Letter from Espargal: 2 of 2009

CORTELHA COTTAGE - SEE BELOW

We have got our good deed for the year done good and early. The object of our benevolence was an elderly gent in a British-registered Mercedes who was trying to reverse out of a parking spot at the Modelo hypermarket in Loule with a flat front tyre. After alerting him to his predicament, I hauled out my small pneumatic jack and went to offer my (somewhat limited) services.

My offer was as well because, as the gent confessed, the odds were against him. He had never changed a tyre in his life. He didn’t speak a word of Portuguese. He had no idea where the key was for the locked wheel-nut. Indeed, he’d never heard of locked wheel-nuts. His best thought was to try to reach the nearest garage. “Bad idea,” I said. Instead, we scratched around in the boot, where we found the key, along with the jack and some other useful kit.

After chasing off the gypsy who was loitering around the back of the car and whom I strongly suspect of deflating the tyre for nefarious purposes, I tried undoing the wheel nuts. No go! The wheels were large and well secured. So I went into the store to seek help. A security guard was eventually despatched to assist us. He couldn’t get the nuts off either but a passing Englishman, who became aware of our plight, did - with a long-levered spanner. A second security guard arrived and with his added muscle the wheel was changed. The old guy was talking on his mobile to someone he’d summoned to rescue him but who’d gone to the wrong Modelo store. It just wasn’t his day.

Having thanked the security men and wished the old fellow well, I went back to rejoin Jones and dogs, who had been waiting patiently all the while. I hope that my good deed redounds to my credit when I’m an old fart with a flat tyre. The way things are going, that may not be very far down the road.

Still on rescues; another was conducted at home in the runnels of the lounge sliding glass doors. There, curled into a tiny ball, I found one of Portugal’s luckiest field mice (the area is patrolled by our three cats).Talk about a wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie! With a teaspoon I scooped it out of the runnels and into a bucket. This Jones took off to a field, together with a small supply of cat nibbles, to sustain the little rodent until it had recovered its senses. The irony is that I have two mouse traps – so far unsprung – set in the tractor shed where the little guy’s companions have been crapping all over show.

SARAH & HELEN
Last weekend we took ourselves off to inspect the property that had been newly acquired by Helen (daughter of neighbours, David and Sarah) and partner, Rob. The old house is situated 30 minutes away, high in the hills on the edge of the village of Cortelha. Their purchase won our immediate approval; it’s a sprawling cottage (13 rooms in all) on half an acre.

We found the couple hard at work, painting and plastering, along with Sarah and David. They had made great strides in the few days they'd been there, often working late into the night. The house had not been occupied for a decade and was in need of love and attention. For the moment it’s “campable”, pending the renewal of the plumbing.

GARDEN

In the longer term it should make a wonderful holiday cottage or home. It has enormous potential (read work). We thought it perfectly situated, with the security of neighbours on either side and the vastness of the open hillsides above.

In the adjacent field, the local goatherd grazed his flock. Their appetite was evident from the bare branches in the lower reaches of the more delectable trees. Above us, in the evening skies, soared a flock of storks, coming home to roost for the night.

We were taken back to our own purchase of the Quinta in similar circumstances 22 years ago, a purchase followed by 12 years of commutes before we eventually moved permanently to Portugal. One is almost tempted to utter a rheumy-eyed “how time flies!”

Tuesday brought the annual interview with our accountant, 40 minutes down the road in Guia. Portugal’s tax year, unlike the UK’s, runs from Jan 1 to Dec 31 and returns must be in promptly thereafter. They can now be entered online but with the complexities of foreign pensions and currencies to deal with, we’d rather the experts did it on our behalf.

On the way home we stopped off at a sprawling superstore to look at the range of available fencing. Jones has come to terms with our need to fence the area around the back of the house to prevent the dogs wandering off daily into the bush. But she doesn’t want a fence that looks like a fence because she doesn’t want to feel fenced in. No need to tell you how hard it is for a limited male to get his head around this kind of problem.

The long and the short of it is that “we” have decided on wooden posts and sheep wire fencing. With a neighbour’s help the following afternoon I hitched up the trailer and went around to Gilde’s excellent yard on the outskirts of Salir to get the necessary. All we await now is a couple of labourers from Horacio’s team of builders, probably some time next week. It will be a while before I do any more digging or cementing myself.

On Thursday we ran Natasha into Faro, where she had an 11.00 appointment with the immigration authorities. Rain was pouring down and there were frequent patches of mist along the route. We were lucky to find parking near the offices concerned and took ourselves to breakfast in an adjoining café while Natasha went to report. She joined us soon after to say that there were 15 people ahead of her and the prospect of a long wait.

The café TV was showing pictures of the havoc wrought by snow and ice on the roads of northern Portugal. There’s much to be said for the gentler Algarve winters. Having finished our coffee, we wished Natasha well and went home. Late in the afternoon we got a message from her to say that she had just been interviewed. Her application to live and work in Portugal had been accepted but it would be several months before the precious residence document was issued.

We’ve continued most days to take a 45 minute excursion with the dogs along the bottom of the valley that lies between us and Benafim. Raymond runs free – he drives us mad if he doesn’t get enough exercise – while we keep the two rabbiters on leads. Afterwards, as often as not, we carry on to the Coral Snack Bar in Benafim. I admire the tractors parked in front of the shop next door while we sip coffees and baggies and exchange a few words with Brigitte. Her quiche is outstanding – unlike her grasp of Portuguese. She loves to chat to Barbara in French.

The Snack Bar Coral is a bargain.
One still gets useful change from a fiver for two coffees, a cake and a fine double brandy.

One strange feature of the snack bar is that while the gents’ loo is left open, women have to ask for a key to unlock their toilet. When I asked Celso, the owner, what the reason was for this gender inequality, he explained that when the bar was crowded, the guys tended to use the women’s loo as well as the gents’. And they didn’t bother to clean up behind them, which led the ladies to complain vociferously to the management about the state of the porcelain.

The trouble is, I guess, that there was no male evolutionary advantage in being able to pee accurately into a small hole, especially after downing a few litres of caveman consolation. And, regrettably, it still shows.