Letter from Espargal: 16 of 2009

The end of the week has turned up like an unwelcome knock on the door to find me without a photo taken or a word written. I am reminded of those distant occasions when I arrived at school with my homework either dubiously done or not done, in the sure knowledge that trouble lay ahead. I have the sense that this has been a run-around kind of a week but I’m not sure what we were running around or why. Pause here – while I think.

While my brain ticks over, let me tell you that there is the most beautiful scattering of pyramid orchids in the field beside ours. And we’ve found a dozen tongue orchids preening themselves in our own field. These discoveries are a delight. So, at this time of year, is Jones’s garden. Time and again I exclaim at the simple beauty of these little jewels of nature, and reflect how blessed we are to live in such a place.

Enough of such musings. Our immediate mini-drama is with a sick cat. Braveheart is unwell, either through illness or an encounter with another cat – or possibly a bit of both. Jones has been trying to coax food down his throat for a couple of days – with minimal success. We have borrowed a cat-box from Marie to take the cat to the vet. Yet we are reluctant to do this; Braveheart has never been inside a cat-box or visited a vet; and he will not thank us for our efforts. So we remain in two minds.

On the human front we have bade (bidden?) farewell to our house-sitters, Ian and Anne, with thanks – as always – for minding our brood so well.
IAN & BOBBY
Not only ours, for they went around each day to Zeferino to fetch Bobby and take him walking as well. It is ironic that we arrive back home to find our dogs better tended and groomed than when we left them. Anne is a serious dog person. She has five of her own, along with a host of ribbons and medals attesting to their merits.

At the same time, we have welcomed other UK friends and frequent visitors, Mike and Lyn, who are staying close by in one of Idalecio’s guest cottages. The couple are keen photographers and have taught us a great deal about the fauna and flora.


Also newly-arrived are our commuting neighbours, David and Sarah, who are gritting their teeth as giant cement-lorries rumble past their cottage to unburden themselves at the new house that is growing noisily and largely beside them.

Our runnings-around have included a couple of trips to the parish office to attend to the latest outbreak of bureaucracy. New legislation requires all householders who are in possession of septic tanks (boreholes, wells and much else) to register these by the end of May or face substantial fines. One has to be grateful for the pleasant and efficient service of Anna and Maria, the two women behind the counter. Our septic tank was registered when we built the house but the official in Faro, whom Maria eventually reached on the phone, said that we should re-register it, which Maria promptly did.

Among other requirements, one has to declare the type of septic tank on one’s property. Older houses (apart from the few that lack plumbing altogether) have traditional soak-away cesspits. Our house, like all recent homes, has a sealed septic tank, which must be pumped out (at considerable cost) from time to time. The owner is meant to retain the receipts as proof that his tank has been properly emptied and not simply drained into his garden.

REED FILTRATION TANK
As it happens, we have not had to pump out our septic tank. This is because it has developed cracks through which the contents leak out, much to the approval of the lush vegetation on all sides. The process sounds much fouler than it is, for the contents have already passed through a large filtration tank that renders them quite inoffensive. Even so, we are in breach of our commitments and we will have to get the tank fixed sooner rather than later.

While at the parish office we also made enquiries about post-boxes as ours are soon to be moved a few metres from the site of the well to a new position. Like other relative new-comers, we had to buy our own post-box and set it up beside the official grouping, which was already fully taken. The parish ladies didn’t know whether we would have to purchase a new box. They advised us to wait for the postman. He didn’t know either but he phoned his boss, who did.

The upshot is that we have to get rid of our private post-boxes and apply for official ones in the new site, which workmen have almost finished constructing. So be it.

As ever, Jones has been doing lots of weeding. She finds it all but impossible to walk past a patch of weeds without grabbing a handful by the hair and ripping them out. The place is dotted with piles of weeds. The wheelbarrows are stacked with them and, outside the gates, the weed mountain grows apace. For my part, I’ve been cleaning up the lands again with the tractor and spraying particularly dense patches of weeds. I’ve also taken a strimmer to the grassy verges, which had stolen at least a metre from the width of the tarred road that leads to the house.

Friday afternoon: We are back from the vet. Braveheart is diagnosed to be severely jaundiced after picking up a virus. It is very important, said the vet, that the cat should eat, something the beast has shown little inclination for these past several days. He has to be fed semi-liquid food with a syringe. As essential as this is to his recovery, Braveheart is less than grateful. Jones grips him as best she can while I do the squirting. We are both – Jones and I – sporting wounds for our efforts.

Saturday: You may count yourselves lucky to be hearing from me today. We have been the victims of some misleading publicity. To encourage the health and fitness of its citizens, the parish office had organised an hour-long night-walk, to start at 21.30. What, I ask you, could be more pleasant than a moonlight stroll after a relaxed meal at the local? Our neighbours joined us for the meal (but not for the walk), a convivial occasion with an ample supply of wine to support Brigitte’s excellent dishes. We finished just in time to retrieve the dogs from the car and join the procession of people emerging from the gates of the Benafim sporting club.

That’s when reality struck. Of the moon that I’d fondly imagined, there was no sign. The night was pitch-dark. And the crowd showed not the least interest in a gentle stroll. Instead, they cantered off up the road towards the village of Penina 3 kms away, as if the very devil were on their tails. Jones and I were forced to sprint after them, for we’d failed to take torches and we couldn’t see a thing without borrowing a little light from our neighbours. The dogs thought it was great fun.

STOCK-SHOT - ON THE ROAD TO BENAFIM
After staggering into Penina and catching our breath over a hand-out bottle of water, we had to join a 4 km gallop via a different route back to Benafim. It was a case of stay up or spend the night in the ditch. By the time we fell into the car 90 minutes later, we were done in. It was, after all, our third walk of the day.

We had a much more sedate outing last weekend, when we attended a solemn high mass at the mother church in Loule. An orchestra and choir, led by four soloists, had come down from Lisbon for the occasion. The music was by Eberlin (whom I’d never heard of) and Mozart. By the time we arrived, the church was packed and we had to stand with lots of other people at the back. The music was okay but the brass section nearly drowned out the choir and I wasn’t exactly wowed, especially by the sermon in Portuguese. Jones, who found herself exchanging “kiss of peace” greetings with the notary, afterwards said she was glad that we had gone. I suppose I was too but I’m not sure that I’d go again.

Today is the 25th of April, The Day of Liberty, commemorating the 1974 Carnation Revolution that overthrew the dictatorship which had gripped the country since the 1920s. There’s hardly a town or village in Portugal that does not have a street named after the day. The occasion is celebrated everywhere with great festivity.

In the afternoon we took ourselves to Alte, threading our way through the dozens of cyclists who were busy finishing some cross-country event.

As we were walking from the car to the scene of the celebrations, an old fellow in a pick-up started his vehicle in gear and promptly knocked down a section of the wall in front of him.The rubble landed in the road a metre below, fortunately without causing injury or damage to passers-by. A young Portuguese man took the wheel of the pick-up and managed to reverse it away from the wall, while Mike and I lent our weight to his efforts. We then cleared a path through the stones for traffic to pass.

The usual crowds were gathered in the big lunch tent beside the river.
We joined them for refreshments before watching some young Spanish damsels doing the flamenco.Their dancing was more enthusiastic than expert but the crowd was well pleased. The weather blew hot and cold, prompting much taking off and putting on of jackets.

I am reading a book by Christopher Hitchens, a tome I have borrowed from Llewellyn, entitled “god is not great”. Like Dawkins (The God Delusion), Hitchens does not believe in a deity and feels that religion has a great deal to answer for. (That much, at least, I think is indisputable, given the countless sectarian massacres and persecutions that have stained the centuries.) He writes well, from the heart as well as from the head, in crisp, crunchy prose. As interesting as I find his arguments, I am no closer after much reading of many books to knowing the truth of the matter. Like my fellows, I fear that I shall have to wait for my exit from this world to discover whether there is another beyond it.