Letter from Espargal: 31 of 2008

THIS PICTURE IS HERE JUST BECAUSE IT'S CUTE
This is the first day – Friday the fifth of September – since our return from Canada early in June that I have ventured outside without first smearing my face and hands with sun-goo. (Jones clucks as I emerge from the bathroom and rubs the cream in so that I don’t look like a waking zombie.) The most beautiful dark clouds are floating overhead. We actually had a few drops of rain as we charged around the back of the hill with the dogs, and real rain is promised for tomorrow. Promised truly or promised falsely I don’t know but after months of wall-to-wall sunshine the prospect is delightful.

A “pica-pau” digger has been excavating large holes across the hillsides around us in preparation for a new electrical run; not pylons fortunately, we have those already, but for substantial poles as evidenced by the preparations. Raymond and I left the road as we returned from our walk so that I could have a word with the driver whose digger we could see working up on the horizon. As I explained to him, somewhat out of breath, I need about an hour’s jackhammering to pulverise a rock that is squeezing the tractor entrance to the property. My new tractor is slightly wider than the old one and there is no room to spare. Any miscalculation is likely to spell bad news for the old walls of the Casa Nada bread oven, or worse, for the tractor.

Speaking of which – I hitched up the plough (technically the scarifier) and set about cleaning up the running field below the house. Right now, its several fig trees are providing us with a daily feast. The scarifier blades dug much further into the ground than they had previously. When I looked around after a few minutes, I saw that the frame holding one of the blades had broken away from the rest of the structure. The strain had evidently been too much.

So I took the plough into the panel beaters in Benafim, where a worker shook his head, explaining that their welding would just break again. I should go to Denis (pronounced Dineece) at Alto Fica – 3 kms along the road – he advised me, and ask him to fix it. First house on the left.


First house on the left it was. Half a dozen dogs emerged to yap at me when I stopped outside, followed by a somewhat red-eyed Denis. He ushered me into the yard, helped me disconnect the plough and, unimpressed by the grade of iron used in its manufacture, said he would do what he could to fix it. Come back at lunch time the next day, said he.

The next morning I had two visits, the first from Jose Raul, the tractor dealer, at whose shop I’d stopped en route to the panel beater – was there a problem and could he help, he wanted to know; it was really nice of him – and then from Denis himself to say that the job was bigger than he thought and would take another 24 hours. That was okay, I could wait 24 hours. I gathered from Fintan, whom I passed on the way home, that some years earlier Denis had been contracted to do the iron fence outside Fintan’s cottage. Denis had come to measure up and ask for a down-payment, then taken himself off again - for about fifteen months.

It would seem that his parents had died, one in an accident, and it had taken him some time and a lot of liquid refreshment to recover. Fintan eventually got his fence. In my case, the plough was ready on time, heavily welded. Denis advised me to ensure that it was always free to swing slightly on the supporting arms, something I didn’t know. We’ll see if it holds. I’m still trying to balance the sophisticated system on the new tractor for adjusting both the depth and sensitivity of the implement.

LOULE MARKET FISH STALL
Natasha’s bid to get her own apartment has also kept us occupied, mainly because of the insistence of the landlady’s lawyer that the young tenant should be backed by a guarantor. After a meeting with our lawyer last week, I went with Natasha to negotiate with landlady’s lawyer. He agreed to limit the guarantor’s responsibility and Natasha agreed to leave some cash in trust with me. So we both signed.

At this point, she has the keys but is still waiting for electricity and water to be hooked up. The apartment is bare of furniture. There aren’t even any appliances in the kitchen. The focus now is on obtaining the essentials on the second-hand market and from any neighbourly surplus supply.

MERTOLA

Llewellyn and Lucia took themselves off early in the week for a two-day stay at a rural retreat near the ancient town of Mertola on the Guadiana River, a town that was old long before Rome was born. Jones and I visited it some years ago and loved it. On the day of our guests’ return we had neighbours around to a scrumptious buffet, while Llewellyn’s considerable culinary skills have been employed in frequent barbecues.

On Thursday Jonesy joined L&L on a trip to one of the numerous islands off the southern Algarve coast. Most of them are really just extended sandbanks but big enough to house a shifting population in numerous small dwellings. Cafes and restaurants cater for visitors’ needs. There are no roads to speak of and no cars. Stuff gets shifted around on tractors and quadbikes. Llewellyn and Lucia went back to another island the following day – to celebrate sun, sea and sand before their departure on Sunday. It’s Friday night as I write, and it looks as though we may get those promised showers tomorrow.

Jones had a nasty fall while walking down the steep hillside above the house, landing painfully on the rocky slope. She didn’t break anything but she’s still tender in several places. I have to be careful with any affectionate hugs or squeezes.

For my part, I’ve been battling for several weeks with an ingrown toenail. After some eye-watering attempts to get rid of the extruding bit, I finally succeeded – for the meantime, at least. It was like taking a sharp pebble out of a shoe. The toe went from a state of inflammation to contentment in a matter of minutes. Ever since I’ve been floating around the hillside on my morning walks. Life is so good.

For the rest, it’s been all the usual stuff – watering, gardening and carob-picking.
CAROB MOUNTAIN

I spent the better part of a day clearing a badly overgrown section of a neighbouring property because it offended Jones’s eye when she was sitting on the south patio.

I’ve been building up a stone ramp connecting this property to ours, and can now get the tractor and all the implements right up there. We’ve been cultivating and picking carobs on the land for some years and gradually making it look like the surrounding “park”. The owners don’t mind. They’re as keen to sell as we are to buy but they can’t do so until the younger of the two children who inherited the property turns 18 in two years’ time.

Oh, this is a spider that we came across one morning, a huge fellow who was waiting in the middle of his large web for some insect to provide him with breakfast. He was gorgeous in his black and yellow suit, if not necessarily good company.