in hand, when neighbours, Marie and Olly, pass by with their dog, Poppy. It’s impossible for them to creep past because the dogs set up a hue and cry. We fall into conversation across the gate (there are always important village matters to discuss) and we sometimes inveigle them in for a sun-downer on the garden bench. Marie likes Bacardi and coke; Olly joins me in a beer. The dogs get a romp and biscuits. It’s a great way to draw the curtains on the day. We even had an impromptu barbecue at which I was able to demonstrate my culinary skills. I do a good sausage when the force is with me.

One morning Marie texted us with a “please help” message, as they were going out, saying the electricity supply to the cottage of their immediate neighbours, the odd couple, Chico and Dina, had failed.


Given that Chico and Dina were in no position to help themselves, nor likely to win much sympathy from their Portuguese neighbours – their bizarre antics have won them few friends - I went round. I didn’t expect a warm welcome, having landed on Dina’s fist-shaking greetings-list after a fall-out.

As my goodwill mission became clear, however, scowls disappeared and I was bidden enter the cottage like some saving grace. The interior, apart from the TV set, comes straight from the 19^th century; ditto the electrical supply and wiring. Chico assured me – and I subsequently confirmed - that he’d paid his bill. He took a while to find a statement. The old fellow is half blind as well as illiterate.
Much hunting through pockets and wallets eventually produced a receipt that I took along with me, together with a box of (huge) onions that was thrust upon me by way of thanks.

The EDP technician turned up after lunch. He flicked the cottage mains-switch a couple of times, assuring me that the ancient meter was still up to the job. He must have had the magic touch for light instantly returned, the TV came back on and Dina sat down to watch. I made my apologies and left. Such are the burdens of a modern knight errant.

The EDP, by the way, hit on a novel way to recover the money owed to it by defaulters. It supposed that it would add their debts to the bills of those clients who actually paid for their consumption. I am not joking. The whole mad scheme went to an enquiry. The expat association warned its members of what was happening and told them how they might register their protests – if they didn’t want to pay their neighbours’ bills as well as their own. A political head of steam boiled up and it seems that the scheme has finally crashed.

PARK STEPS
On Thursday we took Leonhilde into Loule to visit another villager, Maria, who has just had neck surgery and is recovering at the home of her daughter. (Jones often gets together with the two women for afternoon tea.) Maria has long been troubled with sciatica and hobbles about the village on a crutch. During a visit to a consultant she was advised to undergo emergency surgery, during which she has had a plate inserted. The operation was done privately and the whole village is whistling at the cost. The poor old thing was whipped out of hospital almost as soon as her stitches were tied.