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.