Letter from Espargal: 4 of 2009

The house is quiet. The dogs have settled down, satisfied for the moment with the walk to the river and back. The heavy cloud that has marked most of January hangs over the valley. A fire flickers away in the wood-burning stove. It’s as close to noon as makes no difference. The day doesn’t really matter because most days are like this. Jones is doing domestic things. She has just held one of my older vests up to the light and informed me that she’s consigning it to the rag bag.

The fact is that Jones sometimes throws her authority around when it comes to old clothes, my old clothes, that is. The other night, I was sent upstairs like a schoolboy to change my trousers – “you’re not going out in those old jeans, are you? - shortly before we were to meet two friends for supper at the local. Once seated, I inquired of the male partner whether he too had changed his working trousers before coming out. This question he treated with the derision it deserved, pointing out that no-one could see his trousers while he was sitting down at the table. That’s my kind of logic.

This, however, is not a letter of complaint about matters conjugal. The thing is that nothing has really happened in Espargal this past week, nothing that marks it out from preceding weeks. True, I got a call from the council, informing me on old Zeferino’s behalf that his water bill, which I had taken in to be rectified, was being reduced from 70 euros to just over 4. This will no doubt please Zeferino when he hears the news. And we gather that Evangelina’s bill has come down from 120 euros to 30 cents. That’s what you call a meaningful reduction.

And true, Paulo the plumber eventually called around to deal with the leaking cisterns on both loos. I’d been phoning him for weeks and he’d either snuffed out my calls or promised to pop in when he had time. It isn’t that Paulo is a bad plumber. His problem is that plumbing for him is merely a way of earning sufficient money to go hunting. He’s obsessed with the sport - if you will allow hunting to be a sport. Around here, it’s more a way of life. No matter what the weather, Sundays, Thursdays and public holidays throughout the winter you can see Paulo’s van parked down at the former primary school where the hunters gather.

I’d been complaining to Horacio, the local builder, about Paulo’s failings. Horacio, who had his own problems getting hold of Paulo, was sympathetic. As it happened, he bumped into Paulo the following day and passed on my complaint. The first I knew of this was a phone call I took from Horacio while I was out walking, to say that Paulo was on his way round. I hurried home to find him at the gate.

There followed 30 minutes of adjustments to the finicky plastic and rubber interior fittings of the two loo cisterns, along with some heavy breathing. It did the trick. The leaks have ceased. Even so, the rubber washers were looking a little tired and I thought it a good idea to get a new standby mechanism. Jones and I both have a thing about wasting water. To stop the constant dribbling into the bowls, we’d been turning the cisterns off at the wall.

PRICKS, STAYING WARM

I’ve decided to purchase a Sat Nav – known in Portugal as a GPS – my first. With some valuable advice from those in the know, I have my eye on a Garmin Nuvi 250W Europe, as a compromise between price and utility, although I’m torn between that and the Magellan 4040. (Helpful comments would be appreciated!) Here in the Algarve it’s hard to justify the purchase of Sat Nav. But we’re planning an Easter trip to the UK, which is likely to involve lots of crawling around minor roads and I think it’s time that we bit the bullet. The age of shining a torch on an illegible map, that’s just as likely to be upside down, has passed.

Planning continues too for our spring visit to family in Canada. As it happens, the family bit is the easy part. We are also intending to visit areas around Vancouver and nearby Seattle, just across the US border (which has required us to fill in the now compulsory “ESTA” immigration form online; to my surprise, we both got initial approval within seconds).

I have spent hours trying to find accommodation along our planned route that meets both our budget and my expectations. This is not an easy task. It’s like trying to reconcile the two poles of a magnet. Jones proclaims herself happy with a bed and four walls. Her husband likes something rather more comfortable, preferably with internet access, a kitchenette, a view, no noisy parties and few neighbours, especially in the room overhead. One or two experiences in cheap ski hotels have taught us the hazards of sharing flimsy buildings with fellow travellers, especially the sort who come trooping back to their bedrooms as pissed as farts in the early hours, yelling and slamming their doors. These are not people I want to meet on holiday.

ALMOND BLOSSOM

The number of places listed online is legion. After narrowing them down, I start going through reviews. “Tripadvisor” is particularly helpful in this regard. Time and again one finds comments like “paper-thin walls”, “noisy neighbours”, “surly staff”, “ancient beds” and “filthy carpets” – and reluctantly draws a line through a superficially promising candidate. On our last Canadian holiday, the hard work really paid off. I’m optimistic that it will do so again.

Midweek we set out for Faro to see the Frost/Nixon, with a small diversion to the bank, following a phone call asking us to drop in. This proved to be a big diversion instead, as the banker was tied down with other clients. So we did a bit of shopping afterwards instead and have put off the film till later. Should I add that we have opened an account with the Bank of the Holy Spirit? That really is its name: Banco Espirito Santo. Whether it gets divine guidance is doubtful. At least it hasn’t been in the headlines, unlike some other Portuguese banks whose directors are facing hard questions over dubious deals and missing funds.

My immediate neighbour, Idalecio, tells me that the owners of our former home,the Quintassential, have won their court case against a neighbour who wanted to deny them continued access across his land. This access had been guaranteed to us in a contract by his parents when we bought the house. This is good news. We know that the issue has weighed heavily upon them and we are heartily relieved that the matter has been settled in their favour. The fellow concerned has built a large villa on his land and was put out that he had to surrender a corner of it for use by other people.

Friday evening Jones invited the expat neighbours around for drinks. My job was to serve the drinks and keep the dogs in line.

Jones entertained young Chloe by teaching her the separated finger trick, a manouevre that Chloe practised hard, before rushing around the company to demonstrate her skills. It was a good evening.

Our Irish neighbours are about to head to Dublin and our immediate British neighbours are getting ready to return to the Isle of Wight. With luck they'll miss the freezing weather that's heading down towards Britain.
A pause there to walk the dogs up to the hilltop and back. We’re keeping them confined until Horacio has completed a dog-proof fence around the back of the house. He meant to do it this week but the rain has delayed the completion of other projects. He apologised. I understood. We admired the almond trees which, catching their breath from the wind and rain, have burst anew into pink and white blossom. It’s a treat, as good as the famous Japanese cherry blossom.

The fields around us are studded with trees that seem to have been decorated for Christmas. We wake in the morning to the sight of the blossom bursting out on the branches just outside the small window at the end of the bed. (I do at least, because Jones gets up in the dark at an unholy hour.) It’s an inspiring sight.