Letter from Espargal: 42 of 2009

We’ve had a delightfully damp and misty week. Some days the mist lies like a lake in the valley. A lake is exactly what we’d have if the kind of torrential rain that fell on Cumbria should fall on us. Other days it wreaths the hills, leaving the valley clear. We descend with great caution on such days; few local drivers turn on their lights just because it’s misty.

The wet weather is timely. It’s nourishing my bean seeds and the several new trees that we’ve planted, courtesy – like the others – of our neighbour, Idalecio, who continues with his garden improvements at a furious pace.

At the same time, the rain has been kind to the builders. Several houses are nearing completion (in a village small enough to make the prospect of new residents a big event.) One of these is Silvia’s house, on the brow of the hill 200 metres away. Silvia is the daughter of the Martins, the retired couple to whom we owe our arrival in Espargal. It was they who drew our attention to the land that we subsequently bought and built on. Silvia’s house has wonderful views in all directions. Our views are mainly to the north (although there’s a glint of distant ocean if one squints through the trees).

Also nearly done is the house that Dries, a tall spare Dutchman, is building himself at the end of our road. He and his wife, Bianca, are planning to move in shortly and to camp in the house while they complete it. Like most of us, they’re struggling through the bureaucracy that curses all building projects. While they wait for the stamp of approval on one or other document, they are “borrowing” electricity from a neighbour. We have lent them an old gas hob until such time as they get their own electricity supply.

In view of the dull weather we have allowed ourselves the occasional early fire. The wood-burning stove stands in the centre of the lounge. It heats the whole open-plan section of the house, everything except the bedrooms and bathrooms. From that point of view it’s wonderful. We’ve hardly used the central heating. The only disadvantage is that the fire dominates the room and makes it difficult to arrange the furniture so as to accommodate guests, animals, the TV and the dining room table.

We’ve hauled the sofas around, trying several layouts until we agreed on the best winter compromise. It takes in the dogs, the TV and the dining arrangements. We’ll worry about guests later. At this time of year, darkness falls shortly after 17.30. That makes for long evenings when good television is at a premium. We’ve been watching two series with special interest, one on the history of Christianity and another on life in Britain in the first half of the 20th century.

When there’s a football match of interest (to me) on Portuguese TV, Jonesy retires upstairs where she can either watch UK TV or listen to the radio. We beam the audio through to the bedroom, as well as having the option of listening anywhere in or around the house on (wireless) headphones. All these options we pretty much take for granted until the electricity goes down, as it often does during a storm. Then we have to hunt around for candles and a battery-powered radio to sustain ourselves in the flickering shadows until the juice comes back on again.

Tuesday we went to see Julia and Julie. Gastronomy is not my thing. But I’m a long time admirer of Meryl Streep – and we enjoyed the movie.

Thursday: After cleaning for us the previous day, Natasha returned to sort through several backpacks belonging to her former partner, Dani, which I’m storing at her request in Casa Nada. Of Dani himself little has been heard since his return to Romania a couple of years ago. Natasha has sought legal aid to obtain sole custody of their son, Alex. Until such time as she does, she is not able to take him across an EU border. More to the point, she can’t take him home to Russia, not even to introduce him to her family.

MORE MIST PICS

I spent an hour assisting her to overcome a couple of computer problems that she’d encountered with her new notebook. She’s a quick learner, a very bright young woman altogether.

While on this subject, let me add that I’m delighted with the MS Office 2010 Beta that I downloaded (after being tipped off by Llewellyn) and eventually managed to install. The problem was simply my impatience – or rather my expectations. When I ran the installation file, the computer threw up the usual hourglass and slowed to a snail’s pace. After a few minutes, I would give up and reboot.

MORNING GLORY

Eventually I left the computer to get on with it while I went off to do something else. Bingo! When I returned, the file had installed itself and I haven’t looked back. It’s a great programme. The only downside is that it runs out in October next year. At that point one either has to purchase it from Microsoft or install their next Beta in its place.

After lunch, I dropped Natasha and Jonesy in Loule before fetching a mechanic from an auto workshop to assist a friend whose car was stranded at his home with screeching disc brakes - run down to the metal. We thought the mechanic would try to fit new pads on the spot. But he said he needed to drive the car back to the workshop. Although the owner was dubious, it worked out. I drove just ahead in case of problems.

Friday we joined neighbours, Mike and Liz Brown, for lunch at the village of Cortelha, high in the hills. From a nearby vantage point, the site of a restored windmill, we could see half the Algarve, including our own distant village and house. Cortelha’s restaurant is well known for the range and quality of its food.

The wine list looked impressive too (although I opted for an alcohol-free beer as I enter my second month on the wagon. I’ve told Jones that I’ll come down from this sober perch either when I reach 85 kgs or at Christmas, which ever comes first. Right now, it’s looking like Christmas).

Cat update: A cushion-covered box against the upstairs railings is a favourite retirement spot for the cats. It provides ample space for one cat and sufficient space for two to curl up together, as is often the case. This week a third cat tried to join the pair already settled there. As so often, three proved to be a crowd. To get up, the intruder dug its claws into the cushion cover. The cushion started sliding off the box, startling the incumbents, who leapt up in alarm. Relieved of their weight, the cushion sailed through the bars and fell downstairs, along with one of the cats (which suffered no harm). The other two fled in terror.

Dreams update: No more bodies this week. Instead I found myself, as so often, back in the newsroom with an urgent assignment to complete and nowhere to work. I couldn’t find either a spare desk or a computer. I rushed around with a thick wodge of papers, growing ever more desperate.

Eventually I warned the editor that unless he could find me a place, he wasn’t going to get my assignment. In response, he directed me to talk to a taxi driver on the far side of the newsroom. (No, I haven’t figured it out either!) At that point I was grateful to wake up. I wish to heaven that I could switch off the part of my unconscious that is responsible for these endlessly frustrating nocturnal assignments.

Letter from Espargal: 41 of 2009

Saturday p.m. We are waiting for rain. Just one of the 14 inches that fell on Cumbria late this week would do us nicely. The several weather forecast sites that we consult have all promised us the wet stuff. The skies are clouding over. But nothing is falling, nothing useful anyhow. We are so dry that it's painful. If I knew a good rain dance, I'd do one.

I recall the days when the God-fearing government of the old South Africa summoned us all to church to pray for rain. There was a crazy ultra-nationalist - I forget his name - who used to blame the droughts on the wearing of mini-skirts. If the girls would only dress modestly, all would be well.

We haven't really done anything to speak of this week so I'm just going to have to make this letter up. If it looks a little different it may be because I'm writing it on WordPad, a basic word processor that comes free with Windows. I usually use WORD, one of the MS Office suite programmes - and then dupe it across to my email programme and the blog site.

But I uninstalled my Office suite before trying to download and install the Beta version of Office 2010. Not only did I fail to do this, I am also unable to reinstall my existing programme. I'm afraid that I shall have to trot down to the computer doctor on Monday. It's a long time since I did anything (else) adventurous on my computer and likely to be equally long before I try again.

On Thursday, I hitched my trailer to the new car for the first time. It took a while. The trailer lives under a carob tree on the far side of the driveway. It's too heavy for me to pull alone across the rough ground - I usually need the tractor to retrieve it - but with the help of Nelson (our worker) and subsequently Mike (our neighbour) I got it lined up on the driveway.

The tow-bar ("hitch" Americans) is cute, and so it should be at the price. By law, it has to be removed when not in use. Mind you, I used to leave one in place on my previous CRV to discourage both tail-gate drivers and shunt parkers. (Barbara arrives with a welcome cup of tea and a slice of cake!) The bar simply clips into a socket and locks into place (although it took me 10 minutes with the handbook to ensure that I'd got it right.)


The trailer was required to convey a wooden bed that Mike had made to the cottage of its new owners, some 30 minutes away in the village of Cortelha, high in the hills. Mike dismantled it for the journey. The parts fitted easily into the trailer and the trailer sat effortlessly behind the car. On arrival it took us a little time to re-assemble the bed. Mike then tested it out, as much for the camera as anything. I am able to assure its absent owners, Rob and Helen, that's it's a fine bed and should last them a life time.

On Friday I went into Loule with Jones (and the boys in the back seat, of course) to fight with the bank. There were several things I was unhappy about. The banker concerned was obviously used to dealing with awkward customers and smoothed me over. I wasn't getting my online statements (they would arrive from the end of this month). A deposit of mine had vanished (because I'd reinvested it in another account and forgotten that I'd done so). And we were being charged 8 euros a month - double last year's fee - for the privilege of lending the bank our money. The banker explained all the advantages of doing so and the alternatives. I promised to get back to him with our decision. We parted on good terms.

Then we went to the jeweller to fetch my father's wedding ring. I've worn it on my right ring finger since his death. It fitted comfortably until some months ago when I injured my finger, which swelled up and has refused to swell down again. The ring wouldn't come off, not with olive oil or soap or Jones's earnest efforts. The jeweller cut it off with a small instrument that obviously saw frequent use. The ring has been slightly enlarged and now it floats a bit but at least I can slip it on and off.

It's pruning time. The valley is full of wisps of smoke from the fires that farmers have lit to get rid of the pruned branches. I have been burning the prunings from the Park, where Nelson and I laboured for much of last week. I burn only the real rubbish. What I can I keep for kindling or firewood and the smaller branches are mulched. But there's nothing one can do with the thorns or the higgledy-piggledy cuttings from the wild olives other than burn them.

When first we came to Espargal, I followed the law and contacted the fire service before burning anything, to seek authorisation. A fire officer would inspect the heaps of branches, and then give one a fixed period - a week or so - in which to burn them. I soon discovered that the locals shrugged off this bit of bureaucracy; they simply heaped up their cuttings and set fire to them. So I followed suit, taking due precautions. Fires are permitted only in the winter months. In the summer, the fire helicopter patrols the valleys virtually every day.

Saturday night: We are back from Faro where we went to attend a minor concert as "friends" (i.e. minor patrons) of the Orchestra of the Algarve. Such friends were invited to bring their own eats; the orchestra provided tea and coffee. We arrived a little late. I assured Jones that we had all of half an hour to spare while the snacks were consumed.

THE MUSICIANS

It was not so. We found the concert already underway and had to creep in as incon-spicuously as we could. Our neighbours afterwards said they could see me drifting off. Although I denied it I have to confess a tendency to meditate on higher things at concerts, generally during the 2nd or 3rd movements. As we left I complained to one of the organisers about their promptness. "Nothing ever starts on time in Portugal," I pointed out, "except your concerts. Why can't you be like the rest of the Portuguese?" She said they did their best.

We came home in the rain. It was lovely. But we found Espargal and the house in the dark as the rain short-circuited some connection. For the next hour the electricity came and went. Mainly it went. We lit a fire, then sat down to supper over candles and mused on how our ancestors had survived without telly. Now it's back, for the night at least.

One afternoon I got a scolding from Jones. She was looking for a healing cream and couldn't find it. The medicine drawer overflowed with (my) ointments and pills, she insisted, as did the middle drawer of my bedside table. The last straw for my spouse was her discovery of two identical partially-used tubes of soothing stuff in the bathroom. Why was it necessary to have two, she demanded to know of me. I didn't tell her the obvious answer because she wasn't in a mood to hear it. It's because half the time I can't find a tube when I want it. Obviously, if I have two tubes, I will always be able to find one of them. Instead of trying to explain this, I found the healing cream that she was looking for.

We are having a small problem with the animals. Once I was in charge of the animals and they mainly did what I told them, like sleeping in their beds and not eating one another's food. Now that's changed. For reasons I can't explain, Ono came to sleep on the bed at night. He sleeps on his own blanket close to Jones (after I've shoved him off my side of the bed). Three's a bit of a squeeze on a modest double bed but we all manage to get a good night's rest, especially Ono.

Then the grey cat decided that she also wanted a piece of the action. Before I retire I have to remove her from my side of the bed and place her on the chair in the study. Then I race back into the bedroom to jump into bed before she can hop back up. It's ridiculous but I don't know how to reassert my authority.

Last night I dreamed that there were bodies in the garden and I spent half the night trying to reach undertakers to take them away. Eventually I helped carry one of them out of the property myself. I think it was because we had earlier watched Stanley Kubrick's "2001: A Space Odyssey" on TV. The bit where Hal, the computer, killed off the hibernating scientists on board must have gone to my brain. Tonight I'd like only sweet dreams, the sort one is sorry to wake from.

P.S. Computer problem with Office 2010 Beta resolved! Time, patience and a bit of luck did the trick!

Letter from Espargal: 40 of 2009

You have probably noticed that some weeks positively spurt ahead. Others splutter like an old moped reluctantly grunting into life. This past week has lurched uncertainly from one day to another, as if confused about which direction to take.

For some reason, I had a strong feeling that we were going to clean up on Euromillions. I just knew that our time had come. Maybe it was because of all the publicity about the £45 million that went last week to a couple in Wales and to a syndicate in Liverpool. Just to make sure of a win, I put on an extra tenner and then waited expectantly to collect the loot. I accepted that 45-million was a bit over the top. Anything in seven figures would prove acceptable.

Inexplicably, as I recounted to our neighbours at a bbq here that same night, we won narry a cent. We didn’t even come close. Our numbers seemed to come from an entirely different system of enumeration. The neighbours are in the syndicate that I manage. I have several times complained to them of the poor quality of their choice of numbers but it hasn’t helped.

One morning, as they passed on their morning dog-walk, Ollie and Marie pointed out a flock of large birds circling in the sky. That’s unusual. We quite often see a pair of eagles but 20 or 30 large raptors is a rare sight. We wondered what they were and whether they were preparing to migrate. Marie thought they might be buzzards. They were spotted too by other neighbours, who opted for vultures. Other than spectacular and a welcome sight, I don’t know what they were. The only large birds that I’ve ever seen gathered in flocks in these parts are storks.

We have been preparing to have the interior of the house painted. Jones thought that it was time and I had to agree. There are networks of tiny cracks in the walls, along with the inevitable scars of living. The local painter has inspected the site and come up with an acceptable quote. He’s an excellent painter, who expects the job to take about a week. All that remains to be settled is the starting date. He was hoping for the third week in November but the date has been sliding as dates so often do.

Whatever the case, we’ve been packing away our books and files. With Natasha’s help, we put took them down from the shelves and loaded them into cardboard boxes that we have piled in the centre of the bedroom. This task is the next-worst thing to packing to move house.

One is reminded just how many objects one has accumulated and how difficult it’s going to be to downsize one of these days. Jones has selected some books to give away.
FIGHTING GLOBAL WARMING

As much as I approve of this, it’s a bit like trying to fight global warming by buying a smaller car. Apart from anything else, we are both very fond of our books and reluctant to give them away. We haven’t even started on the pictures or innumerable trinkets.

What we have started on is sowing our annual crop of beans. You might think that this is the simplest of activities, dating – as it does – back a few thousand years. But it was not the case. Before sowing one’s crop one has first to plough the necessary furrows. To do this farmers attach shaped steel plates to the teeth of their scarifiers – saving themselves the additional expense of buying a separate plough.

But the plates that I bought for my previous scarifier proved to be unsuitable for my new bigger scarifier. Neither would they fit on a neighbour’s scarifier. The neighbour, Leonhilde, offered to lend me her plates. She guided me around to a nearby village to fetch them from friends to whom she’d lent them. These new plates bolted on satisfactorily.

All that took an entire day.

Thereafter it was several hours’ work to drill the fields and sow the seed. The furrows are anything but straight. But given the slope of the land and the numerous trees that one has to avoid, I make no apologies. Anyhow, seeds do not care whether they are sown in straight or crooked furrows. All that matters is that they are plonked down in a trough with a handful of blue fertilizer and then raked over. After that, one simply waits for April when the handsome bean plants produce wonderfully tasty beans - favas.


It helps to get lots of rain and to do a little weeding. We were promised rain this very weekend. The clouds gathered as expected and have hovered over us for several days. Apart from the weeniest spattering, a bit like a sprinkle of holy water during a church service, we have nothing to show for the clouds. We hear enviously of the rains that have pelted down over the UK.

Our weather continues worryingly warm. One hardly needs a jersey while working outside during the day. If things continue like this, we will soon be denied the annual right of feeling cold during winter. I’ve continued to make a small fire each evening but I would be hard pressed to justify it.

Our worker, Nelson, has not shown up this week. There was a gale blowing the first two days, which would have made for miserable labour on the exposed hillside. By midweek, when the wind had abated, the poor fellow had developed a bad throat – possibly part of the flu epidemic that has afflicted Portugal as much as anywhere. I’m hoping that he’ll be back this coming week, as it’s going to take several more days to finish cutting back in the Park and getting rid of the piles of greenery.

I am nearing the end of my book, The Mind of God, by a favourite author, Paul Davies. It is subtitled: Science and the Search for Ultimate Meaning. While I have enjoyed the book and dropped pleasantly into slumber after reading a few pages each night, I do not pretend to understand it. At least, it makes a useful base for Jones to put down my coffee and toast on the bedside table each morning.

Letter from Espargal: 39 of 2009

It’s Friday night. The first fire of the season is flickering away in the stove, welcome as much for its cheeriness as its warmth. The heat from the tall chimney stack pervades the study as I scratch my head at my desk in search of news. (What luxury it is to be warm when it’s cold and cool when it’s hot!) Evening arrives early and the nights have grown both long and chilly.

JONES DAWN

The onset of autumn means that we check each day to see what’s on TV that night. We have the choice of several dozen channels on both the Portuguese and British satellites. Our tastes run to documentaries. There is a small problem, however, that the pair of us have taken to dozing off like a couple of nodding donkeys, especially when I settle down after supper with the dogs on the floor in front of the TV. We might easily be mistaken for a couple of OAPs.

I made a point of sitting down to watch a programme on black holes the other night and woke up just as it ended, little the wiser for my efforts. Much the same thing happened with a new series on early 20^th century Britain. (I had no idea that the Suffragettes movement was associated with so much violence!)

Jones, who’s up at 5 each morning, faces an even tougher task staying awake in the evenings. Frustratingly, viewers outside of the UK are denied the opportunity that UK viewers have to watch BBC programmes again via the internet. We have taken instead to looking up the early-evening repeats of our favourite late-evening programmes in order to watch the bits we missed first time around.

The week has kept us both busy.
I have spent most of it assisting Nelson to clean up the Park, an acre of hillside that rises steeply above the house. It’s part of the green buffer that surrounds us and guarantees our privacy against future development. I love the Park. It’s not exactly wilderness nor exactly garden but something between the two - a terraced area strewn with boulders, dotted with trees and somewhat overgrown with natural vegetation. Which is why, with a little prodding from Jones, Nelson and I have been hard at work there.

TEA BREAK

I encountered Nelson when he was assisting our neighbour, Idalecio, with wall building. (The first name “Nelson” is commonly found in Portugal, derived – I assume – from that of the English admiral). When I called him up last weekend, he leapt at the opportunity of a couple of weeks’ work. Unusually, Nelson is of gypsy stock – unusually in the sense that one seldom comes across gypsies living or working outside of their own tight-knit communities. He’s a steady and reliable worker. Once he knows what you want, you can leave him to get on with it.


Explaining what I wanted him to do in the Park was complicated. It was easier to show him which trees I wanted pruned, which wild shrubs cut back or ripped out, which weeds ignored (because I could more easily spray them). He said this kind of work was new to him although he was well accustomed to clearing under the carob trees. We built heaps of discarded greenery on the terraces, to be either mulched or burned. I took the shredder down on the back of the tractor to mulch the branches while they were still green and tender.

As I was labouring away one afternoon, I received a phone call from the helpful consular official in Lisbon who had assisted us during our recent application for new passports. He was phoning to thank me for the complimentary letter that I had written to the ambassador on his behalf, he said. On the authority of my compliments, the ambassador had come down to congratulate him and his section chief for the quality of their service to the public. He was very pleased with such praise, as was I to hear that he had been commended for his efforts.

The following day I received a letter from no less a person than the ambassador him/herself, T.S Profit-McLean, thanking me for taking the trouble to write. It’s a lovely letter (I suspect that the ambassador is female – and Google confirms this), one that I shall keep – all the more special for being addressed to “Ear Mr. And Mrs. Benson”. All that awaits now is the arrival of the new passports.


SHORT CUT HOME - UP THE BANK

A pause here to check the Euromillions results. I regret that, as usual, we have won nothing. I run the expat Espargal syndicate, not very successfully, not if the bottom line is the criterion for success. This much, at least, we have in common with many of the world’s banks. The difference is that the government shows no interest in bailing us out, nor am I paid handsome bonuses for losing my investors’ money. Still, to buy hope at just two euros per investor per week is not a bad price.


The one brief consolation of my “episode” last week was that I briefly attained my desired weight – 85 kgs. I tend to hover irritatingly just on the wrong side of 90 kgs. Fortunately, I have a relatively kind image of myself. In my mind’s eye, I am rather slimmer and better looking than the real thing, as I am reminded from time to time by an incautious glance in the mirror.

I can’t say that I’m happy with the situation. One grows tired of having one’s trousers slip down the bulge and having to haul them up again. It would be so nice to be able to merge the image with the reality. To this end, I have for the time-being (however long or short that may prove) stopped taking alcohol.

TEA ARRIVES

As fond as I am of the occasional glass of wine or beer, this self-denial hasn’t proved seriously challenging. It was really just a case of staying on the wagon on which my “episode” landed me willy-nilly. Experience with numerous boxes of chocolates has taught me that I generally have sufficient strength not to start but insufficient, once I have, to stop. Already, I can see the pounds just slipping away – in my mind’s eye that is. The scale is taking rather longer to catch up with the situation – what economists refer to as a lagging indicator.

JONES SUNSET

Jones has just finished casting an eye over my letter and given it her limited approval – even though it’s “not a very exciting letter”. Well I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a very exciting week. When we win the Euromillions, I shall write a very exciting letter indeed, probably from the 1st class section of a flight to somewhere seriously exotic, being pestered with caviar-covered biscuits and glasses of chilled champagne. “A drop more champers for you, Mr Benson?” they will ask. “Just a drop,” I’ll reply. Won’t it be luverly!