Letter from Espargal: 38 of 2008

If we were to compare perfect days, today might qualify as the Algarvian entry. The vine leaves are reddening under a mellow sun in the gentlest breeze. I love it. We are back from a trek across the valley to look for fallen plums in the orchard half way to Benafim. There weren’t any – none that had survived the rain. Instead, we sought shiny stones (quartz) to extend the crystal path in the garden and wallowed in the pleasure of being alive and active on such a day.

It was not so earlier in the week when we were assailed by thunderstorms that had us huddling around a fire for comfort. A flash and terrific clap of thunder overhead knocked out the electricity mid afternoon, imposing our first candlelit evening in years. It was close to midnight before power was restored.


But it isn’t the weather that’s been on our minds. This honour goes to a court case in which I and a number of friends were called to give evidence. It was my first hands-on experience of the Portuguese judicial system, as well as the first time I’ve testified in court - no big deal but quite tense nonetheless. All my sympathies lay with the complainant; the defendant is a disputatious former neighbour who will, I hope, get his comeuppance in due course.

Both were in the court, along with their counsel, the judge (an attractive young woman) and the usual lackeys. Witnesses, with the assistance of a translator, were questioned by the judge and lawyers for both parties. Also testifying were our friends and former neighbours, David and Dagmar, and another friend, Mike Wood.

At issue was the access to our former home, the Quintassential, across a strip of land that belongs to the awkward neighbour. When we bought the property 22 years ago, our access was guaranteed by the then owners, the neighbour’s parents. But the contract they signed was never notarised, which meant it carried less authority, matters of which we knew nothing at the time.

The case was brought by the Quintassential’s new owners against the neighbour, who had been harassing them to create a totally new entrance on the far side of the property (all but impossible) or, otherwise, to move their gate and enter by a different access route (awkward and impractical). This neighbour doesn’t actually live next door. The problem has arisen because he built a large villa (which he can’t sell) on the property and he resents the passage of other people’s vehicles across a corner of his land.

The interesting bit is to know how he obtained permission to build in the first place because, as I and other witnesses testified, we had never come across a ruin that might justify the later construction of a house. Ruins serve to show that a property was once occupied and generally persuade the authorities to permit a new construction. This issue might be important to the outcome of the case – if it transpires that the neighbour falsely claimed to have a ruin, with the connivance of a corrupt official.

QUINTASSENTIAL 1988
That evening, I went through Jones’s bulging picture scrap book and found a number of pictures that were taken shortly after we had finished building at the Quinta. They clearly show the neighbour’s property below the Quinta -. with no sign of any ruin. I emailed the pictures to the new owners. The disagreeable fellow may come to rue the day that the dispute went to court.

We joined David and Dagmar to see the latest film of the Coen brothers (of whom we’re fans), a black comedy, Burn after Reading. It hasn’t had great write-ups but we came away well satisfied.

Jones has had a very Portuguese week. After Portuguese lessons on Monday she went to tea with Maria of the Conception.
JONES,MARIA & HER DOG - RAYMOND'S DAD

On Wednesday she joined other expats at Elsa’s house for tea and Portuguese conversation – a new venture. Tuesday and Thursday she went through Portuguese exercises with Marie and Olly. I tried joining in this revision but found my companions too technical and precise for my taste. They want to know what the rule is (a Jones strong point), which verb tenses are required and why. I prefer to go with the flow. I guess it’s whatever works for you.

During one neighbourly visit, we were summoned next door by mad Dina into the cottage she shares with old Chico. Although she is unable to speak, other than a few barely-decipherable words, Dina loves to sit in front of the telly. The picture was fine but the audio was lacking and Dina was understandably unhappy. We fiddled around with the wires and aerial but were unable to restore the sound.

Later we were able to secure another elderly set in working order, which I took around to the cottage. Stepping carefully across the food-strewn floor and between puddles of dubious liquids, I installed the set in the front room. Dina was thrilled to have her programmes back. She laughed wildly and tried to hug her knight-errant. She's a large woman with a vast bust, whose hugs are better avoided. Side-stepping the hospitality that was being pressed upon me, I made my escape.

Early next month we are expecting guests, whose sojourn gives us the opportunity to spend a few days away. I searched the internet for hours for a venue that would take dogs (sadly, our favourite dog-taking pousada is closed at the moment) and eventually came across a holiday cottage in the Alentejo whose owner was prepared to have us.

In preparation for this, we have been allowing Raymond inside the house (where he has to lie down on a mat) and taking him for outings in the car.
MOVE OVER

While the other dogs travel on the back seat, Raymond is consigned to the rear. If the journey lasts more than a few minutes, he is messily car sick. Yuck! I have been busy cleaning the car and Jones equally busy putting our dog towels through the laundry.

Such episodes aside, the dog is growing both affectionate and obedient. He loves to play with his brother, Bobby, who is smaller but more assertive. Bobby was adopted by an 88-year old neighbour, Zeferino, who remains fit and active in spite of his advanced years.
We came across the pair of them during one of our walks and joined them for the next hour through the fields and orchards.

The final kilometre of the route home can be taken either gently by road or up the slopes of Puffer Hill, where the paths are steep, stony and slippery. Zeferino opted to accompany us up the hill. Our doubts about the wisdom of this proved to be needless. Although the old man was slow he didn’t falter, declining any support. It gives one hope for the years ahead.