Letter from Espargal: 26 of 2009

Jones has gone to the UK for a few days, to catch up with friends and family. I took her on Thursday morning to Faro airport, where she joined the end of a very long queue that stretched through the terminal and up to the distant Monarch desks. We took ages to reach them. When we did, we discovered that the plane was due to leave an hour late. Why is it that the romance and excitement of 21st century travel is reduced to queues, delays and searches? Jones, not famous for her patience, wonders each time why she didn’t stay at home instead. The question is rhetorical. There’s no point in telling her that it’s because her friends and family are far-flung and there’s no easier way of getting to see them.

Her departure leaves me free to follow my own schedule – albeit that I have a list of plants to water and animals to feed (only half of them our own). On my return home I found the contemplation of the choice so exhausting that I lay down on the floor for a snooze. The dogs lay snoozing around me.

OFF TO GET PLUMS - BACK IN A MINUTE
The thing is (there was a BBC presenter, now happily departed, who would always say at the start of a question “but the thing is,” irritating me no end). The thing is that choice is all very well until one actually has to take a decision. Is it too hot to go into the garden? What to eat? What did Jones say she had left in the fridge? It gets a bit wearing. This business of being a bachelor is not all that it’s cracked up to be. Jones and I used to be separated for months at a time and found life bearable if not exactly fun. We have got out of the habit. Now, even a few days’ separation weighs upon one.

Sergio, the carpenter came midweek to measure up the hall cupboard and present us with a few options. He was due last Friday but failed either to call or to arrive (which, in Portugal, is not regarded as unusual.) When I got hold of him I let him know that he was not the flavour of the month. Sergio was apologetic and insisted by way of repentance that I should convey his very best wishes to Jones, which I did.

After finalising the dimensions of the new cupboard, he and his assistant carried the old display cabinet (that I had emptied in anticipation) around to Casa Nada, where it has taken up residence in Jones’s room, along with the lizards and a few other items of furniture. If we ever get Casa Nada legalised, the cabinet will prove useful.

It takes a while to call to mind all the other achievements of the week. Jones wanted a simple path of flat stones laid in the south garden, which I have provided her. That wasn’t too difficult. Each evening we have sat out on the new level patch at the top of garden, sipping baggies and mollifying the dogs with the occasional biscuit. The end of the week brought a stunning full moon to crown our work.

One night, I woke Jones in the early hours to reassure her that Prickles and Bobby were back from yet another jaunt through the hills. Jones gets so worried when the dogs go astray – never mind that it’s for the umpteenth time – that she can think of nothing else until their return. In her mind she rehearses waking in the morning to find that they’re not back, and working out how she’s going to cope with their absence. Prickles has been sentenced to remain on his lead indefinitely. The little guy can stand up on his hind legs all he likes, pleading with his eyes to be allowed to join in rabbit chases. No chance, mate. Our hearts have been hardened. (That’s what we said last time too.)

I’ve been along to the Portuguese automobile club to obtain a form that has to be filled in by a doctor, to the effect that I’m still capable of driving a car – rampant ageism if ever I encountered it. Drivers holding Portuguese licences have to go through this performance at 60 and 65 and then either biennially or annually once they turn 70. I rue the day that I traded in my British driving licence. At the time it seemed to be compulsory to take out a Portuguese licence if one wanted residence here. The Brits let you drive until you go gaga and forget which side of the road you’re on. But since half the Portuguese drive on the wrong side anyhow, I can’t see the point.

Late one afternoon the street namers and house numberers turned up to affix a number to our gate post. It was the number “20”. I liked it. So much rounder and more satisfying than, for example, “17” or “23”. One of the team chipped away the paint to give the cement a good base before the other carefully mounted the tile. I expressed my thanks with a couple of beers. So we now reside at “Rua do Cercado, 20” in Espargal, should ever you need to programme your satnavs. Our postal address remains unchanged.

I have composed letters inviting two of my South African cousins to be our guests in Portugal next month. Having written them, I took them up to the parish office in Benafim, where the president was kind enough to sign them and emboss them with his seal. Gone are the days when the Portuguese immigration authorities welcomed visitors from Africa without the assurance that, having spent their money, the visitors will take themselves home again. Now, if you want a visa, you have to produce a credible letter of invitation. How those intending tourists manage, who don’t have family and friends residing in Europe, I’ve no idea.

Friday update: This afternoon I went into Loule for the funeral of a former neighbour, Andy Carmichael. There was a hot wind blowing. Loule was baking. The chapel was full of estrangeiros, mostly of Andy’s age – and mine! Afterwards, the hearse left without the usual cortege of walkers to the cemetery, an event that drew a critical comment from a Portuguese onlooker. A fire engine howled past me as I walked back to the car.

The eastern horizon, when I got home, was full of smoke. The news that night was of a huge fire between the Algarve towns of Sao Bras and Tavira. Over 100 units, 5 planes and hundreds of fire fighters were trying to extinguish it. Miserable farmers spoke of the damage done to their property. It looked horrible.