Letter from Espargal: 35 of 2008

Two quite exciting things have brought a little fizz to our lives. The first was a ketchup bottle, plastic fortunately, which exploded as Jones was lifting it down from the shelf, splattering her and her kitchen with a starburst of ketchup bomblets. I’ve known ketchup bottles build up a head of steam before but nothing quite like this. Jones stood with her hands outstretched, disbelieving of the mess that confronted her. Naturally, like a good spouse, I hurried to offer sympathy and assistance.


The second event was the collapse of our bank. When I say our bank, I mean that we kept some of our savings there. It was a regular British bank, formerly a building society. And like lots of other banks, it dabbled in the disastrous US mortgage market and got screwed by the credit crunch. Last Friday it was trading as normal, although its share price was plummeting. By Monday it was history, subsumed after frantic weekend negotiations into a rival, which had itself already been swallowed up by a bigger bank in an earlier take-over.

The authorities hastened to assure depositors that their money was safe. We remained somewhat edgy because, to avoid double taxation of interest, we have placed our deposits offshore, beyond any assurance of government guarantees. Depositors are being reassured that their savings are safe and urged to leave their money where it is.

That’s another story. As you may be aware, the Irish government has rushed through a bill that gives a 100% guarantee to depositors with Irish banks. (Britain, with some caveats, guarantees the first £35,000 of deposits – an amount due to be raised to £50,000.) I phoned an offshore branch of an Irish bank to hear more. They’d simply been overwhelmed by the flood of enquiries, I was told, two thousand on one day alone. Other European governments, considering the implications for their own financial institutions, are less than pleased with the Irish.

What else? Well, among other things we got a soaking over the weekend and we loved it, 60 mms of wonderful, wet, refreshing rain – the first real downpours of the season. The heavens crackled and zipped, my internet connection went down and the electricity tripped a few times but we didn’t mind. The garden just soaked the water up.

By Tuesday a green veneer was spreading across the fields, millions of tiny twin-leafed weedlets. This annual explosion of new life astonishes me time and again. It’s as though a huge, hidden life-force is lying coiled just below the surface of the earth, poised, like the waiting colonies of flying-ants, for the release of the rain trigger.

The wetness brings new smells to excite the dogs, possibly those of the wild pigs whose hoofprints are stamped into the damp earth. These animals co-exist invisibly with us. We occupy the land by day, they by night. We never see them – although Ermenio told me he’d come across a large fellow making his way unconcernedly through the valley early one morning.

Speaking of which, Ermenio has brought us tomatoes, pears and grapes to thank us for our carob contributions. We are feasting on fruit. The most delicious figs are still available for the plucking; Jones filled a bucket with plums that had fallen from an orchard along the road to Benafim. The owner waved his approval and reluctantly accepted the 5-euro note that we proferred in payment.

JONES & PLUMS ON TERRY'S TERRACE

We have completed Terry’s Terrace, an extension that transforms a former rubble bank beside the house into an attractive feature. We backfilled the terrace with stones and covered these with gravel, giving Jones another place to sit. Jones likes lots of places to sit. Ask her why she wants a particular feature in the garden and she’ll tell you it will be a place to sit. We’ll put a garden bench on Terry’s Terrace as soon as I’ve given the benches their annual rub and varnish. After that, we’ll leave the overhanging olive tree to resurface the terrace with olive pips. Although the tree is beautiful and much appreciated, it’s ungrafted and its olives uninviting.

SNOWDROPS, WE THINK

On Thursday we took the car into Honda in Faro, who checked it over and replaced some expensive worn parts before taking it for its annual inspection. Anna, the workshop boss, assured me that the car would otherwise have failed and, a little unwillingly, I believed her. As I tell Jones, the CRV is now 8 years old; given the decline of the pound sterling, we’re unlikely to replace the car soon, and it makes sense to maintain it well. It’s given us great service.

These annual checks are taken seriously. Inspectors plug the car into a lot of computerised high-teckery that reveals the least failing. In principle, I’m in favour. In a further attempt to make the roads safer, the authorities have introduced legislation that requires drivers to renew their licences at 50, 60 and 65 and regularly thereafter. Such “elderly” motorists have to present a medical certificate saying they’re fit to drive – never mind that they present little danger to their fellows.

Our return home from Faro was marred by two accidents on the motorway. There was nearly a third, on the approach to a village, when a truck driver slammed on brakes to avoid hitting a van that had stopped for a speed-triggered red traffic light. Whether the truck driver had failed to see the red light or whether he was simply astonished that anybody would actually stop for one, is hard to know.

On our Friday morning walk around the hill (75 mins) we ran into the big yellow machines that have been grinding up and down the road to the river - more accurately, to the river bed! Why this quite acceptable gravel road is being turned into a minor highway is hard to know. There are no houses or developments in the area. The road is used only by a few farmers, hunters and safari jeep tourists. But improved and developed it is being, willy nilly. Near the road, the picapau has left a dozen large holes that are clearly intended for electricity poles. All may be revealed in due course.