Letter from Espargal: 8 of 2009

If ever you are curious about the workings of a small family distillery, you may come with us to Monte Ruivo (Red, or ginger, Mountain) to see one in action. Monte Ruivo is a hamlet 30 minutes away, so small that it didn’t feature on the large-scale map that Jones was scrutinising in the car. So we navigated by stop-and-ask, and eventually we found it.

Our mission was to obtain half a case of medronho (pronounced “mehDRUNyu”), a Portuguese aguardente (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aguardiente) with much to recommend it. In particular, we were after JR (Joao Rafael) medronho, a brand to which Llewellyn has taken a fancy. We had a bottle with us, hopeful that the label might ring bells with the locals.

In the event, once in Monte Ruivo, we came across a pedestrian, who turned out to be Mrs Rafael, and who led us to the distillery where, she said, her husband was hard at work. Indeed he was busy - but not too occupied to demonstrate the process. Medronho is made by distilling the fermented berries of the arbutus (or strawberry) tree. This is found scattered across the Algarve hills.

Unusually, our host cultivates the bush. He showed us three vats in which berries are fermented for 60 days before distillation. Close by, a load was simmering away in a copper pot, above a fire – just berries and water, he said; nothing is added.

It takes four hours to heat the brew sufficiently to begin the distillation process.
From the wall, Joao took down a copper apparatus that he used to link the pot to the tubing that twirled down through a cold-water tank to a spout. Puffs of steam began to issue from the spout, followed by a trickle of the spirit itself. The first litre Joao threw away, saying that it would be tainted by pollutants from the copper tube.

The alcohol content of medronho varies. Typically, it’s around 50% although the first few litres from the still can be over 80%. We were fascinated by the process. So are the Portuguese authorities, who carry out frequent inspections and do their best to ensure that all production is labelled and taxed. We departed with several bottles of the precious liquid.

On the way home, we stopped at an adega in the village of Barrosas to renew our wine supplies. These days we buy wine in 10 litre-vacuum packs instead of bottles – at 1.8 euros a litre. The vintage might not win many prizes but it’s quite acceptable with supper. As well as saving us both cash and recycling, these purchases permit us a virtuous sense of thrift in these hard times.

Mind you, if one were to judge the state of the world economy by the number of houses rising in Espargal, one might think it in rude health.
The nearest is a mansion that has sprung up below us. It belongs to a young info-tech fellow. The house seems to be catching its breath prior to completion. The neighbours are probably not too pleased at the proximity.

At the end of our road, our Dutch neighbour-to-be, Dries, labours away most days on the house that he is building single-handed. It is a Herculean task. At some point in the future he will feel an enormous sense of satisfaction but for the moment he must feel mainly the aches and pains of heavy toil. Progress is slow. The walls have crept up to roof level and the big cement trucks have been around to fill the ring-beam. Dries says he hopes to move in to a section of the house by summer while he completes the rest.

Two more houses are getting underway, the first of them in a field adjoining our neighbours, David and Sarah. Horacio is building it for the daughter of a retired Portuguese couple who live close by. The foundations have already been dug and his team are about to begin tying the metal reinforcing rods. I stopped off as I passed by on the tractor, to have a word with him. He was putting up two small sheds. These are apparently now obligatory, to store materials securely, as is a portaloo, before the engineer responsible for the project signs the “go-ahead”.

The government has adopted a policy of placing responsibility for buildings on the shoulders of engineers, who have to comply with local regulations and take the rap if there’s a problem. Sadly, it has had no perceptible impact on the numbing delays that accompany the planning process, not locally anyhow.

Midweek we had lunch with old friends, Olive and John, who have spent several years and thousands of euros trying to obtain a habitation licence for their house, near the coast. The builder couldn’t construct their house in the approved position near the road because electricity pylons were installed there. So, instead of applying for the plans to be changed, he simply built the house elsewhere on the plot, saying he would put the application in later. Of course, he never did. And while the couple have been able to live in the house for the past decade, they lack the vital document required for its sale.

As you may discern, not a great deal else has been happening in Espargal this past week. Each morning we stroll through the valley where the shepherd grazes his flock, or we walk 3 kms down the newly-tarred road to the river and puff our way up again . Raymond runs free while we keep the two little guys on leads.

At the river, Jones pointed out an old well that is now a dangerous pit. It was once lined with stones and topped with a metal wheel-and-buckets mechanism that used donkey power to draw water and tip it into an irrigation channel. The mechanism has since collapsed into the hole, which is several metres wide and deep. We were nervous on behalf of the dogs, which peered over the edge. It would have been impossible to retrieve one without the use of a ladder.

The new road to the river has blotted out many of the orchids that used to grow along the verges. Their annual spring appearance was always a source of great pleasure. Jones has been heard sighing over their fate. She has doubts about the desirability of progress. The closer the progress, the greater her doubts. I was delighted to spot several surviving “naked man” orchids at the base of some rubble, which Jonesy scrambled down to photograph.

On the side of the road, we were both struck by the sheer vigour of a bulb that was thrusting up through the edge of the tarmac to stake its claim on life. By the time we came to take a picture of it, wild pig had eaten the leaves. But you may see for yourself the crack it has made in the tarmac. It seems to us a metaphor that nature will have the final say, and not very far hence.


Another plant that has been drawn to our attention is a leafy job that has sprung up close to the gate of the house. Our neighbours have identified it as a kind of wild spinach, encouraging us to pick the leaves and cook them. They assure us that it makes an excellent dish. We haven’t yet done so, because the dogs find the plant an irresistible leg-lifting target. I tell Jones that the leaves in the middle are untouched. She's not persuaded.