Letter from Espargal: 25 of 2011

We have done a lot of partying and said farewell to our guests – in that order. I have become an authority on what to do if you die in Portugal. And I’ve nearly finished learning about the seven solar nuclear processes involved in the formation of elements. I knew that we were children of the stars but not we got to be that way.

AT THE STATION

As ever, it’s hard to know where to start; maybe with the farewells. These went off okay given the difficulty of getting 5 people to the railway station and 5 more to the airport on time on Thursday morning. The expression “like herding cats” came several times to mind.

NANCY, JANE & THEIR MUM
Don’t misunderstand me; everybody was lovely and the kids – pre-teens - were uncomplicated, caring and affectionate. It was just that each person had a slightly different agenda: a question, a conversation, a missing item, retrieving a garment from a suitcase – and Chris danced around trying to get the show on the road on time which, to his credit, he did.

We set off in convoy from the superb little house 5 minutes away that the visitors had rented for the week. That was Jones, the dogs and I in car 1, Chris & greater family in car 2 and the cousins in car 3 -first to the petrol station to top up, then to Loule station where half the party was catching the train to Lisbon, en route to Paris and Johannesburg (time there for pictures and a few tears) and finally to the airport.

The airport was chaotic – both very busy and in the process of radical remodelling – an unfortunate combination. I directed Chris and Jane, who were following me in the hire cars, around to the rental park, only to find that the entrance had been blocked off as part of the reorganisation.

RE-ROUTING WARNINGS INSIDE THE TERMINAL

With time running short, the poor things had to re-circle the airport to find the way in – along with a lot of other bemused and frustrated souls. Anyhow, they made it in good time for last hugs and squeezes before vanishing off through security, on their way to join family in the UK for a week prior to their return to Canada.

Although both families had to travel near halfway around the world to meet in Portugal, there was no doubting the success of their efforts. They jelled instantly, both the adults and the young cousins, and had the most wonderful time together. It was a pleasure to join them in various activities, including several hides and seeks with the dogs. They’ll not soon forget their summer holiday, nor the pools, beaches, waterparks, go-karts and suppers out that made it so special.

Their South African origins were revealed by an anxious question one evening: they’d omitted to lock their hire car, which was parked inside our gates; would it be safe, the questioner wondered? We hardly ever lock anything, I assured her - one of the benefits of living with 6 dogs in a tiny Portuguese village at the further reaches of a dead end. Not that life in these parts is crime-free; several people in the lower reaches of the village have been the victims of thefts and burglaries.

My thoughts, like our visitors, have been much abroad for our family, like theirs, finds itself scattered across countries and continents. My Canadian brother and his wife have just taken delivery of their dream motorhome. Although they’re experienced motor-homers, they’ve spent the week under intensive instruction on the RV’s many systems.

What a difference from the little caravan they used to tow around behind a 1600cc Ford. These last several years they have become snowbirds, fleeing the bitter Canadian winters to roost in sunny California. Judging by the pictures, they won’t have to make too many sacrifices en route.

My sister, Cathy, is newly returned to Berlin from South Africa, where she attended a memorial service for Iris (Mum’s sister and the last of our aunts) and caught up with our extended South African family. I have just read her fascinating account of the visit, with its unsettling details of small-town cremations and the desirability of encasing the coffins of loved ones in concrete to prevent grave-robbers from digging them up for resale (minus the corpse). (My sister chides me for making no mention of the happy family reunions and the wonderful encounters with wildlife on game farms.)

Much of my time has been taken up assisting Olive, one of our old friends, with the bureaucracy entailed upon the death of her husband John. One has to meet both Portuguese requirements and those of the British institutions that inevitably become involved in the follow up. To register the death in the UK, the British Consul in Portugal helpfully invites relatives of the deceased to complete forms (available online) and to forward these with the associated fees to the government. Gone are the days when you can simply die and get away with it.

This unpleasant business of death was a subject Jonesy once raised with the friendly shepherd who used to graze his flock on the hills around the Quintassential. The lambs would gambol merrily as the ewes concentrated on feeding themselves. “How can you bear to sell these lovely creatures to the butcher?” asked my wife. “Why!” he replied with surprise, “they are born to die”. It’s a line I have often reflected upon.

On Friday we went to a memorial lunch for our friend and Quintassential neighbour, Joyce Shubrook, meeting again many of the people who, in happier times, had helped celebrate the diamond jubilee of her marriage to Tom. “Say when,” I instructed Tom on that occasion as I filled his glass with cognac. “When it covers the ice,” he replied, ignoring his wife’s disapproving eye.

En route to the lunch we stopped at the home of a friend who has recently had a solar voltaic module installed. This is a biggish panel of arrays that costs some 20,000 euros and follows the sun around the sky to feed energy into the Portuguese national grid.

I’m interested in following suit. During our recent travels through Spain and Portugal, we saw vast farms of these arrays – along with armies of wind turbines. I’m all in favour. It makes so much more sense to harvest the sun and the wind than to burn fossil fuels or rig up nuclear power stations.

Oh, and that book, if you were interested, is: The Magic Furnace by Marcus Chown, subtitled The Search for the Origin of Atoms. The bottom line is that we really oughtn’t to be here at all, so complex and unlikely are the inter-related laws of physics that have led to the kind of universe we inhabit. You probably knew that anyhow.