Letter from Espargal: 6 of 2009

I wish you could be here now, to soak up the warm sunshine and bask in the perfection of an Algarvean spring day. A breeze is toying with the tops of the trees, visible just beyond the upper patio railings. Gone are the clouds and the forecasts of rain. The skies are deepest blue and the fields a lush green. The puddles on the dirt roads are gradually drying up. We are back from a circuit with the dogs through the valley. As so often, Bobby came calling early and joined us on the walk, hopping up into the rear of the CRV with Raymond for the short drive down the hill.

In the vineyards below, farmers are busy pruning their stock. As I went to fetch Natasha from the bus earlier in the week, I came across Leonhilda striding down the road, clutching heavy shears, on her way down to cut back her vines. She was glad of a lift. We had to raise our voices to hear each other against the gunfire that echoed through the valley. The hunters were shooting birds, “tordos”, Leonhilda informed me. I didn’t recognise the word but the dictionary identified it as a thrush. Jones and I wondered what on earth inspires people to go around trying to kill thrushes.

With the return of the good weather, we’ve been venturing deeper into the hills, exploring a track that was cut by the electricity department when it installed new lines. The route is steep and uneven. How the trucks ever managed to lug the heavy reinforced concrete poles up the rocky hillsides remains a mystery to us. Even so, we are grateful for the new routes. So are the wild pig, whose hoof prints are clearly visible in the soft earth. The only downer has been renewed complaints from my right knee, which clearly wants more nursing before I embark on any further adventures.


We’ve been pleased to sit outside in the sunshine at the Snack Bar Coral for the first time this year. The interior is also pleasant but can get a little smoky at times. We always get a warm welcome from Celso, along with coffees, baggies and a slice of his wife, Brigitte’s apple pie. It’s a treat we award ourselves from time to time.

The week began with a Sunday visit from Horacio the builder, to mark out the line of fence posts that his men were to erect the following day. We found two of his workers hard at it when we arrived back from classes early on Monday afternoon. The pair identified themselves as Helder (pronounced Elder) and Eusenio. They had dug holes for and cemented in about a dozen posts. This is harder work than it might sound because our property, like most around us, is full of rocks and stones. At one point Helder scraped back stones from the earth with his bare hands. Had I done the same, I’d have lost the skin on my fingers. I offered him gloves but he declined them. His hands were tough enough.

Dinis the metal worker came around to measure up two light gates that he is making for me. He delivered them Friday afternoon, and Horacio sent around two (other) workers to cement them into position ahead of the planned completion of the fence early next week. The gates are situated on the tractor track that leads to the bottom of the property.


Our commuting neighbours, Sarah and David, returned to a drenched UK at the start of the week. Before their departure they spent several days removing a heavy growth of weeds from their new boulles pitch and surfacing it with sand. We expressed our admiration. I look forward to trying the pitch out in due course. It should make a change from the uneven ground beside their house where previous contests have been held, and where my skills have counted for little.

There is a mouse in the house. Natasha warned us of the visitor when she found unmistakeable evidence of its presence in the pantry. Jones later spotted the little rodent as it nipped out from behind the fridge for a recce. The cats have also become aware of its arrival and are anxious to meet it. Two of them camped out beside the fridge for a time in the hope that it would betray itself. I shall have to borrow Marie’s “humane” mouse trap again. (Trap users are exhorted to check the device regularly so that any mouse prisoners are confined for a short a period as possible and spared any unnecessary suffering. How traps and times have changed!)

On Tuesday afternoon Natasha and I spent two hours with an accountant, a helpful fellow who, with his assistant, occupies the upper floor of a large house on the fringes of Benafim. Our dogs always exchange insults with his on our arrival. The office is almost entirely surrounded by shelves of files. I wondered whether he had some sort of computer back-up outside of the room or whether his entire business would go up in smoke in the event of a fire. Whatever the case, I kept my thoughts to myself.

Now that Natasha is an official employee and I an official employer, we both have to submit relevant returns. Her circumstances and income combine to place her below the lowest tax-paying bracket.

I have become the possessor of a sat-nav, my first. So forgive me if I cover ground with which you have been long familiar. It’s a fairly basic one, a Garmin Nuvi 265W, with maps encompassing western Europe. The model seems easy to use and works well. I’m impressed, possibly because I simply don’t have enough experience of other sat-navs to know what it lacks. I’ve previously used one only in Canada, where my brother lent me a model, which we called Cindy. She proved invaluable on a motoring trip through Alberta and BC.

After registering the Garmin online, I was able to update the database. This seems to be familiar with even the small roads in the area. Voice instructions are delivered in a pleasant British female accent although one may choose to be guided in other accents – or, for that matter, languages. (To make space on the hard drive, I deleted some 50 languages that I shall definitely not require.) I thought that we should call our guide Ethel but Jones demurred, saying that Ethels are shop assistants rather than geographers. We decided on Heloise instead, (after hearing the name mentioned on the radio).

We’ve been to see Slumdog Millionaire. You must be aware of the publicity it’s received. The scenes shot in and around the slums were eye openers. We were impressed if not exactly wowed. After all the hype we may have been expecting too much. The happy ending was inevitable. Even so, we’re not complaining. Jones would prefer a predictable happy ending any day to an unhappy one. And I’ll go along with that.