We have embarked on a project to renovate Jones’s room in Casa Nada. For the uninitiated, Casa Nada (the Nothing House – because it doesn’t officially exist) is an old house on our property. It was gradually falling into ruin until some years ago we put a roof on it and shored up its shakier walls. That’s to say, our all-purpose neigh- bour, Idalecio, did so, with a little help along the way. Jones would love to turn the building into a guest cottage. This would be problematic. It was never registered (to avoid tax) and our efforts to get it legalised have so far come to nothing. So although there would be no problem bringing in builders to restore it, that money might well be wasted in the long run. Nothing exists here in Portugal unless you have a paper to prove it - notarised, stamped and registered.
For my part I was not unhappy to leave the building as it stands. It’s the perfect place to keep the tractor, our tools, paints and a great deal else. But the deal I did with Jones was to cede one room to her. It’s not a deal that she’s been satisfied with, partly because this room tends to accumulate as much (of my) junk as the rest of the place and partly because she wanted to do the room up – to add a wooden mezzanine floor and a tiny washroom. 
It was a project we discussed with Horacio the builder. But Horacio has a list of clients longer than the great wall of China waiting for his services and there was no prospect of his tackling it soon. Fortunately for us, we have been able to interest Idalecio in doing the work. It’s quite a project as it involves stripping the (stone and mud) walls of their old plaster, taking up the floors (tiles on bare earth) and then lots of carpentry, electrics and plumbing. 
Idalecio, who has restored a couple of cottages on his own property, is equal to the task and has set about the project with his customary energy. That’s meant clearing Jonesy’s room of its contents and spreading these around the rest of the building, along with the sacks of cement needed for the job. Like all such projects it has involved many discussions about how, where and what. (You know the kind: “But I planned to put the stairs over there.” “Yes, Jonesy, the stairs would fit there but nobody more than 4-feet tall would be able to climb them.” 
Jones would naturally have a different take on these conversations.) Inevitably, the project’s taken up a fair bit of time, both Idalecio’s and ours. As always, it’s fascinating to watch a familiar place changing visibly hour by hour.
Equally time consuming has been the continuing care of the puppies. The larger of the two, the black bitch, has doubled in size as has her appetite for milk. Her brother is doing okay, even if he is lagging behind. We've decreased the frequency of the feeds as we’ve increased the dosages. We’re also trying to introduce the pups gradually to alternative foods. Their eyes are open now and they’re becoming daily more active. 
The pups have been housed this past week in a basket (ex Marie and Olly) in the bathroom downstairs and they have bonded with a teddy that came with it (thank you again M&O). As to the future, both immediate (they can’t live in the shower for much longer) and medium term (no requests so far from our readers to take them over), we’re trying not to think too hard about it. Jones said she had names for them. I warned her that to name them was to keep them. Do we really want six dogs?
HAVE A WEELast Saturday morning we got a call from May, an old Scottish friend from our Quintassential days asking us if we could visit her husband, Harry, in hospital in Faro as she had a bad cold that she didn’t want to share with him. We did. At least, I took Jones along and she spent some time with Harry. He was very short of breath as a result of severe pulmonary problems.
On Monday morning we got another call, this time to say that Harry had died. As fate would have it, neighbours who had been helping the couple for some time were out of touch. So we went around to assist May, first to retrieve Harry’s belongings from the hospital and later with the funeral and other arrangements. In the process I have learned a great deal about the relevant Portuguese bureaucracy – and it’s very relevant indeed, especially the laws relating to the bank accounts of deceased people, which are liable to be frozen.
The couple had no children but a nephew has flown down to support his aunt and help her sort things out. For us Harry’s death comes as a jolt and a reminder of the human condition. We sometimes discuss with neighbours here their plans for the years ahead. Do they intend to stay in Portugal, to move into town, to look towards one of the (very few) retirement communities? This is a great place for active people to retire but it’s very lonely when you don’t have family support, especially if you can’t get around or speak the language.
Another outing was to a dental practice where I needed to have an itinerant tooth cemented back into place. I usually wait for the arrival of a travelling South African dentist who visits for a day or two each month. But in his absence I had to fall back on the assistance of who-ever might be available. This is inevitably a guy who might have been better suited to knackering bulls. Fortunately, having a tooth cemented back into place is a relatively quick and easy procedure so I shan’t bleat on. The field across the road from the practice had disappeared, to be replaced by a hypermarket where we stocked up and tried the coffee bar – okay if not great. 
Last weekend’s storms have blown themselves far away, to be followed by a week of gentle sunshine – mid 20s by day, lower teens by night. Tourists could hardly ask for more. But the garden has been drying out and Jones has taken to watering her more delicate plants again. To her distress, the rain that was promised for early next week has disappeared – from the screen at least. She has continued with her gathering of carobs, olives and pomegranates. Jones loves pomegranates and spends hours scraping the fruit from the hard shells, to go into yoghurts or salads. She is also spending more time at the computer and gradually finding her way around it and the browser.
As ever, she has more things she wants to do than time to do them in. And that time has shrunk with the shortening days. It’s dark now by six. The evenings are long and we check each day what programmes we want to watch and what to record for later viewing.I have with great regret given up my habit of taking a glass (or two) of red wine with supper to avoid the leg cramps that this inevitably provoked in the early hours of the morning. (No amount of magnesium supplement proved up to dispelling the cramps.) I have found single malt whisky rather more forgiving.
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