Letter from Espargal: 40 of 2008

We are back from the Alentejo (the large province just north of the Algarve). Pleasant as it was to be away, it is even pleasanter to be back, especially to such a comfortable home as ours. As our write, our guests are usefully employed. Lyn is making supper and Mike is trying to fix our digital camera, which has reduced itself to taking blurry stripes. Fortunately, my phone-camera is still functioning and the pictures will speak for themselves.

It was on Tuesday morning that we packed the car and set off. The packing called for some care as most of the back seat was occupied by our smaller dogs, Ono and Prickles, and the entire rear section was taken up by our larger dog, Raymond. (Such luggage as we took was squeezed in behind the front seats.) The little guys are seasoned travellers. Raymond’s case is more complicated. He gets very noisy when he sees other dogs and very car sick. We have reduced the problem by starving him before taking him on journeys. Fortunately, he always sicks up in the same corner, an area that we cover with a relay of towels, which are replaced, shaken out (yuck!) and rinsed at frequent intervals.

We took several hours to ease our way up the west coast to our destination, a country cottage that we had found on the internet under a “Pets accepted” heading. It’s in the hills near the tiny village of Troviscais. Getting no response from the owner’s mobile number, we obtained (somewhat vague) directions at Maria’s cafe. Following these, we set out down a beaten track through a forested area. Happily we soon came across the owner, a woman architect, who was alerted to our presence by her five yapping dogs. Hopping into her 4x4, she led us a kilometre from her house down a steep slatey road to the cottage, deep in the valley below.


The cottage (see http://www.casasdacerca.com/uk.html) won our instant approval. It was made of large clay bricks (known as taipa) and had been sympathetically restored. Downstairs were the kitchen, bathroom and dining room. A staircase, built into the dining room wall, led upstairs to the lounge and bedroom.

Happily, because the nights were cold and damp, the house came with a big fireplace and loads of firewood. It also had Sat TV, which was welcome (once I’d worked it out) because the evenings were long and the low-energy lights made reading difficult. I sat up late on US election night and was much relieved at the result, however poisoned the chalice that awaits the victor. (The possibility of a President Palin down the line was utterly terrifying!)

Around the hillside from us were a few cottages, which we passed on our afternoon circuit. Like most in the Alentejo, they were painted white with blue window and door surrounds. Once or twice we came across Portuguese workers – either cleaners or builders. Of the occupants we saw no sign.

Because of its situation, our cottage got the sun late and lost it early. The valley was moist and mosquitoes abounded. We kept the doors and windows shut. The broad Mira river was a 15-minute walk away, past barbed-wire and electric fences intended to keep cattle in and wild pigs (we think) out. Numerous brown cows, each with a clanking bell dangling from its neck, wandered down from the eucalyptus-clad hills in the morning and back up in the evening. We wondered how effective the electric fencing was. It certainly did the job, judging by the howl Raymond let out after brushing against a wire.

One night we crept up the track to Troviscais, past the big Alsatians that guarded the adjacent farm, to sup at Maria’s café. Locals, showing zero interest in the US elections, sat around, watching first a game show and then the football.



For the rest we picnicked in front of the TV at home. The dogs would settle down in their baskets in front of the fire. Like them we tended to retire early. They’d wake us up for a 06.00 pee and then sleep for another two hours. After breakfast, we’d walk an hour-circuit up into the hills and back down past the river. Then we’d pile into the car, do a bit of exploring and spend some time at one of the great empty beaches that stretch away down the coast.

Our favourite was at Almograve. Typically, it was lined with towering cliffs and studded with spectacular outcrops of rock. Raymond would rush up and down the sands at high speed, deliberately brushing the other dogs as he ran. They would clearly have loved to join him but resisted the temptation for fear of being knocked flying.

LOOKING DOWN ON ODEMIRA

Close by was the historic town (Romans & Moors), of Odemira through which the River Mira flows. The town is attractive, clinging to the steep hillsides above the river. It’s full of character, having made just a few essential compromises with modernity. Wooden stairs and stone steps provide short cuts to upper and lower parts of the town. We really liked the place.
THIS IS NOT A TREE

A tree set in a roundabout turned out to be a sculpture made entirely of scraps of iron.

And thus the days passed.



But I run ahead of myself. For the great event of the past week was the Benafim parish walk last Sunday. Hundreds of people turned out. The more serious and athletic types entered themselves in either the 8 or 16 km run/s, bounding away from the starting line in a great show of energy. The majority, including ourselves (and the inevitable dogs) opted for the 5 km or the 10 km walk. I signed up for the longer walk at the control booth and got a couple of numbers to attach to our backs, unaware that these were intended only for the runners (something that was pointed out to me by a polite gentleman halfway through the course).

We covered our 10 kms in two hours. Much of the route was along familiar tracks. Although the walks were not intended as races, most folk were making good time.

I was impressed by the general level of fitness. We walk two hours a day and think that we’re in pretty good shape but it wasn’t until the last steep uphill back into Benafim that we started overhauling those in front of us, some of them much older than ourselves. Our fellow walkers included our Dutch neighbours, to whom I’m indebted for the blog pictures.

Afterwards, as we relaxed on the patio at the Snackbar Coral, we saw the parish priest leading a large “All Souls” procession. It was going down the road from the church to the cemetery on the outskirts of the town. Most of those processing were female and elderly, albeit with a good sprinkling of odds and sods. As they passed, they sang a hymn. I was taken back to an earlier life in distant lands. Pass the baggy, Jones. How the times change!