Letter from Espargal: 37 of 2009

JONES DAWN

I was talking to a woman in the UK Pensions Department this week in a bid to obtain the state pension I am now entitled to. Over the past 25 years I have invested a lot of money in the State Pension and the time has come for the Department to return the compliment. But there’s a delay because one official has rejected the notarised copy of my birth certificate that another official assured me would be acceptable as proof of my identity.

So I phoned them up. “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” said a woman who answered my phone-call the instant I got through. For those of us accustomed to wading through a maze of Portuguese phone-menus and hanging on for hours, such apologies are beyond comprehension.

The apologetic woman said she’d need to ask me some questions. “On what date did you get married,” she asked. “Thirty years ago today,” I replied, and it was true. “Congratulations!” she remarked, before continuing with her questions. Never mind the rest of the conversation. It really doesn’t matter. I’ve sent off the birth certificate on the understanding that the Department will send it back and in the hope that UK Inc. will soon start paying me out. How long the certificate will take to get there, with the Post Office on strike, is another matter.

That evening Jones and I had a small celebratory dinner at the Coral. I stopped off at Jafers’ supermarket en route to buy a bottle of wine. It was a 2006 Duas Quintas vintage and very good indeed. I offered a modest glass each to our hosts, Celso and Brigitte, as well as to the tractor man and his boss, who were dining at another table.

Supper couldn’t have been simpler – a toasted sandwich and a salad but it was the deliciousist toasted sandwich and salad you could imagine. The tractor man (who is trying to sell me another tractor) stood us to a glass of port wine and dessert that came with a “happy anniversary” salutation in icing.

Beside us, young Joey played uninterruptedly – except for an ice-cream break – with his mini computer, guiding racing cars around its screen. Joey is going to be a racing driver. Nobody in the family doubts it. Nor do we. Afterwards, he and I had a brief game of pool. I used a cue. Joey just rolled the balls around the table.

Our next door neighbour, Idalecio, has been busy building stone walls in his garden with a view to extending his parking area. (He builds wonderful walls, as you may recall from earlier letters.) In the process, he had to rip out apple trees and fig trees, all of which we were happy to accept.

I planted several in a corner of the Casanova field, banking up the earth around them. I was most put out the following day to find that the small bank around an apple tree had been destroyed. To judge by the hoof prints, the culprit was a wild pig. I start to understand why the farmers are so keen to pot a few of them.

STORM AT SEA

On Tuesday we had a wonderful inch of rain. More was promised on Wednesday but all we got were leaden clouds that floated tantalisingly overhead. We could see heavy showers falling out at sea. What a waste of good rain! Overnight we were woken by a storm that shunted the chairs around the patio and clattered the shutters. We didn’t mind. From our beds we could see the patio glistening in the rain.

The wet stuff would have been welcome a few evenings earlier. We had just set out on our walk when a stout neighbour came panting up the path, clutching his large-toothed pruning saw. “There’s a fire down at the river,” he puffed, quite out of breath. And indeed there was. We could see a plume of smoke rising from the river valley a couple of miles away. To reinforce the point, bits of ash came floating down around us.

“I’ve called the fire brigade,” the neighbour added, before rushing off to join the villagers watching the action from the top of the hill. We headed along the contour path with the dogs. The plume of smoke grew fatter and the air stinkier. The fire itself was out of sight in the canes along the river banks.

CANES

We stopped to watch the fire-fighting helicopter choppering in, dangling its bag of water. It would duck down below the rim of the hill, empty the bag, and then dash off to the far side of the valley for a refill. Within a minute or two it was back. Fortunately, the evening was cool and there was little wind.

Loule council has been promoting a series of concerts by groups of musicians specialising in music from centuries past. We went with David and Sarah to a concert by such a group, Il Dolcimelo, in the Boliqueime church last weekend. Several musicians were backed up by a small choir. They were very good – excellent, says Jones - if you like 16th century polyphony. We wondered what made young people devote their time and resources to such unusual and demanding music.

LOWERING SKIES

Most of my evenings this week have gone in planning our spring visit to North America. After hours of searching for suitable flights I settled on Air France to carry us over the pond to Toronto. The airline offered easily the most suitable schedule and connections. Before I booked with them, however, I read some passenger reviews online. With few exceptions, these were of the “never again” “terrible seats” “awful service” variety. So, mindful of an ever-fussy back, I booked instead with our usual carriers, Lufthansa, via Lisbon and Frankfurt.

The only drawback to this flight is that it is scheduled to get us into Toronto just 80 minutes before the last connection to our destination, Washington. Well, I reflected 80 minutes, should be enough. So I booked that connection too.

MIST IN THE VALLEYS

The next day, beset by doubts about the wisdom of doing this, I phoned Air Canada at Toronto airport for a second opinion. An airline official explained what we’d have to do. Arrive at Toronto (hopefully on time), exit the plane, clear immigration, collect our suitcases, clear Canadian customs, go up two floors, check in once again and clear US customs – to find that our plane had left without us. I have cancelled the reservation. Fortunately, one gets a 24-hour window to do this without penalty. We are reconciled to spending a night in Toronto.

P.S You have little idea how hard I have struggled to bring you this blog with its content intact. Jones, whom I employ to cast an eye over my efforts (with a view to picking up any minor errors), disputed several opinions and insights, which I felt obliged to excise in the interests of marital harmony. Notes of sympathy to the usual address!