Letter from Espargal: 29 of 2008

I thought it sensible last week not to bang on about new tractors and things, given the limited interest that most people have in agricultural vehicles. To my pleasant surprise, I received a number of enquiries from interested correspondents. So I bow to popular demand.

Yes, I have a new tractor – my first and last. It’s a Kioti (LX500L); like my previous tractor, it’s a South Korean model with a Japanese (Kubota) engine. South Korean tractors sell at a discount to big-name brands. They are also marketed by Jose Raul, the local dealer, who sold me my previous tractor and (a while back, when he caught me on his forecourt), offered me a tempting trade-in.

Forgive me if I get briefly technical. Again, like my previous model, the new tractor has assisted-steering, a 4-wheel drive option (used when “working”), 4 ranges of gears and 4 gears in each range – either backwards or forwards. It’s also about the same physical size – a little bigger. It just fits into the garage with the ROPS bar lowered.

The differences are in the much greater weight and power, the pneumatic seat (that alone was worth the investment) and the sophistication. It has twice the carrying capacity of my old tractor, which would start to tip up when the box was half full, in spite of water-filled tyres and front counter-weights. I am still getting used to sheer potency of the Kioti. It has a 49 HP (37 Kw), 2.5 litre, 4-cylinder diesel (most compact tractors have 3 cylinders). If that doesn’t sound impressive, in tractor terms it represents a lot of muscle. The ride is heavenly - no more spine-jarring jolting down the track. (Tractors have no suspension!) In short, it’s a bit like graduating from a Mini to a Merc.

I took the tractor into town one afternoon to return a spare tractor tyre for the old model to Jose and to get the detachable rear flap of the box (which I had bent – don’t ask how) straightened at the panel-beaters’ shop. I found the shop wide open but bereft of personnel. August is the holiday month. Jose solved the problem by putting a rock under one end of the rear flap and jumping on the middle section. It did the trick. On the way home I loaded up at the suppliers with several 50 kg sacks of fertilizer to treat our carobs in the autumn.

Having said all that, my week has been very little occupied by tractors. In Jones’s absence the days have been busy and demanding. As I said to her in one of our text message exchanges, I'm not finding it much fun being a housewife. The day starts at 7. By then Raymond is getting restless and by 7.30 he’s bashing the front door. The poor fellow generally has to sleep outside his kennel because the diminutive Prickles, who still enjoys superior ranking, has occupied it. I feed the cats on the way down and, most days, meet young Robbie and Kayleigh for the morning walk.

If the pair are not going to the beach, they often stay on for an hour or two of carob/almond picking, garden watering or whatever. The watering takes from one to two hours, depending on whether it’s a tree/ Banco’s Broadwalk irrigation day. Although I put an extensive irrigation system into the garden, we make little use of it, partly because it has simply been overtaken by the flora and partly because the pressure lower down the slope pops the leads off the pipes.

The kid’s least favourite (pocket money-earning) task is to pick up stones from the fields. I’ve continued to collect them, hauling them around to the lower field on the far side of the house where I’m building a ramp between outcrops of rocks up to an upper terrace.
Robbie wondered how long it would take to clear all the fields of all the stones. The answer is a very long time, especially as each ploughing turns up a fresh crop. Even so, the difference is already pleasing to the eye.

As I was unloading stones one afternoon, two mountain bikers made their way down the path. One dismounted and came up to speak to me. When he removed his helmet and fancy spectacles, I recognised him as Sergio, the carpenter who made our bedroom cupboards and study furniture. I’d been phoning him for some time, with a view to pricing more shelves for the study – and getting no reply. Sergio confessed that he’d changed his phone numbers.

NEW UPPER SHELF
He visited me the following afternoon to measure up and discuss the project I have in mind. He was feeling sore because he’d just had two expensive machines stolen from the back of his pick-up during a brief stop over in Quarteira, on the coast. You couldn’t trust anyone in Portugal any longer, he complained. I sympathised. Whatever the case, we agreed on the shelves. You will approve Jones, I promise you.

After fetching Natasha from the bus on Tuesday, I took her to the café for breakfast. (Jones normally gives her toast and coffee.) Natasha opted for a hefty slice of cake with cream, while I had a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. Several workers stopped by for coffees and shots of liquor. Two young women lit up at the counter, to my surprise. Nearly all such establishments have outlawed smoking.

From there, Natasha’s day deteriorated. I came into the house at one point to find a stream of water gushing from the upper floor on to the lower, drenching the TV. I yelled. Natasha tearfully confessed from upstairs that she’d knocked over a bucket or, at least, as she put it, that a bucket had fallen over. Happily, the TV was not damaged. Later she broke a saucer (one of the upstairs ones, Jones, which I’ve done my best to glue.) I told her that bad things were supposed to happen in threes, and asked her to keep any more accidents for later.

Natasha is anxious to move lodgings. She’s found a place that’s available close by. The landlady, however, wants someone to act as guarantor for the lodger and Natasha has approached me. She brought a copy of the proposed rental contract, which I have emailed to our lawyer. If the role is really just a nominal one, or can be strictly limited, I’ll be happy to oblige. I await the lawyer’s advice.

SEE BELOW
Sarah and David entertained the neighbours to a slap-up supper on Wednesday. I arrived late (from garden watering) to find the company waiting upon me. I dare say that I was not the flavour of the evening. Even so, it was a meal well worth waiting for, consumed at tables under the trees in the garden on a lovely evening. David later traded two pots of Sarah’s jam for three buckets of sand, a most satisfactory deal.

I’ve heard little from my wife these past few days, following Bevan’s wedding, because she can’t get a phone signal at the rural lodgings she’s sharing with her family in Vermont. I await her report on events - and her brother, Robbie’s. Bevan himself is a notoriously bad correspondent. In the meanwhile, I look forward to the arrival of Llewellyn and Lucia on Sunday.

Late news: the carpenters came and installed the new shelves in the study. Natasha helped me restore the room and gave a final lick and polish to rest of the house. I am delighted with the results in the study. I hope that Jonesy feels the same way.

Later news: I joined neighbours, Sarah and David and family at the Hamburgo for supper. Afterwards, as it filled up, we repaired to a cafe bar on the other side of Benafim, where the kids showed some of us how to play pool. Others watched the bullfight being carried on TV. I've played billiards and snooker before but never pool. Happily, I didn't disgrace myself.

Saturday morning. The dogs went walkabout for over an hour. There was no sign of sound of them, nor did they respond to my whistling and calling in all the hills around. Late morning they came breathlessly down the path, drank thirstily and then settled down on the patio with nary a word of explanation. Bad morning!