Letter from Espargal: 13 of 2009

This has been, one way and another, by the drowsy standards of Espargal, quite an exciting week. It began right at the beginning, last Sunday. As we were ascending a track on the far side of the hill, a fox hurried across our path. I think it had been disturbed by the dogs, which were crashing around in the bushes nearby. There was no time to reach for the camera. In a moment the animal had disappeared again. We were relieved that it was well away before the dogs came leaping out on to the path. What is a fox between friends, you may wonder? Well, for us, such a sighting is a rare privilege.

A moment later, Raymond went sprinting into the bush again and emerged with a limp rabbit, his first kill. We were surprised that he’d caught it because although the dogs are forever chasing rabbits – indeed, they love little more - they seldom come close to catching them. The bunnies are lightning fast and perfectly at home in the thick scrub.

Raymond crouched over his rabbit, not knowing quite what to do with it. He showed no interest in eating it. I picked up the unfortunate creature by the ears and dropped it into a dense patch of greenery, well off the path. Our hardier Portuguese neighbours would have dined on rabbit that evening. Not us, I’m afraid. Jones was upset, as always with such senseless killing. I was more phlegmatic. The dogs’ hunting instinct has been honed over millions of years and that’s the way it is.

The following morning we got a call from the Dutch ladies. They had returned home the previous evening to find that thieves had broken into the house. We went down to take some pictures for insurance purposes as their cameras were among the items stolen. To get in, the burglars had prized open sliding doors. I was alarmed to see how easy this was. One had only to bend the soft aluminium sheeting fractionally with a large screw driver in order to slip the catch and open the door. Our doors are virtually identical and could just as easily be forced.

Burglary is a thriving industry in the Algarve as in most of the rest of the world. We are fortunate to live at the termination of a dead-end road in a small village, with lots of nosy neighbours and noisy dogs; not that this situation brings any guarantee. Some weeks ago I made contact with a fellow who has been advertising locks for sliding doors. I am interested in seeing how the system works before I commit myself but the man has been too busy to set up a meeting.

That afternoon, I collected my long awaited “quick hook-ups” from Jose, the tractor dealer in Benafim, and drove the tractor around to the workshop of Dinis, the metal worker, on the outskirts to get them welded on. The hook-ups are designed to solve the problem of aligning the tractor exactly with a heavy implement in order to attach it to the 3-point hitch. Unless the two side-arms are exactly aligned, it’s all but impossible to hook up the implement without much heaving and hohing – not good for bad backs.

Dinis and his sidekick, Bruno, removed the two side-arms and cut off the old hook-ups with an angle-grinder. Then they worked together to align the new ones at exactly the right angle, checking the measurements and adjusting the hook-ups several times before setting about the welding. I was impressed by their thoroughness. We were able to test the new device immediately on the heavy scarifier that I was carrying – and it’s a great improvement.

In the evening we met up with David and Dagmar to see Duplicity – a come-back for Julia Roberts. It’s my sort of film, a teaser rather than a feel-good movie, really cleverly done - perhaps too clever. One headscratches afterwards about the relevance of certain flashbacks. Whatever the case, the ending isn’t apparent until it arrives. There much to be said for a little unpredictability.

The construction of the new house beside Sarah and David’s cottage has brought a hygiene problem with it. It became increasingly evident, with the spread of loo paper and unmentionables on the hillside that (some members of) the team of builders were not using the portaloo on site. At first the mess was confined to an area enclosed by bushes. Then it spread to the paths we use each day. So I went along to the house and sought out the boss, a meeting that required me to clamber on to the upper floor. There I explained as politely as I could in builders’ language how unpleasant the villagers were finding their excremental habits. There were some wry smiles. Jones said she could hear me 50 metres away. I do have a rather loud voice. Whatever the case, the problem has abated.

WILD FLOWERS

Wednesday: We are trying a new deal with Natasha, which involves sharing her once-a-week cleaning services with another couple, who live nearby. She works for them in the morning; I fetch her at lunchtime and she cleans for us in the afternoon. As usual, I dropped her back at the bus stop at 5.15. Nearly an hour later, I got a disconsolate call. She was still waiting there. The afternoon bus, intended mainly for scholars, had been cancelled because the schools were already on their Easter break. We were out walking the dogs at the time and she had to wait on our return.

THE GARDEN

On the way down the road to fetch her, our car was chased (as usual) by Leonhilde’s dog, Presidente, and I somehow managed to run over his paw. He squealed blue murder and limped back home. Our dogs, which were inside the car, added to the din. I stopped and rushed in behind Presidente, fearing that I’d have to take him straight to the vet. As it turned out, his paw was just badly bruised and he didn’t need any treatment. Leonhilde wasn’t overly sympathetic, saying he might have learned his lesson at last.

MORE GARDEN

Thursday: I took the tractor back to Jose’s shop in Benafim to have a “pirilampo” fitted. (I’d never heard of the word: it translates as firefly.) This is an orange-coloured flashing light that is now required by law on the tractor roll-bar when the vehicle is used on a public road. Few of the locals have bothered, nor do the police seem concerned but Jose offered to fit a lamp and I agreed.

I asked him to attach the lamp to the underside of the hinged roll-bar, to protect the lamp from low branches. This he was quite happy to do. The first setback came when Jose lifted the bar without warning, catching the finger of one of the several watchers and gashing it. There was a 15 minute pause for first aid. Then work resumed. Every so often it was interrupted by a cat’s miao or a dog’s whine – sounds, which I discovered, were emitted by the mobile phone in Jose’s pocket.

As is customary when dealing with clients, Jose offered us all a tot of his local medronho. It was excellent. He then urged us to try a very special whisky, one which had apparently been treated with the bark of a tree in Angola, rendering it a powerful aphrodisiac. Jose described, as he worked, the miraculous improvement that it had made to the love life of an acquaintance. I demurred as graciously as I could; the medronho was perfectly adequate, thank you.

Eventually, the job was done. The part was cut, welded, fitted and spray-painted – and it worked. What I hadn’t realised was that the lamp would sit just above my head. (We were taught in TV training never to seat an interviewee with a flower pot or bunch of flowers emerging from his/her head!) I have to admit that it looks a bit silly. Still, that’s not serious.

CHATTING TO NEIGHBOURS

After settling the bill, I took the tractor around to the service station to fill it up. It was the first time I’d filled it from a pump and I didn’t notice that diesel fuel was spilling down from beneath the hood until I’d wet the forecourt. I wasn’t best pleased. Nor was the owner of the service station. I drove to the car-wash next door to clean the tractor and then came home. It’s amazing how the simplest activity in this part of the world transforms itself into an adventure.

We are back on summer times. Suddenly we have long afternoons again. The sun, which sets at 5.30 in winter, now goes down only at 8. And in midsummer it won’t set until 9. I have been doing hours of scarifying on our fields and our neighbours'.
BARROW OF WEEDS

Jones has been attacking the weeds with a vengeance, crouching in the garden and ripping them out. She’s very careful to remove only her enemies (of which there are many) while preserving the chosen few.

I have to say that the garden is looking glorious. So are our fields, which are covered with a sea of yellow daisies (or similar). The wild honeysuckle is in its party dress. The season is marred only by the flies and the ticks. I woke last night with a crawly feeling and leapt up to put on the lights and pluck another little tick from my body. Fortunately, he hadn’t started feeding. It was hard to get to sleep again. I imagined ticks on every limb. Jones, who once shared her bed with a centipede, said she perfectly understood.