Letter from Espargal: 31 of 2009

In a world where everyone was rich, society would soon collapse. This was a realisation that came to me some time ago (and that I may address one day in a book). Unlike global warming, the prospect of universal wealth does not loom large.

Neither, regrettably, does the modest aim of the Espargal syndicate of winning the lottery. Each Friday morning we awake potential millionaires; each Friday night we go to bed as poor as we awoke. (I can see my virtuous sister’s wagging finger in front of my nose as I write.)

The thing is that money has been on my mind. I have been spending time trying to get my hands on some and finding it challenging. The money concerned is tied up in policies of various kinds that become payable to me on my 65th birthday, an event that is closer than I might wish. One policy is with a British financial institution; the others with a group in South Africa.

Before you conclude that I’m rich enough already and cut me out of your wills, let me hasten to say that all the policies together would scarcely buy a modest 2nd hand car. All were frozen decades ago. That’s half the problem. The other half is that the companies are based in foreign countries. Even to see the cash, I am required to fill in vast sheaths of information, answering questions I don’t understand, making choices I don’t appreciate, and supplying documents that I don’t possess. It might be simpler just to die poor – in due course that is. There’s no rush.

In the meanwhile, we have been busy souls. Last weekend we attended an evening recital presented by the Orchestra of the Algarve for its supporters. The performance was held in the lee of the historic church of Sao Romao near the town of Sao Bras – a picture-book setting. According to the blurb, a quintet would play a number of pieces. But one of the musicians fell ill, leaving us with just a duet. (No idea what happened to the other two.)

The pair did a good job in the circumstances. These included four interruptions by amplified church bells, two dog-fights, a speeding motorbike and a lorry being unloaded close by. Nonetheless, the musicians were well clapped, as much as for their resilience, I suspect, as their music.

Afterwards, we repaired with two friends to a nearby snack-bar where I joined fans watching the Portuguese football team being whacked by the Danes. As you may imagine, this did not go down well with the audience. It’s touch and go as to whether Portugal will win through to the World Cup finals in South Africa next year. In a country where football is the true religion, the situation is causing widespread dismay.

WATCHING FOOTBALL

The England team, by comparison, has been doing superbly. The dogs and I took up front-row positions in front of the telly to watch them thrash the Croats 5-1, a victory that I ascribe largely to our moral support.

JANE, JONES & MIKE BROWN

Another outing was down the road to the home of the Dutch ladies, Nicoline and Anneke for a superb Sunday lunch with most of the local expats. The ladies (including Jane, who co-produced the feast) did us proud.

Guests included Nicoline’s mother and a friend of hers, who were down on holiday from the Netherlands, and with whom I undertook to converse in my rusty Afrikaans.

In the event, my residual command of the language grew shakier with every passing beer until I was hardly able to distinguish my Portuguese nouns from my Afrikaans verbs. What emerged was a Portukaans pidgin. My companions, God bless them, hardly seemed to mind.

It’s late. Two cats are warring nearby and their caterwauling has prompted an outcry from the village dogs. I’ve been downstairs with out lot to assess the situation –they’re always happy to break up a cat fight - but the combatants are somewhere in the fields beyond their reach.

Speaking of which - Lucifer, the roving tabby that we feed over the way, has been beaten up. He has a nasty wound in the throat and is limping from a bite. The chief suspect is a thuggish Siamese, which Jones caught lurking in the bushes at supper time. I asked her whether she threw a stone at it. No, she threw a leaf and stamped her foot, she replied – adding that she might have thrown a stone if there had been one at hand. Somehow I doubt that the Siamese was intimidated.

Also limping is Raymond’s brother, Bobby. We don’t know the cause. There’s no sign of a wound or a thorn. His owner suspects that he may have sprained his paw while leaping over the fence to come and play with our lot.

Before I leave off limping, let me confess to doing some myself. The cause is a flare-up of tendonitis in my right Achilles heel (well named). The condition is long-standing. For the past several days I have been assigned to garden-watering duties while Jones takes the pack on their morning walk.

Our harvesting has extended from carobs – we’ve collected and disbursed several more bags - to grapes. We joined Leonhilde one afternoon to pick grapes at a plot she owns on the far side of Benafim. Vines there hardly get attention or irrigation from one year to another. But they never fail to produce bulging bunches of delicious green grapes. These were complemented with a large box from Ermenio, another neighbour and recipient of our carobs. We have been sharing them around.

Our own vines, I’m sorry to say, are giving up the ghost, in spite of any amount of love and irrigation. Idalecio says the same thing happened to some of his. He says the secret is to get Mario in with his digger to loosen up the soil and to plant the vines in winter. With luck, they’ll then look after themselves.

The real task of the week has been to complete the construction and painting of a chest that now resides on the front patio. It’s intended to serve as a receptacle for gloves, garden tools and other objects that hang around the place – offending Jones’s sense of order. I bought the chest as a flat-pack and assembled it – only to find that it was rather lower than we expected. We wanted it to double as a bench.

So I got hold of some 2-by-4 and arranged with our woodworker neighbour, Mike Brown, to raise the chest. This he did admirably. Jones, a colour-conscious soul, wanted the chest to match our blue front door.

ON BENCH

A little hunting in the storeroom produced the 7-year old (heavily congealed) tin of paint concerned. I struggled to apply it, even after thinning. Still, the final result looks good – judge for yourself – and the chest is already being put to work.