Letter from Espargal: 28 of 2011

ESPARGAL MORNING

I’m about to draw a great big black line through July. We’ve survived it. That’s half the battle won. Now we can turn our attention to August. Survive that and we’ll have seen off the flaming dragon for another year. Then I can start to relax again – ease back on the sun-cream, stop scratching heat bumps, venture outside before 16.00. I look forward to it. If April is the cruellest month, September is the kindest.

Apropos of nothing – I took the tractor down the road to Vitor’s place for a service, its third - known in Portugal as a “revision”. The vehicle has notched up 250 hours, still a tractor baby if not a baby tractor. Vitor’s young son, Bernardo, came along to watch proceedings, seating himself on the step-up. Next to arrive was his wife, Ana, along with Jose, her neighbour from over the road. There are no “Do not enter” signs in Vitor’s workshop; there, servicing vehicles is a sociable activity; clients, family and neighbours are all welcome.

We agreed, as Vitor delved into the innards, that tractors are dangerous beasts. He had been servicing them for 20 years, he confided, and in that time not a few of his clients had died beneath their vehicles. Or, as Idalecio put it, the problem with old (i.e. 2x4) tractors is that they won’t go in all sorts of places; and the problem with new (4x4) tractors is that they’ll go anywhere – even really stupid places. This I can testify from my monthly visits to top up the water-supply at the dogs’ waterhole on the far side of the hill. It’s quite a scary trip.

After changing the oil, Vitor cleaned the filters with an air hose and gave the grease nipples a squirt. Sorry if this account is a bit long but I’ve got to write enough to fit in at least a couple of photos. And anyhow, there isn’t much else to report. I left my chain-saw with him for an overhaul as well. I haven’t his knack of tuning the acceleration and the choke.

Before putting the tractor away, metaphorically speaking, I went down with Olly to collect some more rocks from the fields for the walls that he is building. Our bit of Portugal is rock-strewn. You quite literally trip over them everywhere you go. Espargal hill is not made of earth with lots of rocks; it’s made of rock with patches of earth. Most farmers are only too pleased to have one remove a few rocks from the vicinity of their carob trees. Olly was kind enough to come back with me to help Jones arrange a couple of large stones in a rockery that she is extending just outside the gates – as this pleasing picture illustrates.

I made a separate trip around the other side of the hill to fetch two more rocks that Jones and I have long gazed at covetingly. (That’s not a word that I’ve ever come across before, either, but Dictionary. com assures me that it’s legit.) We pass them every morning as we dip down the hill and through the carob groves with the dogs. That’s to say, we used to. I brought them back and planted them at the base of the rockery, where they seem quite settled. (Jones refers to this process as “rock liberation”.)

The two pups, Russ and Mary, continue to give us concern with their allergic reactions to either microchip or vaccination. They went back early in the week to the vet, tugging restlessly at their leads in the small waiting room. Half an hour passed slowly, in the company of other equally restless animals. Mary is highly strung and won’t sit still for a moment. Russ caught the vibe. There was little to be done for them other than to continue with a diet of pills.

A RUBBISH BAG - WHAT FUN!

Monday afternoon we took two recently-widowed friends to lunch. I left Barbara at the table with one of them while Olive, the other, came with me to the post office and her lawyer. We returned to find the lunchers still at it – the other guest, at least. She’s a seriously slow eater. Like most Bensons, I fear, I tend to eat fast, a failing for which my wife has often had reason to upbraid me.

Thursday morning we set out on a similar mission, this time with the lawyer to visit the Financas, which require one to report the death of a tax-paying partner within 90 days. That meant an hour of hanging around and 60 seconds of signing documents. Jones and I found time to take ourselves around the corner for a welcome cup of coffee at the Gates of Heaven. Even so, matters have much improved. Some years ago, all trips to the Financas meant impossible queues and a morning or afternoon wasted. These days 90% of such business can be done online.

MAHLER

Our final task was to meet a retired British policeman who followed us to Olive’s house for a security review – given the deaths of both her husband and a large dog. We’ll hear his suggestions shortly.

The Proms are entertaining us with Mahler’s 9th, a symphony that the composer was never to hear played. I recall many years ago overhearing a conversation between my dad and a musical friend of his. Dad, like me, was a great Beethoven fan. The friend was urging him to discover Mahler. I don’t think that Dad did, and I’m not sure that we shall either. But we’re doing our best.

SUNDAY BREAKFAST AT THE CORAL

For supper we dined on a chicken that didn’t cross the road. It was one of three that we saw lying in the street in their plastic coverings as we emerged from a super- market car park.

CELSO - OUR HOST

One had already been squashed out of all recognition. I stopped the car to remove the other two – and was able to save one, leaving it on the pavement for some hungry person to take home.

Jones decided that since our household had as many hungry members as any, it might as well be her. Muttering something about “road-kill”, she leapt out of the car to retrieve the fowl. And a fine chicken it proved to be.

SUNDOWN

We enjoyed the best bits while the dogs feasted on the scraps. We suspect that the birds fell from a large truck that was turning in as we left.

As I was saying, not a great deal has happened this week. And, as I’ve said before, that’s the way we like it.