Letter from Espargal: 26 of 2008

ROBBIE,KAYLEIGH & US

I had a moment, when I was picking up stones from the Casanova field and moving them with the tractor to the verges, half listening to the bird calls and dogs yapping in the village below, watching the sun starting to sink over the western hills, its rays catching the blades of the wind turbines, when I thought how happy I felt. It’s crazy. But that’s how it was.

I’ve invited my neighbours to find their happiness shifting my stones as well. Sadly, they are not persuaded.

According to my calendar, August is here. We have survived June and July. Now we have only to get through the next two months to catch sight of autumn. How nice that will be – a few clouds and maybe even a little rain. We hardly bother to check the weather forecast. The days follow hot on one another’s heels, blue sky after endlessly blue sky.

August is the big holiday month, when the population heads en masse for the beach. The numbers are swelled, not only by the tourist hordes, but by the arrival of the French Portuguese - easily identified by their vehicle licence plates. These visitors are the product of the widespread Portuguese emigration to France in the 50s and 60s, in search of work. Many stayed, marrying into their new country while keeping their links with the old. It is still the case that our older Portuguese neighbours are nearly all fluent in French. Their kids learn English instead.

The holiday arrivals include our neighbours’ adopted teenage grandchildren, Robbie and Kayleigh, who turn up on the doorstep at 7.30 each morning to come walking with us. They are very welcome, especially as it reduces us to one dog each. I am able to concentrate on instilling some discipline into young Raymond, whose insatiable appetite and boundless energy show no signs of abating.

As to our week, its content – like mine – continues much the same. Jones labours away, hour after torrid hour in her garden.
AGAPANTHUS

It’s really showing the benefit of her labours, excepting only the unfortunate agapanthus, turned into a wrestling ring by Raymond and Bobby. Jones has tried to block off sensitive areas of the garden and has turned the hose on the dogs a couple of times, usually after the damage has been done.

A neighbour, David, joined me one morning to help Leonhilde and Jose-Luis continue clearing under their carob trees.
LEONHILDE AMONG THE CAROBS

Leonhilde led us a few hundred metres up a rise to show us a small cave where generations of her forbears had dug out sand for building purposes. Leonhilde remembered it being carried back to the villages on the backs of donkeys, to be mixed with lime and used as render. The grain of the sand was fine, more so than river sand, and ideal for the purpose.
OLD PLASTER

The render proved tough and durable. It still covers most older buildings.

I brought back a brimming load of carob cuttings to turn into mulch. The shredder just loves them. Olive branches, on the other hand, give it severe indigestion.

CAROB CUTTINGS

We wondered when tractors had been introduced to the fields in place of animals. It was in the 80s, Leonhilde told us. The popular model then was the big (blue) Ford, scores of which (including Jose-Luis’s) are still working today. They just go on for ever.

We took ourselves one evening to visit a friend, Jane, who has made her home in Benafim, our nearest town. We were interested to see the metal-framed house that she’d built with her husband, Peter. (He died some time later.) Their move into town was unusual. Most expats settle in the Portuguese countryside or in the coastal colonies.

Old Benafim is a maze of little lanes and cheek-by-jowl cottages, many abandoned and slowly crumbling away. Peter and Jane had bought one of these, demolished the remains and rebuilt. The house is lovely. Although the frontage is narrow, the house rises over three floors to give her ample space and lovely views across to Espargal. It was a move she said she could recommend, placing her in a charming part of town, with easy access to services.

Another visit was to Dutch neighbours, Erly and Henke, who have a house about 100 metres below us.
CONSTRUCTION IN ESPARGAL

They have been somewhat alarmed by construction around them. It’s quite scary to find green fields suddenly morphing into masses of grey concrete. Even so, they’re lucky to have an extensive garden as a shield. I told them about our experience at the Quinta, where a villa came to loom over our rural idyll. We’ve tried to buy up adjacent fields to ensure that it doesn’t happen again.

I have been making expensive international phone calls – to no useful purpose. Twice I have tried to move modest savings from Barclays to another account by electronic transfer and twice seen the money inexplicably returned to Barclays (where savings receive no interest for 30 days after ANY withdrawal). I cannot discover why this is happening. By the time I’ve waited over 10 minutes in vain to speak to someone at Barclays (“We are sorry but all our account executives are busy; we shall attend to your call as soon as possible” --- muzak ---) my reserves of patience and civility are exhausted.

Still on petty frustrations: I looked up a subject on Wikipedia. The information was useful but the article badly written. So, as a contribution to human progress, I spent an hour carefully revising it before republishing it in impeccable prose. (This kind of edit, I gather, is generally welcomed and often carried out.) Some days later I took another look at the piece, only to find that the idiot author, resentful of my intrusion, had substituted my efforts with his original pidgin. I was tempted to stick my pen into his page once again but thought better of it. What’s the point?

JONES TOMATO BARREL

Jones and I have both been racked by occasional attacks of night cramps. Any practical suggestions on how to avoid it (other than going on the wagon) will be appreciated.