Letter from Espargal: 26 of 2010

I am sitting at my desk, listening to a Proms Beethoven concert, dabbing by turns at the computer keyboard and the perspiration dribbling down my neck and waiting for the end of July. The fan above my head pumps hot air down from the ceiling, prompting me to wonder whether I put it in the right place.

Each day I have received an email from the Portuguese weather bureau warning us that the heat-wave will continue and urging us to take due precautions. (Terrible forest fires are raging up in the north of the country where the arsonists have been at work again.) So far the emails have been unfailingly accurate. As soon as we have won the lottery, I am going to buy a house somewhere cool, where we can retreat in the summer – dogs, cats and all.

This torrid state of affairs has done nothing to upset the routine of Jorge Vieira, who may be found in the valley each morning leading his team of melon pickers. Jorge was so pleased with the pictures we presented him of his melon picking (See Letter 24) that he wondered whether we wouldn’t visit his tomato plantation on the far side of Espargal hill to take a few pictures of that. Of course we would.

We drove down in the car, the air conditioner roaring to keep us all – dogs and humans - tolerably cool, and parked under a handy carob tree. Jorge’s tomatoes are something else. Thousands of plants are lined up like regiments of soldiers, groaning under their burden of fat green tomatoes. Each plant twirls up around a cord that hangs from a eucalyptus frame some two metres high or it would surely collapse from the weight of its productive success.

Jorge informed us that he was up at four each morning to tend his various crops. He irrigated the tomatoes for six hours a day, he said, mixing fertilizer into the water that flowed up from a borehole on the edge of the field. Vegetables were just like us, he explained; they needed food and water to grow. There was no arguing with the success of his tomatoes. As if to underline his words a large diesel generator (energising the borehole pump) thumped away in the background.

From his tomatoes Jorge led us into the adjacent pumpkin crop, where some of the world’s largest pumpkins were fattening in the sun. At my suggestion, he lifted one up for a picture. It came away from its roots and he presented it to Jonesy (who loves pumpkin) as a thank you for our efforts.

She staggered somewhat under its weight as we retreated to the car, replete with an armload of tomatoes as well. I have printed off some fine photographs of all this activity, with which I am sure that Jorge will be equally pleased.

For my part I have been inspired to build a new tap in the garden in front of the house, exploiting the skeleton of the defunct irrigation system there.

Perhaps I should explain that I installed the system some years ago to relieve the burden of daily hosepipe irrigation. But the relief was short-lived.

Between Jonesy’s plants (which buried the sprinklers in foliage) and the sprinkler heads (which popped and jammed) the system rapidly went the way of the Ford Edsel.

Anyhow, I have installed the new tap which, once it stops leaking, will do very well in serving that part of the garden. Artistically, I have concealed the tap upright behind a large bough that I was planning to use for firewood.

Speaking of which, I phoned up an old contact to order a load of the finest oak firewood for the winter. (Summer, lest you think me crazy, is the best time to order firewood. You can’t accuse me of not planning ahead.) This cork oak is such wonderful wood, I confided to the supplier, that it hurts me to burn it.

He intimated that it hurt him equally to sell it but, at the end of the day, business was business. (Cash please and no, sorry, can’t offer you a receipt!) The wood burns long and hot and leaves just a trace of ash. Let me add in haste that we have no intention of deserting the village firewood supplier; we’ll mix the oak with the local timber.

Jones has spent most of her week crouched in a newly-developed section of garden beside the fence, patiently scraping the hard soil away from a peak of protruding bedrock. She calls this area Nelson’s column – Nelson the gypsy having cleared the area and the column of bedrock speaking for itself. In her inimitable way Jones has been adding the final touches and putting in small succulent plants.

As you will know, we live in a very rocky part of the world. If you look at any of the quarries in the area, you realise that our hills are solid rock with just the thinnest patchy veneer of soil. Every autumn I pick up thousands of stones from our fields and every spring the scarifier turns up thousands more. (I tell myself it’s in a good cause but I’m not certain that I’m persuaded.)

Friday morning I went to visit the Benafim accountant who has been helping me to make Natasha’s social security payments on line. I took him the password that I had recently received from the Portuguese authorities. In short, it wouldn’t work. And when he phoned to find out why, it was because we were some special case that didn’t qualify for online payments. He threw up his arms in despair.

As I result I had to drive into Loule to make the payments at the Social Security office by the end-of-the-month deadline. The problem is not so much paying the money over as waiting to do so. Also, one can pay for three months ahead but only in January, April, July and October. Otherwise, one must make monthly visits. Crazy? Yes, it’s crazy but that’s how it is.

Natasha herself arrived for work this week both pleased and upset. Her pleasure arose from her success in her second attempt at the driving theory exam and her annoyance from her initial failure and the cost of taking it again. Much more annoying, she discovered that some blundering bureaucrat had confused the names of her child and her Romanian ex-partner. As a result the Romanian authorities had spent weeks looking in vain for her boy (instead of her ex-partner) when the former was all the time with her in Portugal. Natasha is trying to obtain sole custody of the child and the process must now start again.

I’m head-scratching over the English lessons I give to Natasha’s namesake. The problem is the timing. So far we’ve had them at 6.30 on a weekday afternoon (when her husband gets home to look after their small daughter). But this arrangement eats into the dogs’ walking time and they make their resentment loud and clear.

I spent some hours reading through the academic thesis of a Portuguese veterinarian acquaintance of ours. She’d written it in English which, though most impressive, needed a little polishing here and there.

I feel after imbibing it that I deserve an honorary degree in animal bugology myself. In fact, to stay up with my ever more educated nephews and nieces, I was recently able to persuade the University of Espargal to award me (yet another) honorary doctorate, a picture of which sublime occasion I attach for your admiration.

Final Edition: In order to finish this blog on a sober note, let me put up a picture of a dinner that we were fortunate enough to attend at the Alte Hotel with much of the Espargal expat gang ("community", I believe, is the "in" word). The picture was taken by visiting friends from the UK. What it doesn't show is the terrific view from the hotel dining room, down across the Algarve plain to the sea. To appreciate that, you really need to be here in person.

Letter from Espargal: 25 of 2010

MORNING SKY

This week we have been hot. Jones and I are both full of itchy pink bumps of the kind that that take superhuman determination not to scratch. After the morning walk, we all seek out shady spots. My favourite is at the computer. The animals like the hall where they can catch both the cool and the first sight of movement beyond the gates.

Under the circumstances I allowed myself to watch much of the British Open, including Louis Oosthuizen’s victorious saunter around St Andrews on Sunday afternoon. The bookies had him down at 200 to one at the start of the contest. It hurts that I didn’t put a fiver on him. (I put it on the Euromillions lottery instead - uselessly as usual.)

This just goes to show that being christened Lodewicus Theodorus is not necessarily a disadvantage in life. Louis made it look so easy that I’m wondering whether I should have taken up golf myself. But recalling in what black moods my father at times returned from the course, threatening to throw away his clubs, maybe it’s a good thing that I didn’t.

One evening we went along to the Loule summer fair. We like to arrive early in order to find a place at the tables set up beside the food kiosks. I’m particularly fond of “papas de milho”, a variety of Portuguese “stywe pap”, served with pork. Jones prefers “pao quente”, a bread roll stuffed with spicy sausage.

Such delicacies are downed with plastic glasses of red wine or beer. As ever, the place is full of families and rowdiness is rare. After supper, we tour the kiosks. These are meant to reflect local handicrafts; for the most part one finds decorative knick-knacks suited to the local purse – along with plentiful pastries and liquors.

We try to support two charities (Existir and Unir) that assist people with physical and mental handicaps. Regrettably, their stalls display very little that’s tempting. But I did come away last year with a post-modern (Existir) work that now hangs beside a (Unir) painting from Edgar’s blue period. I’m sure Van Gogh would have approved.

The generosity of friends and neighbours was reflected in the birthday gifts that Jones received on turning whatever it was last week. These include a large blue ceramic shell that matches flower pots in the front garden. Jones went to some trouble to prepare a bed for the shell (it weighs a ton) and to set it in place. Finally, she inserted a suitable plant artistically into the mouth of the shell.


Which reminds me - I have run into one or two problems with the use of the fancy satnav that came with the car; she wouldn’t shut up (she’s a she, with a cut-glass RP accent) nor accept a destination without a street name. Select some small village that we wanted to visit and she would list the names of all the roads in the area, insisting that I choose one. Then she would lead us to that road, even if it was miles away.

In frustration I was driven to consult the 130-page Portuguese satnav user-manual. Reading through manuals goes against the grain. Like most males, I consider myself equipped by nature (the so-called “y”-chromosome advantage) to operate gadgets without bothering to read the fine-print. In retrospect I should have taken the Honda salesman’s advice. I’m much the wiser for my efforts - instrument-rated, if you like. And yes - both problems have been resolved – to “her” satisfaction and mine.

It occurs to me that if Moses had done his homework, he might not have spent 40 years in the wilderness. But that’s by the by.

Still on my technology theme, I have been encouraging Jones to make greater use of her email account rather than depending on mine. By her own admission Jones is not a technically minded person but, as you may know, she writes pretty special letters. Her address is: barbarajbenson@gmail.com

Natalia arrived on Monday evening for her first English lesson, a bit late after struggling to locate the house. (She explained that Natasha is the familiar form of her name.) With her she brought a host of (German university supplied) books, along with exercises that she had prepared. She is the classic book learner – with a good vocabulary but no colloquial English and no guide to pronunciation.

Although she is a native Russian, she makes her comparisons with German grammar (rather than Portuguese). It’s the little things that trip her up, like trying to understand the difference between the use of “a” and “one”. Neither Portuguese nor German makes this distinction while Russian (I understand) doesn’t bother with “articles” at all. Having said which, she’s a smart cookie and – as I remarked to Jones – very determined.

We visited the house of the melon man on the far side of Benafim to purchase some melons and tomatoes. To thank him for all his free hand-outs we presented him with a composite picture of his crew picking melons. He was very pleased with this and threw in an extra-large water melon to thank us. As you may imagine, we have been eating a lot of melons.

ANTS STEALING A DOG BISCUIT

I have bought new hosepipes and fittings to facilitate Jones's garden watering. Some of the old ones were leaking at the joins and starting to bulge in weak spots. Watering takes her at least an hour a day and me two hours a week. My job is to do the trees in the field and Banco's broadwalk - the right-of-way at the bottom of the garden.

Last week I noticed that wasps had made a nest in a raised trunk that serves as a bench. The entrance was right at the top, where a passer-by might sit. Bad news! I blocked off the hole with a cane and fled. I suspected they might have other doors as well. (They do!)

Wednesday night brought a minor panic when I spotted Raymond emerging from our bedroom with a silver sliver of my blood pressure tabs in his mouth. He appeared to have consumed what had been left in it. I made a hurried phone call to the emergency vet, who reassured me. Closer inspection revealed that the dog had removed an empty packet from the rubbish bin rather than the half full one from my bedside table.

SUNSET 20:50

Later I dreamed that we were held prisoner by a man for whose eventual funeral I had unwittingly agreed to pay by signing a piece of paper. We managed to escape but the dream wouldn't go away. Sequels kept returning.

Letter from Espargal: 24 of 2010

To know what dreams look like, you might gaze upon 13 hectares of terraced hillside on Monchique mountain, with views both south and west to the sea. This airy property, including two ruined cottages, has been acquired by our friends, Eddie and Leslie, who plan to turn it into their future home.

If we hadn’t seen for ourselves how Eddie wove his spell on the elderly cottage they acquired north of Messines, we might harbour doubts about the venture. But he knows exactly what he’s in for and Leslie is clued up on Portuguese bureaucracy – vital assets to prevent dreams turning into nightmares.

Once the ruins are restored – and, yes, they acknowledge that will take time – theirs will be among the highest houses in the Algarve. Utilities are few. Water trickles from the earth and electricity will come from the sun and the wind. Their reward will be forever views and a summer several degrees cooler than ours.

Winters are likely to be a mite cold and damp. But they’re prepared for that.

Extensive terracing testifies to the labour of generations of Portuguese, who lived from the land. It’s hard to credit the size of the rocks they heaved into the high terrace walls or the sheer amount of work that went into levelling the earth.

We were reminded of our own dreams ten years ago when we contemplated turning two ruins and two acres in Espargal into our own future home. It wasn’t easy going but we’ve not had a moment’s regret.

Midweek I was introduced by Natasha to her friend, Natalia - the two names appear to be interchangeable in Russian - who wants me to help her improve her English. We met at a pavement café in Loule to assess each other. Natalia is in her early thirties with a young daughter.

In halting English she told me that she and her husband had lived for a time in Germany where she had acquired a degree in economics. She was now studying Business English with the same German university. Her problem was that she had no-one to speak to. She showed me her books – and I whistled at the advanced level of the exercises. I have agreed somewhat tentatively to begin lessons next week. Of course, she already speaks fluent Portuguese.

We’ve been pausing to watch the melon man and his crew each morning as we walk in the valley. Pickers toss the huge water-melons to a catcher, who loads them into a container. This way the plants are trampled as little as possible. I wouldn’t care to do the catching. The melons weigh several kilos each and a miss would prove excruciating.

A tractor equipped with a fork-lift loads the containers on to a lorry and off to market the melon man goes. He’s a generous fellow who always offers us as many slices as we can manage. And when he’s finished picking at the end of the season, he invites us to help ourselves to what’s left on the land. It’s an invitation that Jones takes seriously. I take care to keep the dogs off his melon fields.

I have achieved a goal for which I’ve long been striving, one that gave me enormous if ridiculous satisfaction. The story begins when a niece introduced me to the fiendish computer card game known as Spider Solitaire. My aim has been to complete a game (using 2 suits) in 100 moves or fewer, something that other players claimed online to have achieved.

It is a ferociously difficult target. Three times in three years I hit 101 moves. Then on Wednesday I did it - in 98 moves. Never mind how many thousand attempts this took. As I confided to Jones, I had resolved not to play the game again if I’d achieved my aim. So far so good. It feels like going on diet.

We were delighted to get a call from Margaret in the UK to say that the cast had been removed from the ankle she broke while house-sitting for us in May. To her relief X-rays confirmed that the bone had knitted. She had been warned that surgery would otherwise be necessary.

Thursday evening saw a combined party for Jonesy and Pauline (a neighbour), both of whom celebrate their birthdays at this time of year. The venue was inevitably the Coral (now renamed Snack Bar Le France Portugal), where Brigitte had prepared a feast for us.

Barbara had ordered snacks for ten. In the event the food could easily have fed the five thousand. The best we could do was to share the delicacies and desserts with patrons at other tables; we also brought a load home with us.

Brigitte’s 5-year old son, Joey, then challenged me to a game of pool and was delighted to wipe the board with me. Although he can barely see over the table, he plays a remarkably good game and is only going to get better. I used to be reasonably adept at snooker myself but that was in the Marist Brothers’ colleges where we would often pass an evening around the tables some 40 years ago.

I think (on the basis of a quick phone call to the bank) that I may finally have extracted my cash from Liberty Life in South Africa – policies that matured when I turned 65. You may recall the frustrations I expressed earlier in the year.

Now, after endless form-filling and requests for more information, new documents and even a new SA tax number, I can report success. The key was my introduction by a friend to a SA financial company (Ternary) that took over the process, emailing reams of documents that I merely had to sign and send back.

Letter from Espargal: 23 of 2010

There’s the tum-tum of a learner drummer coming from Idalecio’s place. Our neighbour has rented it out for a week to some music students and their teachers. One might be forgiven for thinking that not all are destined to be prodigies. Idalecio hoped, as he passed the gate one morning, that we were not being unduly disturbed. Given that the Valapena canine chorus performs for the village throughout the year, I felt that we had few grounds for complaint.

We haven’t done much this week, not much that’s different anyhow, nor are we likely too until the weather cools down. Midweek, a violent electric storm rent the pre-dawn skies and brought some hope of relief from the heat.

STORM

I had to get out of bed to pull the computer and TV plugs from the wall; then again to close the clanging shutters; and a third time, as a thin unseasonal rain started falling, to put away the tractor, which has been standing outside.

The rain stopped as I did so but that’s life. At least, for the first time in a week, we got a cool breeze through the house. I squeezed back into bed with Jones, Ono and Dearheart and tried to get some sleep.

GREY SKIES

After fetching Natasha from the bus and dropping her at Jodi’s place, (I fetch her again at lunchtime to work the afternoon for us) we went walking in the valley. For once the skies were grey rather than eye-blinding blue, which made a welcome change. By the time we got back to the car, summer had returned; the dogs fell on the water-dish that we carry in the boot.

AMARELEJA SOLAR PROJECT

Here we’ve been bumping up against 40*C. In the Alentejo, to the north of us, temperatures hit a record 50*C for two days running in the village of Amareleja (site of a vast solar power installation – check it on Google). They say it’s no good threatening sinners in the Alentejo with hellfire because it might come as some relief.

I discovered, fortunately without being stung myself, how it was that Jones fell foul of a vengeful insect last week. While watering the garden I noticed a couple of wasps hovering around the tractor gate. Closer inspection revealed a nest that the little stingers had constructed inside the lock compartment.

WASPS' NEST

Although their half of the gate normally remained closed, the wasps suffered the equivalent of a Richter 8 earthquake each time the other half clanged shut. Little wonder that they grew peeved and took out their ire on the unfortunate Jones. I’m a live and let-live person but I draw the line at disgruntled yellow-jackets. Thirty seconds of pressure-hosing served to evict them.

SHEEPFOLD

Jonesy had another intimate insect experience during a walk when she stopped behind the wall of an old sheepfold for a moment’s reflection. A plague of famished ticks instantly set upon her. She fled the scene, plucking the little bloodsuckers off as she did so.

Equally active – remember, this has been a very quiet week - are the armies of ants stationed all around us. Ant legions march up and down ant- ique highways, burdened with seeds destined for their underground granaries. Some ants are almost invisible beneath their loads. Others patrol our front patio, equally swift to swoop on biscuit crumbs in the dog bowls and the corpses of swatted flies.

TAKING A FLY TO SUPPER

Lastly – are you still there? – the bees are going bananas in the flowering wild thyme at the top of the hill, thousands of them. The noise of their wings threatens to out-vuvuzela the vuvuzelas at the World Cup. We’re pleased to see them there; it’s reassuring, given the alarming decrease in bee numbers.

THYME IN BLOSSOM

Talking of vuvuzelas - of course, I oohed and aahed with the fans during the semi–finals – especially the Holland-Uruguay cliff-hanger - and will be back on station over the weekend. Holland or Spain? Somehow I fancy Spain, although this is not a sentiment that I shall share with our Dutch friends. It’s hard to imagine life after the World Cup. What am I going to do for the rest of the summer?

As usual, Jonesy has spent long hours clearing and watering the garden. It’s looking good. Vegetation always swamps us during the spring and has to be cut back severely on our return from abroad. I’ve spent late afternoons scarifying fields that were deep in dry grasses and flowers, great piles of which got wedged into the teeth of the scarifier. I dropped off two loads at Dries and Bianca’s house, at the end of the road, for their horses to nose through.

The council has been round clearing the overgrown verges. Our roads are narrow and crooked, and the exuberant growth has made it difficult to see oncoming traffic. Some corners are completely blind at the best of times. I crawl around them, hooting to announce my presence. Local drivers have a bad habit of assuming that nothing is coming the other way, an error attested to by shards of glass in the road and tyre stripes leading into the fields.

We’ve been trying to use up our reserves of old almond nuts. In time the kernels shrivel and are hardly worth the eating. We crack the nuts in the evenings and share them with the dogs. Jones says we should just crack the shells and leave the dogs to extract the kernels. The dogs themselves are perfectly happy to have them extracted.

There is some substance to reports that a figure was seen dancing around in its under- clothes on our upper patio at sunset on Thursday. Before you send the morality police around, please note that a tick was found in the figure’s trousers. The insect vanished moments after being removed and neither the dogs nor the under-clothed figure were able to find the little blighter again in spite of a tile by tile search of the patio.