Letter from Espargal: 46 of 2009

Here we are, teetering on the very brink of Christmas, to be enjoyed, engrossed – sort of pun - or endured according to taste. As I write, our guests, Llewellyn and Lucia, are down at the beach. Jones and I have just had lunch, I my usual muesli, banana and yoghurt, she toast (left over from morning coffee at the Coral) and stewed fruit.

We fancy a fire for cheeriness value but are discouraged from lighting one during the day by the mid-teen temperatures. (By evening we'd changed our minds.) One doesn’t really want to sweat Christmas out. The dogs are curled up in their usual spots following a long gallop down in the valley this morning. At one point they spotted a rabbit, which they chased (fruitlessly) almost to the edge of Benafim. For once, few hunters were around.

It’s just too wet following a week of steady rain. The fields are awash and the dirt roads have mutated into ponds and mudslides.

Jones and the 2 Ls headed in the other direction, to look at the river, which is full to overflowing – for the first time this season.

Indeed, the past few days have recorded more than a quarter of the rain that has fallen all year. The sun has done no more than stick its head out for a recce from time to time. Seeing the chain of depressions heading our way from the Atlantic, it has promptly disappeared again. Remarkably, the 10-day forecast has shown ten rain icons, which for us is unprecedented. Ten sun icons are our usual fare.

Some of those depressions have been very depressed indeed. One violent storm hit us in the early hours of the morning, thundering monstrously and spiking lightning all over the sky (which was quite useful as I staggered downstairs to secure a wayward shutter). The electrical supply is inevitably the first victim of such furious squalls. The wind shrieked like the damned, slamming the shutters, clawing at the windows and frightening the wits out of the animals, several of which tried to clamber into bed with us.

The following morning the extent of the damage became apparent. The roads were decorated with fallen branches. Our special tree leaned over, having snapped one of its several stays. For once the Algarve earth is soaked to its core. The tree was buried in an area with limited soil and had no way of resisting the wind.

In Benafim, trees planted along the pavements are lying at awkward angles, some of them pulled over by their fallen supports, which have been completely uprooted. The valley below us is awash. It’s a case of beware what you wish for. At least, the Algarve dams, which have been showing their bottoms, must now be overflowing.

The 2 Ls, having got no further than snowed-in Luton airport on Friday, arrived via a different airline from Birmingham airport on Saturday instead. They landed in comfortable time to take a train to Lisbon where they’d reserved an apartment.

It was a lovely apartment, with wonderful views of the city, as Jones later testified and Llewellyn's pictures illustrate. She went up to join them early on Sunday morning for two days of tripping around the city. They came back late on Monday night, with all kinds of things to report including a concert and twice being soaked in downpours.

We have received Christmas cards and other greetings from many kind people (and sundry merchants). Thank you to those concerned. We will reply to them all. This is not a calculated scheme to ensure that we send greetings only to those people who send them first to us. It’s just happened that way. And, whatever the case, family and friends have been much in our thoughts.

MORE LISBON PICTURES

Speaking of which - we are to be joined late on Christmas Day by two couples from the village. We are providing a venue, utensils and the chickens. Llewellyn is doing some of the cooking (he is an accomplished cook!); the rest has been shared out among the visitors.

LISBON TRAM

The Christmas mail included an item conveying the kind regards of the gentleman at the SA consulate in Lisbon who served us so well earlier in the year. His card has since been followed by a note from the post office, informing us that a registered item from the consulate awaits our collection at Benafim. We shall be very pleased if this proves to be our passports, as we assume.

As inclement weather frequently cuts off my link to the internet I have invested in a USB “connect pen” from Vodafone for such emergency situations and for travelling within Portugal. We are still vaguely considering a two-day break to a pousada (courtesy of a voucher which arrived from Honda after we’d purchased the car). But if the rain continues, as it promises to do, I’d much rather be snug at home than kicking my heels in a hotel.

A great barking and yowling downstairs announces the return of the 2 Ls from the beach, just as another squall sweeps in. The dogs never fail to assure us of their concern for our safety by rushing to the front door (or gates) to sound the alarm at the least provocation. A ring on the front door bell sends them into a paroxysm of barking.

BOBBY & RAYMOND

Llewellyn, who has been much impressed with the achievements of a television “dog whisp- erer”, has been whispering to Bobby, who is highly suspic- ious of all visitors; Bobby has not exactly been won over, not to judge by his growls each time his whisperer approaches. We have been joined for three days by Poppy, a small dog belonging to neighbours who are taking a short break in Spain.

Jones arrives with tea (herbal, from her garden) and mince pies to cast an eye over my script. She generally finds ways in which my letter could be improved as well as suggesting inclusions and omissions. I suppose that there’s little point in employing an editor who does no more than agree with the author.

Ermenio has rung the bell, to bring us a Christmas hamper of home-made wine (5 litres,) almonds and lettuces. We are embarrassed by this generosity and wonder how we can return it. Such good neigh- bourliness means more than we can say. While Llewellyn was busy in the kitchen, the rest of us seated ourselves around the dining room table to enjoy these good things.

There, we have little more to report. Let me conclude by wishing you the happiest of Christmases in the bosom of your families and friends.

Letter from Espargal: 45 of 2009

This has been a very jumbled up week and it’s difficult to know where to begin addressing it. First and foremost, I guess, the painters have gone. The parting was amiable. They did a great job. They really are excellent painters – neat, precise and thorough, if somewhat late in starting. As they completed a room, Jones, Natasha and I would get to work on it.

REHANGING PICTURES

It was a huge job - unpacking books and returning them to the shelves, restacking CDs, restoring the furniture to its proper position, dusting the paintings and rehanging them and reconnecting the electrics, along with much vacuuming and mopping.

The house looks great. It would look even better if the floor were not draped with towels to soak up the doggy footprints that testify to the rain that’s been falling, often in terrific gusts. We’ve had over an inch of the stuff, with several more wet days in prospect. We need it so badly that we’re gladly suffering the consequences, mainly for our walks. The dogs are rather less tolerant but that’s life.

As a side show, the lock man returned with the sliding door and the window that he had taken away the previous week to have new glass panels installed. We were mightily pleased to see him, all the more so as temperatures had plummeted to a bitter C2* at night (yes, we know, Canadians). We had the devil of a job trying to close the gaps with plastic sheeting and cushions. It was a case of early to bed.

In celebration of these achievements, I allowed myself my first alcoholic drink in nearly two months, a rum and coke with a generous squeeze of lemon. It was good but I can’t say I’ve missed the stuff. Like many other things, it just gets to be a habit, albeit a habit I’ve much enjoyed down the years.

As I was about to say, we were trying to get everything back in order for the arrival of Llewellyn and Lucia from the UK this (Friday) morning. They didn’t make it. After battling through a blizzard to Luton airport in the early hours, they checked in and hung around, only to hear that their flight was among the dozens that fell victim to the severe weather. Worse, they’d booked their car into the airport parking for the period. So – forgive me for stealing your thunder Llewellyn - they went home by public transport, a long tiring journey after a very early start.

The good news is that we were able to communicate with Llewellyn at the airport and inform him of the seats still available on flights from other airports. He managed to book tickets on a flight that leaves Birmingham early on Saturday morning instead. (He and Lucia have since arrived safely; they carried on by train to Lisbon where they will spend a few nights. Jonesy is joining them for two days.)

My sister, Cathy, and her husband, Rolf, were also dumped as they began a trip from Berlin to Calgary on Friday to spend Christmas with Kevin and family. Like Llewellyn, they had the good fortune to secure a reservation for the Saturday (at a time when flights are either sold out or offering premium seats only!).

STOP PRESS! Just heard that they're camping at a hotel near Heathrow after multiple hassles and dramas, with a reservation to fly out Monday afternoon!

With nowhere to sit and the kitchen draped in plastic, we’ve been eating out. Our outings included a visit to the Snack Bar Coral to celebrate the 6^th birthday of Joey, the son of the owners.

It was a scene to behold. The place was packed. Most of the adults were smoking and the open door did little to relieve the fug. Those who lacked chairs clustered around the snooker table, watching the players. Between raids on the birthday cakes, Joey and his friends rushed around the room, whacking each other with balloons. It was all quite sober, relaxed and noisy. (Public drunkenness is rare in these parts.)

During one dinner we got the low-down from the restaurateur on the Benafim cash machine robbery the previous week. It appears that the thieves first broke into a building materials depot to steal a digger at around 3 a.m. From there it was a short drive to the town. While two of the men stood guard with guns at the ready, the digger driver scooped the cash machine out of the wall and dumped it into a stolen vehicle in which they all made off.

Alerted by citizens who had witnessed the event, the police arrived not very promptly. In fairness, Faro, the nearest centre, is half an hour away. Not far behind the police came a security van that was due to replenish the cash machine. It would seem that the thieves had to content themselves with the dregs. Not that they have been doing badly; according to press reports, six cash machines have been ripped out of local walls in the past three weeks.

Two lorries arrived in Espargal square one morning, one stacked with sacks of white powder and the other bearing large tanks. The white powder was apparently a paint base. As we left the scene, this was being tipped into the tanks. By the time we returned a few hours later, two white edging lines had been painted the 2 kms along the road from Espargal to Alto Fica. In the mist that’s draped itself around us these past few weeks, one is glad to have them.

Also gladly had are the electrically-heated seats in the new car. Both the seat base and back warm up to cocoon driver and passenger in the lap of luxury. One doesn’t need this feature very often in the Algarve but it’s wonderful when one does. Several times during the recent upheaval in the house, the smaller dogs and I have retired to the car for an hour of peace and quiet – not, I should add, in heated seats.

SUCCULENT IN FLOWER

A friend living in Cape Town reports that she was expecting a visit from a family based in Switzerland – a South African woman married to a Swiss man, and their children. The family had booked to fly via Heathrow in order to benefit from a day flight (that was later changed). At Heathrow, the woman was denied entry because she lacked a visa, even though she would have remained in transit. Her husband and children flew on while she was sent back to Switzerland.

She was unaware that the UK had decided to impose visa restrictions on all South African passport holders, (apparently because corrupt SA officials have been enjoying a lucrative side line, flogging false and stolen documents). The new regulations have made headlines in the expat press here as they impact on thousands of South Africans living legally in mainland Europe.

JUST FRIENDS

Jonesy knows just how unpleasant such episodes are, having once (many years ago) been put back on a plane when she tried to enter France from the UK. The French had introduced visas in order to stop a Springbok rugby tour, a fact that had escaped her. It was, she recalls, a very tearful return.

Letter from Espargal: 44 of 2009

“Never again!” That’s what Jones said as we heaved the furniture into the centre of the study in preparation for the painters. She didn’t so much say it as breathe it from somewhere deep down - a slow, heartfelt part-sigh, part-exclamation. By the time the painters had finished taking down shelves, disconnecting the electronics and draping furniture in plastic in order to gain unhindered access to the walls, I was starting to share her feelings.

“Well,” I pointed out to her unwisely, “You were the one who wanted the house interior painted.” It wasn’t a profitable line to pursue. The point I’m trying to make is that she was quite right. The interior walls really needed attention. They hadn’t been painted, excepting a few touch-ups here and there, since we moved in nearly seven years ago. Spiders’ webs of fine cracks snaked their way around the plaster, more in fact than the painters thought were warranted by the age of the house. They have been busy filling these cracks and rubbing down before setting about the actual business of painting.

Matching the original colours has been quite tricky. That’s because the firm that supplied the paints went computerised a few years ago and completely changed their inventory. They had some difficulty matching the old references with the new colour range. Like most suppliers these days, they punched the codes into a computer which spat a cup of coloured liquid into a can of white paint and promptly set about mixing it up. All in all, it’s worked out quite well.

The painters are Nelson (son of Horacio, the local builder) and his partner, Joao. They are excellent and always in demand, which is one of the reasons that we’ve had to wait for Nelson’s services. He remains confident that the job can be completed by the middle of next week, in time for the arrival of Llewellyn and Lucia. The upstairs should be done by Saturday evening, which will give us time to get things in that area sorted out while the painters are busy downstairs.

It’s not only the painters who have complicated our lives this week. On Tuesday the man who installed locks on all the downstairs sliding doors last week returned to secure the upstairs doors. It wasn’t his day. He had barely set about drilling the necessary holes in the first door than his drill-bit nicked the double-glazing, causing a fine crack to run across the glass. Having done exactly the same thing during my amateur attempts to secure a window, I knew how easy it was. The lock man was visibly dismayed at the damage to both the door and his anticipated profits – to say nothing of the effort required to remove the door for repair or the consequent discomfort for the residents.

The upshot was that the lock man offered to return the following day and to take both the door and the window to be repaired. I agreed, swallowing my doubts about the probability of seeing him again. Nonetheless, he turned up as promised, with a mate in tow, and took away both items. (I make this sound much easier than it was.) They are due back some time next week. In the meanwhile, we are making a more generous fire at night than might otherwise have been the case.

Stop Press: Joao arrives with news that thieves have struck in Benafim during the night. A hardware shop has been broken into and a cash machine has been prised from a wall and stolen. We are astounded that thieves capable of such organised crime should even have heard of little Benafim let alone found it on the map.

But a visit to the town (to take obligatory pictures for the blog) proves Joao right. A team of workmen was busy repairing the gaping hole in the wall of the building where the cash machine had previously stood, while a host of townsfolk stood around contemplating the enormity of the crime.

Portuguese neighbours were not surprised to hear news of these events (from me). One blamed the government, another drugs and foreigners. I am sure that between them they must be right. We bumped into Idalecio’s dad, who gave us another crate of lettuces – fresh from his fields, juicy and free of sprays.

As always we have entertained and been entertained by our friends and neighbours, including dinner at Alte, which I mention for the sake of the Christmas decorations on the town church. I have little talent for conveying the essence of such social occasions and tend to duck the subject (but I should mention that our Irish neighbours went to great trouble to introduce their French tenants to the local expat community and to make them feel at home.)

Some time ago I was shot down in flames by a female acquaintance who wanted to know what the bride had worn at a wedding I attended. “A white dress,” I responded in my innocence, little dreaming how bereft my answer was of the fine detail being sought by my interrogator. Maybe it’s a Mars and Venus thing.

Jones has taken some stunning pictures of the dawn – her speciality. I note with alarm that the sun is nearing the southern solstice and will soon be heading back our way. Our weather continues misty, mild and dewy damp, with the rain we need always promised for tomorrow or the day after.

I shiver to see that tempera- tures in Calgary (where our family is hunkered down) are some C40* colder than those around here. Little wonder, I reflected, that global warming was not at the forefront of most North American minds.

Friday night we joined neighbours at Loule's Christmas fair, held in a large hall on the outskirts of the town. Basket weavers, cake bakers, medronho makers, jewellers and you name it were much in evidence. The four ladies shown here were happy for me to take their picture when I told them of the good use it would be put to. I fear that there were a great many more baskets for sale than likely buyers.

Jonesy did a little negotiating with a medronho man while I went off to buy some chocolates. One of the stall holders does a line of figs and nuts dipped in chocolate - utterly delicious. Saturday is to be devoted to restoring the upstairs section of the house and hooking up my computer equipment once again - which is why the blog is a little on the late side.

Letter from Espargal: 43 of 2009

No journalist ever shot to fame by confessing that there was little to report. And I should never dream of doing so either. But there are weeks when one has to lay out a rather modest news stall and hope that clients will not be too fussy about the contents.

As so often, it’s not that nothing has happened. Some lovely things have. The issue is how to convey them to you. For instance, the rising of the moon on Wednesday and Thursday evenings was something extraordinary to behold. We tried to take pictures of it from the upstairs balcony but our point-and-click cameras were hardly equal to the task. The little yellow dot in the middle of our pictures bore scant resemblance to the glorious orb climbing over the eastern hills.

CRYSTAL PATH

Nor is it easy to describe the stony treasures that we have brought back from our walks. Most are small pieces of quartz that we dig out of the beaten track and add to Jones’s crystal garden path. Every now and then we come across a really stunning piece, or a glittering rock that has to be carted back on the tractor. We are spoiled for rocks that are works of art in their own right.

Jones has spent a couple of weeks lugging back two hefty specimens, especially pleasing to the eye. She moves them in relays, 25 metres a day closer to the house. I am not allowed to touch them, officially because they may upset the balance of my ever fussy back; unofficially, I suspect, because she wants the pilgrim’s satisfaction of completing the course herself.

She has also been employing her language skills to assist a French family that is renting a house in the village (while one member receives daily physiotherapy sessions from Jodi following a ski accident that has landed him in a wheelchair). On their behalf we have obtained a supply of citrus fruit from a local farmer and negotiated the loan of a bicycle, as well as assisting them with travel information for a visitor.

DAWN

My good deed for the week was to let friends, the ones with the screechy disc brakes, know when their car was ready to collect from the workshop. Sneer not! The information was not easily come by. It took two phone calls and three visits to the workshop. The difficulty arises because, like similar small enterprises in these parts, the place is run by the boss and his assistant. They don’t employ a secretary, they don’t appreciate phone calls and they shut up shop when they have to assist clients elsewhere. On the other hand the bills are proportionately modest, paperwork is minimal and cash goes a long way.

We are awaiting a phone call from Nelson to let us know when he is coming to paint the interior of the house. Our books and other possessions are gathering dust in the centre of the bedroom, where they have been awaiting his arrival these past three weeks. Nelson is aware that we are expecting guests, Llewellyn and Lucia, a week before Christmas and outwardly confident that the job will be done in good time. Jones does not share his confidence.

Also awaited is a visit from a Brit who is supposed to be installing locks on our sliding doors. After a 10 month exchange of emails and phone-calls, he arranged to call on Tuesday. He didn’t arrive, nor did he phone to apologise. I called (“his clutch had failed)"– and we agreed on Friday. This morning he phoned to ask if he could make it Saturday instead, as he has “an urgent leak” to attend to. We are underwhelmed.

Our weather has continued largely cloudy and mild, with occasional showers that deposit a disappointing three or four mils in the rain gauge. It’s 30 or 40 that we need to top up our exhausted dams and boreholes. Better a slice, we tell ourselves, than no bread. But a loaf or two would be welcome.

PIGGY PRINTS

It may have come to your attention that we have entered the 12^th and final month of the year, with all that brings and implies. “Months” are what I’ve been doing with my English class – exploring their names as we tackle the theme of the calendar. Are you aware that eight months are named after Roman emperors, deities and festivals/seasons, while another four simply derive from the Latin words for 7, 8, 9 &10?

THOR - THURSDAY

The days of the week are similarly located in the Roman and Norse pantheons. It fascinates me that although for hundreds of years the Christian church in Europe dictated the annual pattern of life with its religious calendar, it never elbowed out the ancient deities. It just absorbed them. One elderly pupil complained that this was all far too abstruse for the class but she was voted down by those who agreed that it should be general knowledge.

Our week has been rather louder than usual. This is partly because a public holiday gave the hunters an additional opportunity to wage their noisy warfare in the countryside. And partly because of new arrivals in Espargal, specifically of the dog and horses that have accompanied our new neighbours, Dries and Bianca. The couple have (“has”, if you prefer) set up house 200 metres away at the corner of the road. Don’t misunderstand me. Their animals are perfectly well behaved. It’s ours that make the noise.

We passed Bianca in the rain one morning as she rode her horse over to Espargal from the house they’d been renting in Cruz da Assumada. Subsequently we’ve found hoof prints in the mud along the narrow hill paths that we tread most days. This was a little bit worrying. Bobby, whom we inherited from an elderly Portuguese, is highly-strung and ill-disciplined, and we don’t want him upsetting the neighbours.

In spite of our best efforts, the dogs regard this corner of the village as their personal fiefdom and will rush to the fence to see off any passing creature. They get equally upset whether the offender is passing the property or being passed in the car. To discourage them Jones has been using a borrowed appliance that gives off a high-pitched tone disagreeable to canines. I’ve also tried putting the brakes on sharply to throw the two principal barkers at the back off balance but it’s well-mannered Ono who tends to go flying instead. Life was never simple. We’re working on it.