Letter from Espargal: 37 of 2011

Friday is half done. It began, like most days, with a leisurely walk around the park with the dogs. Jones then stayed behind with Raymond (who is still nursing an infected pad) while I took the rest of the pack on the Pole Path circuit. (All our animals are “who” rather than “which”, I suppose because they are all personalities in their own right – and it doesn’t feel right to refer to a personality as a “which”.) Jones normally comes with me on the walk but she has stayed behind these past few days as she couldn’t abide Raymond’s agonised howls as we left him behind.

The Pole Path, our regular morning walk, is so called because it follows a line of medium tension electricity poles for 30 minutes around the shoulder of Espargal hill. The route is rocky and awkward, the more so on hot, sweaty, fly-tormented mornings when the puppies are pulling madly every which way and their leads are getting tangled up in the bushes. (Our temperatures are still in the high 20s.) So it’s always a relief to bundle the gang back through the gate in the perimeter fence and to return to the house to change my perspiration-soaked shirt and vest.

From there it was up to Benafim to fill up the car (ouch! - diesel is now bumping up against €1.5 a litre – petrol is even more), recycle the bottles, cans and paper and – most important – retire to the Coral for coffee, toast, jam and medronho. Celso is happy to provide such simple fare although he’s not offering meals while Brigitte, who does the cooking, is back in France.

By the time one gets home, not much of the morning is left. In fact, one is lucky to make it back by midday. We have, as I may have noted before, found retirement to be much more demanding than we anticipated.

That’s the point at which I have to pause and reflect on what news, if any, we have to convey – and on what we can dress up as news if we don't.

Well, Thursday we took off to lunch with Olive at Zé-Maria, our favourite fish restaurant on Faro Beach. Patrons seat themselves beneath the awning on a patio that fringes the sand. We have a favourite table in the corner, beneath which the dogs crouch to keep an eye on any other diners’ pets. Impressive waves were breaking on the beach just below us. The restaurateur, who was hard pressed, found time to ask after John, who had dined there with us shortly before he died. We raised our glasses to him anyhow. His birthday would have been this weekend.

Thence to the Algarve Forum to find out why our neighbour, Marie, wasn’t receiving the SMS messages that Barbara sent to her although Barbara was getting Marie’s. (As Jones and Marie communicate quite a lot by SMS, this situation was more serious than it might sound.) First we went along to Vodafone, with whom Jones and I have contracts. It must be, said the young man to whom I spoke, because Marie had somehow blocked Jones’s number on her phone. She needed to check her message filter. “Oh,” we said, and then tried the same question at Optimus, Marie’s operator, just down the corridor. But the bimbo there didn’t have a clue. In the event, the Vodafone man was right and Jones is once again communicating normally with Marie.

On Wednesday a large envelope arrived from the EDP with a five-page contract for the purchase of electricity from us. All that I was required to do was to sign it and return it – which I did the same day. I am anxious that the EDP engineers should come along to connect up the solar array before Jones and I go to Germany to visit Cathy and family on October 11. Portugal is meanwhile shuddering under suggestions that electricity prices will rise by 30% next year, on top of an electricity VAT hike from 6% to the top rate of 23%.

At the same time I went looking for a sheet of acrylic plexiglass with which to seal off the upper section of the kitchen window through which the cats enter and leave the house. I should explain that our large double-glazed sliding doors make it almost impossible to install a cat-flap short of hacking through the double walls of the house. Instead, Jones leaves the sliding kitchen window open wide enough to allow the cats passage. They typically spend the day in the fields and the night in the house – running Mary’s gauntlet as they commute.

With the approach of autumn, we were keen to block off the upper part of the open window in order to minimize the draught. Plexiglass proved to be available only in large, expensive sheets. Instead I acquired a €2 sheet of polystyrene from which I cut a strip, at the bottom of which I carved an arched doorway for the cats. The cats would appear to be perfectly happy with this arrangement. (I recount this project in some detail in the hope of impressing my home-improvement ace brother in law whose own exploits so often impress us.)

I have been in further communication with a firm that supplied me – via Amazon - several weeks late with rubber gaskets of the kind required to seal glass jars. I discover that the reason for their concern with the mega-bungled delivery is the poor feedback they got from me as a result. They are most anxious for me to remove this black mark from their online copybook. I have responded affably, asking them first kindly to explain how the series of bungles came about.

The best time of day is around 7.30 pm, as the sun sets and Jones, having watered the garden, returns from feeding the stray dog and several cats at the bottom of the village. I have by that time walked and fed our dogs, and settled myself on the front patio with a beer (summer) or a glass of wine to the lullaby buzz of the evening insects in the garden. The puppies engage in prolonged play-fighting, thrust and parry, with pauses for visits to the water bowl.

We have, come to mention it, recently discovered a most acceptable boxed red wine produced by an M J Freitas – three litres for 6 euros. While the majority of boxed wines are aimed squarely at the bottom end of the market, Mr Freitas’s product is distinctly middle class and saves a great deal of hauling bottles in and out of the car. I should be very pleased to introduce any visitors to it.

I endeavour not to consume more than a glass or two because I have to settle down after supper and the ten o’clock news (the dogs scattered around my foam mattress on the lounge floor) to the translations that I have undertaken on behalf of the houseboat outfit on the Alqueva dam. You will appreciate the need for such services if you look at their website, which currently offers in its English section such jewels as:

“Dinamizar the candle as tourist product of excellency….“
“Creation of training offers in the area of the fast candle and cruise”

There are times when online translation sites, wondrous as they are, simply do not do the job.

September seems to have slipped away. How strange! It was just the other day that we were welcoming it.

Letter from Espargal: 36 of 2011

On Friday we were shorn, Jones and I. Here it might be useful to make a gender cultural distinction. While the men I know, those with any hair to speak of, have it cut, women of my acquaintance have theirs “done” – a far more important, demanding and generally expensive process. In Jones’s case, it was cut rather than done – and cut shorter than I can remember it.

Her hair had been getting on her nerves, prompting complaints of “I can’t do anything with it”. As mine was also down around my ears, where I don’t like it, I made an appointment with Fatima in Loule. We’ve been going to Fatima for years.

She’s really a man’s hairdresser but will also attend to women who don’t need perms and all that stuff. Along with her Jones took a picture of what she wanted to look like by the end of the haircut. You may judge the results for yourself. I’m still getting used to them. Her hair certainly shouldn’t bother her again for a while.

In the car at Loule’s parking garage we left Ono and Prickles, the usual travellers, along with Raymond, whom we had just taken to the vet. Raymond has a problem with his paw – an expensive problem. For the next ten days he has to take a course – his second - of anti-flammatories and antibiotics, after which the vet will re-examine him to see whether he needs minor surgery.

On Friday we also quietly celebrated the arrival of the autumnal equinox. Roll on autumn; our new salamandra awaits.

On Thursday we had an artistic and archaeological outing. Our UK friends, Mike and Lyn, who are staying with Idalecio, joined us for a trip that took in a dig near Silves, and two galleries. First stop was the dig, a project that now occupies the whole team from the University of Jena, members of which have also been excavating in the fields just below Espargal.

I should confess that I have managed to make a rod for my own back. On one occasion last year, I took the diggers a box of icecreams, a treat that they greeted like manna from heaven. I’ve done the same thing on hot days once or twice at Espargal. The arrival of these icecreams has brought the dig to a halt and the sweaty students more visible pleasure than I can easily describe. The bottom line is that I now lack the courage to visit the dig without the “magnums” to which they so look forward when they see us coming.

We stopped at a café near the site to arm ourselves with the necessary. As the students saw us making our way down the path towards the site, they actually started clapping. How can one resist such a hero’s welcome? After handing over the icecreams, we chatted to the group leader, whom we’d met last year, as well as to the visiting head of the Archaeology department. The group is excavating a large Roman farm house that might easily, we understand, have had 100 workers.

The most fascinating discovery is a slab with an inscription in a language they have not yet identified. They speculate that it may be Punic – an extinct variety of Phoenician, people who traded along the Iberian coast for centuries before the Romans arrived on the scene. How it came to be at the site is intriguing in itself. The university’s ancient language expert has examined the inscription without being able to identify the language or translate it, a situation – one student confided – that had left him most unsettled.

Our next stop was the gallery of the artist Paula Will in Silves (a city that was for centuries the Moorish capital of the Algarve). Paula greeted us enthusias- tically and showed us around. She’s half Portuguese and half Scottish. We have one of her works and would gladly have one or two more. Jones especially fancied one of her fish paintings.

Then finally – after a spot of lunch – we continued to the Corte Real gallery on the outskirts of Messines, where I snoozed in the car with the dogs while my passengers looked – most satisfactorily they reported – around.

On Wednesday we went to the lawyer to try to sort out our properties. After our bruising experience with unwelcome buildings arising around us at Cruz da Assumada, we have tried to establish a mini green belt here at Espargal. Our initial purchase was of two adjacent properties. In the subsequent years we have acquired another 5 properties, half and acre here and half an acre there until we felt relatively secure.

They don’t amount to very much, perhaps 5 acres in all. But they are sufficient to protect our backs from unwelcome construction. Three different lawyers have been used in the process and several important documents are missing from my files, which means going along to notaries and property registers to secure them.

Tuesday has vanished into oblivion.

On Monday an inspector arrived to check that the satellite tracking station, aka Jodrell Bank, was fit for the purpose. He was led here by members of the firm that had carried out the installation, with whose work he was evidently well acquainted. The firm's MD, who was present, said that problems were rare and we certainly had none.

After ascertaining the potential electricity supply from the panels and checking the wiring of the new boxes in the electricity pillar, the inspector wished us good day and went on his way. Now we await the contract, due in the post in a week or so, and finally connection to the national grid.

On Sunday we went along to the village of Alte, which perches (clearly visible to us) on a hillside 15 minutes away, for a sort of church procession cum harvest festival. At least that’s what one of the stall holders led me to believe that it was.We arrived early to find half a dozen neglected stalls set out in the village square.

Moments later, two fellows in strange dress came trotting down the cobbles on horses, followed by a parade of worthies that included several statues borne aloft and a straggly band. This, with the assistance of Google Translate, is the Alte Parish’s explanation (slightly modified) of the occasion.

“Sunday closest to September 17:

That day, in the churchyard of the Church, the Knights dressed in white turban and starring the head, cite the "Loas," prayer in verses Nossa Senhora das Dores (Our Lady of Suffering). The procession leaves the Church with the images of Nossa Senhora da Assunção (Our Lady of the Assumption), Nossa Senhora das Dores and S. Louis.”

And so it was. The worthies, mainly female and mainly sexagenarian plus, paraded sedately past us while Jones snapped away and Ono, Prickles and I looked on. They followed a 30 minute circuit through the town that took them back to the church where they had started out.

Jones, meanwhile, bought one or two small items from stall holders who were doing no other business and who confessed to her that times were tough. It’s not that we need any telling. Hardly a day passes without news of some new austerity measure or tax to diminish the deficit. We retired to the river to wash down the cake we'd bought with a drop of medronho.

Some other things happened at other times that I will probably remember later and stick up in due course. But, for the moment, that’s it.

Letter from Espargal: 35 of 2011

Friday is when it happened, mostly. We were setting out on our weekly widow-assistance and shopping expedition when the electric gate people rang to say that a technician would be calling by that afternoon to follow up our problems. (Sometimes the gates won’t open, at others they stop halfway, which allows the dogs out but not the car.)

Shortly afterwards Rosana rang from the salamandra suppliers to say that they could install our new salamandra (wood-burning stove) after lunch – if that would suit. It certainly would.

And in response to my email appeal, Ana at the appliance repair shop replied they were doing their best to have our digibox ready for collection after three. For the past fortnight we have relied on the computer and my smartphone for our rising and setting radio programmes. And as useful as they’ve been, it’s not the same thing.

True to her word Ana had the digibox waiting when the shop opened its doors at three. (You will be aware that most Portuguese shops close for lunch from one till three. The exceptions are the proliferating Chinese stores that hardly seem to shut at all.) I plugged it back in as soon as we got home and joy! – we had all our radio and TV channels back again. Radio arrives digitally via the TV monitors although it’s also available via the bedside mini-speakers and cordless headphones.

Barely had I got the digibox up and running when the salamandra arrived. Clients have the option of installing the stove themselves or having the suppliers do it. We opted for the latter because, with seven metres plus of flue, it’s quite challenging. The job took the two installers a good hour of lining up, sealing the flue-joints, blocking off the ceiling aperture with glass wool collars and finally gluing a metal collar to the ceiling. They advised us to allow the high-temperature silicone seals to set overnight before lighting any fires.

From the electric gate technician we heard nary a word. But scoring two hits out of three is pretty good for this part of the world and we’re not complaining. Speaking of which, if you have an idle moment, try yourself on the 10-minute “11-plus” exam that all school children in the UK were once required to write in order to separate grammar school material from the rest. I was taken aback by the difficulty of the questions and, if I passed the test, it wasn’t with flying colours. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/7773974.stm

At last I’ve removed the firewood that was unloaded beside the driveway a week ago. It took nine tractor loads to clear the area. Each load was conveyed up to the old shed beside the crumbling bread oven and laid carefully in a pile. I was quite proud of the result which, I feel, would compare well with the immaculate piles that Olly, our neighbour, likes to create just down the road.

Another task has been clearing the forest of suckers that spring up beside the olive and carob trees. The carob suckers make excellent mulch. The olives tend to wrap themselves around the blades of the shredder, which means that I have to open up the machine and clear it every few minutes. So most of them also go for burning.

Our existing piles of mulch have been distributed across the remains of the huge solar-panel cardboard box, which we have laid flat beside the concrete block in order to create a weed-free approach. (We await inspection and approval of the installation early this coming week.)

You see the box here pre- dismemb- erment, along with neighbours who came around for drinks. This gives me an excuse to raise the difficult subject of socialising – difficult because we do it a lot and Jones often points out that I have not mentioned various get-togethers. I respond that there’s nothing to be said about them. That’s to say that I haven’t the knack of elevating canapes and conversation to the blog, as much as we enjoy them.

Jones has spent long hours clearing a carpet of ivy from various corners of the garden. Some of the strands were easily six metres long, inter- twined and reluctant to move. Getting rid of them meant crouching on her haunches while patiently snipping and pulling.

She then rolled the strands into piles that she carried up to the cobbles or down to the fence, where I loaded the same on to the tractor for conveyance to the field. It took several tractor loads to remove them. An ivy mountain now lies mid-field, awaiting burning once the rains come. As yet there’s no sign of them.

At least our temperatures are moderating at last. The autumn crocuses that are now springing up give promise of the changing season. We became particularly aware of the crocuses after hearing about a substance derived from the flowers that appears to be highly effective in tackling cancer tumours without harming healthy tissue.

As ever, we’ve been doing a lot of walking. We take it in turns to manage the pups, which we still keep on the lead as they’re not yet very responsive. Jones, who is both fleeter and surer of foot than I, takes charge on the trickier sections. The paths are often narrow, steep and very stony and unless I proceed with care, I am liable to fall down, which I really hate doing (as it’s both painful and most undignified). I sometimes feel like Melanion chasing after Atalanta, without the advantage of golden apples.

Letter from Espargal: 34 of 2011

This week doesn’t have a starting place; it has simply dribbled away into cracks and crevices. I have nothing to show for it, nor anything new to tell you about collecting carobs, waiting on widows, walking the dogs or watering the garden. You have had every jot and tittle.

(Pause here for thought and inspiration while you admire Jones's fine picture of an Espargalian sunset!)

It’s not that this state of affairs otherwise troubles us. We learned a few days ago that my brother in South Africa had narrowly escaped being car-jacked. As he was about to get into his pick-up in downtown Witbank, he was confronted by three men wielding knives. He has no doubt that he would have lost his vehicle and possibly worse had he not been able to draw the pistol that he always carries with him. On seeing the firearm, the intending hijackers fled. Although by South African standards the episode was trivial, it left my brother badly shaken.

I too was somewhat shaken last weekend although for different reasons. One of the dogs jumped up at me for a hug as I was collecting carobs. I stumbled backwards, wrenching my back. So it’s been a tender few days.

Jones has been walking the puppies while I trail along behind. (Although we call them puppies still, they’re anything but.) She’s also spent several hours each day picking up the last of the carobs. We had half a dozen sacks to present to our farmer friends, who were very pleased to receive them and regaled us with melons, tomatoes and peppers in return.

En route to deliver the carobs I diverted to visit the German student archaeological team that has returned to the site of the Roman remains on the farmer’s lands. The team is here in double strength this year with half its members excavating in Espargal and the rest working on the site of other Roman ruins near Silves. They’re not finding it easy going as we’re enduring what I hope will be the last heat-wave of the summer.

They showed me the few tile and amphora shards they’d collected, along with several fragments of glass and a 2nd century AD coin. They have also uncovered a hard smooth floor that seems to have been used for olive oil production. Another find was the skeleton of a pig. This however the farmer recollected (as he unloaded my carobs) he’d buried there himself years earlier after it had died of some disease. I popped around to the dig later in the week with a box of icecreams that the students fell upon.

Close by, two machines are working away building a handsome wall from huge rectangular rocks to support the bank overlooking Vitor’s driveway. The diggers work in tandem to lift and place the rocks. Each is trimmed to size by a worker with a sledgehammer and then carefully lined up and levelled. I was equally impressed by the care taken and the harmonious result.

These rocks are often employed to support steep banks in expensive locations. The advantage I learned from Horacio the builder when he dropped around to collect payment for the base of the tracking station. Apart from good looks and strength of the resulting structure, such construction does not require the licence that is otherwise obligatory for walls much over a metre high.

Our solar array meanwhile faithfully and fruitlessly tracks the sun each day across the sky, as yet without contributing anything to the national grid or the Benson purse. The firm involved informs us that the installation is due to be inspected on Monday the 19th. We have fingers crossed that it will be approved and that a contract will follow hot on the inspectors’ heels.

To further impress them I have painted the extended pillar holding the new electricity boxes, which were installed as part of the project.

Natasha joined us for a day to hack back the ivy that had overtaken parts of the garden. Jones insisted that this exercise was necessary, assuring me that the ivy would soon grow again. I do hope so for the walls are now painfully bare. Natasha has lost one of her regular clients to what’s known in Portugal as the “crise” and is keen to find additional employment where she can.

Midweek a man arrived from the company that is due to deliver our new wood-burning stove, known here as a salamandra. He inspected the premises and measured the six metres from the lounge floor to the hole in the inclined ceiling that leads into the chimney above. We talked about the best way to seal the flue so that neither soot or sooty water – the bane of Jonesy’s life – comes drifting/dripping down the chimney.

Another caller was the firewood supplier, who arrived with a load that should see us through the winter. I've been shifting it with the tractor. The deliverer wasn’t particularly happy, telling me in vivid language of an attack he had suffered at home a few weeks earlier from a Bulgarian burglar. According to his account, the burglar had set about him with a weapon of some kind, breaking four of his victim’s ribs before fleeing the scene.

A son had chased after the assailant, caught him and apparently exacted revenge. In court the man was convicted but released under orders to leave the country. Whether he did so is another question. The bottom line is that Portugal cannot bear the cost of jailing foreign criminals nor has it any effective means of expelling them.

With such unfortunate events in mind, we are pursuing with Olive the security options that a couple of companies have submitted to her. Typically, an alarm installation costs 1,000 euros plus, with monthly fees of 30-50 euros, depending on the services required. While en route to see her, we dropped in on the electronics shop to inquire about our ailing digibox. Terribly sorry (or something similar) said the man behind the counter but our technician is on leave this week. We wish he’d told us that when we arranged to take it in because the TV channels were still working perfectly well.

I’m also chasing a small parcel that DHL was meant to have delivered to me some time this past week. The tracking number doesn’t register on their site and the central DHL phone number asks clients politely to call back on Monday when the office reopens! Tom Hanks, where are you?