Letter from Espargal: 23 of 2009

I have spent part of the morning (and plan to spend part of the afternoon) recovering from Barbara’s birthday barbeque bash. The barbeque took place last night on the patio of Idalecio’s guest cottage, a charming venue to which the company repaired after enjoying a round of drinks with us.

Idalecio had agreed to host the barbeque professionally in a joint celebration of Barbara’s and (a neighbour) Pauline’s birthdays.

I had intended at the same time to deliver Bobby, the dog we walk and feed each afternoon, back to his owner, Zeferino, who lives next door to Idalecio. So far, so good. But no further.

I fastened Bobby’s lead briefly to a bench on our front patio while I went inside to fetch a handful of biscuits for him and another for Zeferino’s cat.
WHAT'S LEFT OF THE BENCH

As I emerged, Bobby took fright – from what, I’ve no idea. He fled through the open gates, dragging the bench behind him. The bench shattered and Bobby vanished across the fields, trailing his lead, with our dogs in hot pursuit.

By the time I caught up with our lot, there was no sign of Bobby. And he didn’t respond to my calls. After notifying Zeferino and spending an hour in a fruitless search, I gave up and joined the party at the barbeque, not in festive mood, even though it proved in every other respect to be a delightful occasion.

We renewed our search first thing this morning. Ninety minutes of looking and calling in every direction failed to produce Bobby. At that point, I went to fetch my tractor to trek around the back roads while Jones renewed her search of the fields, trying to work out where the dog might have run from the last point at which he’d been seen.

(LIBRARY SHOT)
She found Bobby within a couple of minutes, unharmed but trapped by his lead. We must have walked within 50 metres of him during our searches but he uttered not a sound, nor did our dogs come across him. Our relief was huge. We shall sleep better tonight than we did last night.

We just had time to feed and water him and deliver him home before making our way down the road to the village well for its official inauguration.

Over the past few months, the well has been rebuilt and the area around it paved. A picnic bench has been installed and troughs of flowers placed nearby. All very smart. A few dozen villagers gathered for the occasion, most of them exploiting the shade offered by the tall stone walls around the well.

And a very important occasion it was too, attended not only by the local worthies but the president of Loule council, Dr Seruca Emidio, and his inner cabinet. Dr Emidio, to his credit, engaged Barbara and other expats in amiable English conversation before going on to tell the locals in Portuguese how hard he and his councillors were working to improve their lives. Regional TV and the local press were on hand to record the event. After the speeches, we were invited to the picnic table for port and cakes.

According to some, the well dates back to the Romans (several of whose coins have been ploughed up in the fields). Whatever the case, the well is really the heart of the village and the reason for its being. Idalecio tells us that in times of drought its water was carefully rationed, each family having to manage on so many buckets a day.

The other news of the week is that Espargal has been getting street names and its houses have been assigned numbers. Both the names and the numbers have been inscribed on tiles that are being attached to the walls. The name of our street, the Rua do Cercado (an enclosure) is yet to go up, possibly because there’s no handy wall to attach it to.

At the house of our neighbours, David and Sarah, we watched parish workers pasting up both the name (Rua da Talefe – the trig-point, at the top of the hill) and number (20). Many of the names are traditional, having being used for generations by people in the area.

To other news: I was dismayed a few days back to find that my trailer was faring poorly under the carob tree to which it’s been consigned since Jones voted for its eviction from Casa Nada. Its state became evident to me while I was lying flat on my back with an angle-grinder, removing the trailer’s old number plate (in order to attach a new plate matching the registration of the new car). Although the galvanised sheet metal was fine, the (usually invisible) spars that made up the chassis had started to rust.

So I hitched the trailer up to the tractor and towed it down the road to Idalecio’s dad’s yard in order to make use of the pit employed to service his own vehicles. Crouching beneath the trailer, I was able to rub the spars down and then to paint them. I was grateful for the protection of my hat, which took the sting out of my many head thumps as I worked away. It wasn’t an easy job. The pit was designed for short Portuguese workers and not tall estrangeiros. I’m still trying to get the crook out of my back.

After painting the upper rims of the trailer as well, I parked the vehicle back under the carob tree. As I told Jones, I need to construct a shelter for it before the onset of winter. It doesn’t like being left outside.

We have agreed a price with Sergio, the carpenter, for the construction of a large fitted cupboard in our hall. This price is considerably below his initial quote, which I considered excessive, as I told him. Sergio agreed that it was high but insisted that this was because the price of beech (needed to match existing display cabinets) had gone up. Even so, because I was “an excellent customer” (and he really needs the work), he offered to knock 20% off the price – an offer I promptly accepted. With luck we should have the cupboard installed towards the end of the month.

On our way home from Benafim with Natasha one morning, we spied a woman walking along the road towards the several tiny hamlets in the area. I thought I recognised her and stopped to offer her a lift. In the event, she was a stranger and, although slightly hesitant, she accepted a ride with us. Jones climbed into the back with Natasha and dogs to give her the front passenger seat. She identified herself as Guimar and said she was heading for her cottage in the hamlet of Charneca, about a kilometre down the road.

We started chatting, saying we lived in Espargal and pointing to our house, visible high up on the hillside.
CASA NADA, UPPER LEFT
Oh, said Guimar, her brother-in-law, Bernadino, used to live in those parts. I couldn’t believe my ears. It was Bernadino who had sold us the property. We had long since lost contact with him and had been trying to trace him through our neighbours as he might be the key to our eventual registration of Casa Nada.

Guimar didn’t have his phone number but she did have the number of his daughter, which she gave us – and we passed on to the lawyer who is now handling the matter. Talk about coincidences!

The Jones birthday included a visit to Loule’s summer handicrafts fair. This is always held on the square outside the law courts in kiosks erected for the purpose. Those who desire may take dinner at makeshift tables and listen to the amplified entertainment from the nearby stage (an attraction we generally avoid).

Most of the stalls offer knick-knacks, beads and other trinkets, at prices the locals can afford. There is always some art on display as well, generally of a more lurid kind and seldom costing three figures. There was one abstract painting that appealed to me but it didn’t meet Jones’s approval so we left it where it was.

A burly policeman with an even burlier rottweiler kept an eye on proceedings from the sidelines. Our neighbours tell us that the dog stood impassively by its master’s side until a child passed, pulling a toy dog on a string.

The sight terrified the rottweiler, amused onlookers and embarrassed the policeman. Such is life. “A vida é assim”, as they say here.

My siesta calls and so do the animals. Enough unto the day....