Letter from Espargal: 44 of 2011

We’ve been running around and spending money. A little went on repairing minor damage to a prized Ecco boot, courtesy of a pup who nicked the boot from a wicker box where I had foolishly left it to dry. (Anything not locked away is fair game.) I took the boot into the little cobbler who crouches over his last in the corner of a Dickensian workshop in Loule.

“Come back in half an hour,” said he, after assessing the damage. This I did, to find the boot neatly repaired. “That’ll be a euro,” the cobbler told his wife, who minds the small counter opposite the door and the cashbox stashed beneath it. I gladly paid the euro and threw in a grateful 50 cent tip.

The next day I went back with the camera to ask the couple if I could take a few pictures, promising to print some out for them. As you see, they were agreeable. She informed me that her husband had occupied the same perch for over 50 years, with her at his side to attend to the cash and customers.

On the other side of town a similarly bent old cobbler occupies an equally dark little room, with a hand-written “shoe repairs” sign slung from the balcony. This old fellow declined to allow me to take a picture last time I used his services, saying the place was too untidy. Sadly, I fear that cobblers are a dying breed, relegated along with milliners, mercers, tinkers and the like, to history and the pages of dusty dictionaries.

SOLANUM & SHED

A lot more money – returning to my theme - went on bureaucracy. We met Felismina, the lawyer’s assistant, in town one day to straighten out anomalies in our property deeds (which she’d been checking at our request). Felismina was on first-name terms with the officials involved, which helped enormously. To sort things out, the lady in the Land Registry Office explained to us, we’d have to get a certified document from the notary’s office and another from the Financas – and then to bring both of these back to the Registry where the title-deeds would be altered accordingly.

So we trekked around from one office to another, whipping out the plastic each time to pay the accompanying charge, before returning to the Registry. The corrected title deeds should be available next week. It’s not that we were illegal before; it was just that several elements that should have matched up, didn’t – discrepancies likely to cause a deal of grief further down the line.

Such anomalies arise from the time when property records were drawn up and kept quite separately in four uncommunicative departments. Notaries oversaw sales, the Land Registry recorded them, the council authorised projects and the Financas taxed them. In this internet age, everything has to gel when you come to sell.

OLIVES

What really struck us was how few people there were in the usually busy offices. Instead of joining the inevitable queues, we were able to go straight to the counter each time. It’s “the crisis”, Felismina remarked; "nobody is buying property and everybody is feeling the pinch".

ALMONDS

That pinch led to countrywide strikes on Thursday that pretty well brought Portugal to a halt – those bits of the nation involved in education, health and transport. But there were happy exceptions. I met Natasha at the workshop of Vitor, the mechanic, who took a look at her lethargic car and thought that he could energise it. While we were there, a postman delivering mail let us know that he for one had no interest in striking.

JONES SKY

Neither did the two Portugal Telecom technicians who arrived at our gate mid-afternoon to try to sort out my internet access problems for once and for all. They spent an hour testing the line (it was fine) replacing anything replaceable and explaining to me how to check whether the fault might lie with the router.

They are also renewing the cable from the house to the phone post in an attempt to eliminate all possible causes of the problem (intermittent internet access). They really pulled out the stops and I readily forgave them their failure to come the previous Friday afternoon, when they were due.

Another outlay – back with spending money – was on a new pair of spectacles from the optician, Mr Rahmani, a German Iranian (married to a Portuguese) who does most of his business with the Algarve’s large German expat community. We’ve been using his services for a number of years and have found him most helpful and attentive. I’m certainly pleased with the new specs. (Jones says there's nothing wrong with her old ones.)

ANOTHER JONES SKY

I note with sadness that the South African parliament is busy passing legislation that will serve to muzzle the news media, which have been exposing so much embarrassing official corruption. A small reminder of such dishonesty arrived with a bulky letter, running to several pages, that Barbara received from a friend in Johannesburg. The South African post office employee who neatly slit one end open with a razor blade must have been disappointed to find nothing of value inside. I guess we should be grateful that the letter arrived at all. Several friends and family members have lost items from luggage undergoing “security checks” at Johburg airport.

SPOT THE CAT

Friday morning – a lovely, sunny one. We are back from a 90 minute trek through the bush, being tugged this way and that by our powerful pups. We noted lots of wild boar prints; we never see the beasts themselves. (We had an encounter with a herd of them once in a German forest and that was enough.) We did see a ginger cat that had taken refuge in a tree and declined to come down and play with the dogs.

The medronho trees (whose berries are collected to make a popular liquor) are in full colour. Jones tried to pose with the pups in front of one but they wouldn’t sit still. She has gone off to deliver a thank-you note to Pauline for a delicious cake. Time for me to upload this to the blogsite and comb through our pictures.

Letter from Espargal: 43 of 2011

We planted our bean seeds on Friday afternoon which was fortunate because it rained - as forecast - on Friday night, 35mm of it. Actually, it didn’t just rain, it snapped and crackled and popped all around us and the downpour that followed the initial thunderclap drummed against the glass doors.

After a lightning flash, I count the seconds to the thunder to gauge how close the lightning is and whether I should pull the plugs on sensitive equipment. Last night, the lightning and the thunder were simultaneous – very close and very loud – so after disconnecting the TV and computer, I settled down with the pups in front of the fire to reassure them that it was just a storm.

Jones had already gone to bed, not that she was doing much sleeping. Also not doing much sleeping were Dearheart, the cat, and Ono, the dog, both curled up in the crook of her legs. Talk about three in a bed. Normally Ono won’t let Dearheart on to the bed while he’s there and he certainly wasn’t very happy about her presence. But for once he was more concerned with just hunkering down.

Happily, the storm waited until after the concert we’d attended in Faro and after the supper we enjoyed up at the Coral in Benafim. (The Coral is now officially the France-Portugal but since that’s a mouthful I’ll stick to the old name.) The concert was really just an hour of chamber music presented at the Faro Museum by a quintet from the Algarve Orchestra.

For reasons best known to themselves, the organisers feel compelled always to feature one modern (i.e. tuneless, atonal & discordant) work at such events. Last night it was a “Wind Quintet” by Filipe de Sousa who, fortunately for humanity, died in 2006. Would that it had been sooner!

Anyhow, we survived it. And supper at the Coral, really just tapas, toasted sandwiches and a bottle of wine, was delicious as it always is. (Serious meals await Brigitte’s return from France.) The telly behind the bar showed two soaked football teams kicking a sodden ball on a flooded field in the pouring rain in Lisbon while a huddle of wet fans looked miserably on. Players were sliding around in showers of spray. It was more akin to waterpolo than soccer.

As I was saying, we got our beans planted just in time. That meant my spending the morning on the tractor preparing the ground, which was damp but not muddy. Although the beans occupy just a few square metres, I cleaned up our fields at the same time and Leonhilda’s adjoining property while I was at it. If my furrows are not the straightest in Espargal, I draw your attention to the slope and the trees that dot it. The rain of the last few weeks has turned the countryside green and the new crop of weeds is already ankle-high.

Nightfall now arrives before 18.00. The evenings are long and we’re grateful for good TV to lighten them. Inevitably the best TV is scheduled for 21.00, after the gameshows, quizzes and other corn. We often watch one programme, record a second and, if necessary, discover when a third will be repeated.

I sat up one night to watch – utterly fascinated - a documentary on the construction at a factory in Wales of the wings for the Airbus A380 superjumbo. The scale and complexity of the operation is simply dizzying. On completion, the great wings are floated down a river, shipped across the sea to France, transported by road to Toulouse and there mated to other sections of the aircraft flown in from across Europe.

On the news front it’s hard to get away from speculation on the future of the euro and dismal economic prospects for most of the nations that use it. The hard-pressed Portuguese government continues to squeeze its citizens with new taxes and cutbacks as it struggles to balance its books. The unions, unsurprisingly, are up in arms and have called a national strike for next Thursday. Poor commuters; they’re the ones that really suffer. Even around here folks are feeling the pressure. Two of our Portuguese acquaintances are among the thousands reported to be seeking a livelihood overseas.

We joined friends one evening to see “The Ides of March”, a film that we thoroughly enjoyed in spite of (“because of”, says Jones) a very cynical (many would say realistic) outlook on the mores of politicians. I really liked the script as well as the plot although some would say that the language left much to be desired. (It fascinates us that locals hardly blink at the use of the f-word in the English dialogue although the Portuguese subtitles always resort to a euphemism.) I gave the movie four stars (out of five); Jones thought three was closer to the mark. It wasn’t worth arguing over the difference.

CLEANING UP THE MESS

We got home to find that the pups had done their best to destroy the place in our absence. They’d discovered and dismantled a large bag of garbage as well as ripping apart a sack of soil and two of Jones’s pot plants, the entire contents which lay distributed across the cobbles. The pups were as pleased as Punch with their handiwork. They’ve had Jones close to tears more than once.

It’s hard to know what to do about it (other than making sure that garbage is safely locked away). Mary now scoffs at the fence we erected around the puppy enclosure. I need to raise much of it to render it effective once again. When the dogs are with us they’re fine; trouble comes when they’re bored. Here they are perched on a boulder at the bottom of the garden. One of my better pictures!

Letter from Espargal: 42 of 2011

We have been stumbling around in the murk ever since Robbie’s departure last Tuesday morning. The sun left with him as it had arrived with him. A misty shroud enveloped the summit of Espargal hill and has camped there since, occasionally thinning to reveal glimpses of a dull, damp world beyond. The dogs have been confined to minor excursions in the park, two acres of fenced fast-greening hillside beyond the garden.

Robbie is Barbara’s younger brother, recently retired from the cement industry in South Africa and promptly reemployed to continue working part-time in the same. He flew to Portugal to join us for a long weekend following a business meeting in Zurich. You’ll forgive me if I bung up lots of pictures of his visit, as they’re more interesting than pictures of the mist.

We met him at Faro airport – still recovering from its battering by freak winds last month – and, after refreshments at the beach – took him to the Mediterranean Garden Society plant sale on the fringes of Faro, one of those events featuring almost as many 4x4s and received English accents as plants. The German community was also well represented. Robbie could hardly believe he was in Portugal. While the dogs added to the canine graffiti, I invested in a range of home-made jams and chutneys and Jonesy investigated the plants.

I dropped a couple of euros in the box of the man hopefully flogging poppy badges. Today, as it happens, is the 11th of the 11th of the 11th, a coincidence that none is us is likely to see repeated. BBC radio saw fit to interview a “numerologist”, who spoke of the raised energies that would result from such a rare sequence (before I muted the radio, prickling at such nonsense).

The following day, at Jones’s suggestion, we took a leisurely drive to the town of Tavira, wandering along the Gilao river bank,

peering into the fishermen’s boats, admiring the Roman bridge and making our way to the old town, where the St Augustine’s Convent has been converted into a handsome pousada.

The receptionist was pleased to allow us to wander around the courtyard. There was little sign of any guests although, early on a November Sunday afternoon, that came as little surprise.

A great wailing of sirens heralded the arrival of a swarm of racing cyclists. We stood aside as they bounced along the cobbles in the wake of the police motorcycles.

From Tavira we continued to Villa Real de Santo António, situated on the Guadiana river that separates Portugal from Spain. I opted to snooze in the car while Barbara took her brother to see the sights.

They returned with a small processed-cork purse that Barbara intended as a gift for Robbie’s wife, Carol. Sadly, on our return home, this was deposited on the stairs where Mary discovered it. In fairness to Mary, she had made only a single small gash in the purse before Robbie prized it from her jaws. One would hardly have noticed the damage; I didn’t think that Carol would mind. If anything, I suggested, it would add to the purse’s mystique. But Jones rejected my suggestion with a snort. (Or it might have been a cough. She’s still battling the cold I shared with her.) Sorry Carol.

On the Monday I dropped Robbie and Jonesy at Quinta do Lago on the coast for a three hour hike (there and back) to Faro Beach while I took myself to Loule for my English class. They made their way there along a causeway that runs between the Ria Formosa estuary and the golf course – returning along the beach. (A local newspaper reports that the lagoon cum estuary was shaped by the 1755 earthquake/tsunami that devastated southern Portugal.)

It’s a favourite walk of Barbara’s but one we’ve found impossible to manage with all the dogs. Indeed, with the pups now weighing in at some 20kg each, we can no longer fit all six into the car.

Between walks and outings Robbie would seat himself at the dining room table to catch up on his many emails. He became aware as I fiddled with the fire that the flange in our new chimney stack refuses to stay in a horizontal position for more than a few minutes. I have to wedge it shut with a strip of firewood.

Robbie – an accomplished do-it-yourselfer – has since suggested possible ways of securing the flange. When the rain goes away I shall take up his suggestions. In the meanwhile, I have found a pair of grippers that do an admirable job. What a boon the salamandra remains! We keep a small fire glowing in it through-out the afternoon and evening, as much for cheer as for warmth. Our overnight temperatures are barely into single figures.

Marie alerted us one day to a flock of huge birds that were riding a thermal above the village. We peered up in fascination as they whirled effortless above us. Another neighbour, Nicoline, informs me that they were Common Buzzards. Through the binoculars we could see the black and buff detail of their outstretched wings and their distinct primary feathers. Jones counted 40 of them before they floated off across the valley into the distance.

I guess you’ve come to terms with the fact that Rick Perry won’t be the next US president! I tried to feel sorry for him and failed. What a blooper!

Letter from Espargal: 41 of 2011

A dull, damp week is drawing to a showery end. The reference is to the weather rather than our spirits, although it’s a real struggle to keep the house clean and the animals happy in the wet. The tiled floor inevitably bears the muddy imprint of the dogs’ paws. I can’t tell you how many times Jones has hauled out the mop to restore the floor’s pristine gleam.

Jones is by nature a clean and tidy person who likes to live in spotless surroundings. She habitually hangs up her clothes and puts her things away (reminding me of the desirability of doing the same). And while she’s a total softy when it comes to animals, she struggles to compromise with the gritty realities of keeping nine of them, especially when they rush indoors after mining the muddy hillside for moles. We dry the dogs off and clean their paws at the front door but they’d rather sneak in the back door, which they nose open if it’s not properly closed.

Not that we mind the rain. It’s a relief to allow the garden to water itself for a change, even if the solar panels get a day off from earning our keep. In-between showers the panels have been working hard. The EDP emailed me with news that three days of October sunshine had brought us the sum of €24.70, by virtue of the energy we had injected into the national grid. That was pleasing news indeed. Generating renewable energy gives one the satisfaction of profiting from a noble cause – a rare example of having one’s cake and eating it.

SORRY - PICS SHORT THIS WEEK

Also welcome was the arrival of a pair of Ecco boots that I had ordered online. They’re identical to a pair I found at an Ecco shop in Copenhagen earlier this year that proved the perfect fit. I have worn them daily since. While in Germany last month I looked for another – to put away for future use – and although I encountered similar lines I couldn’t find the exact thing. Cathy eventually came across them online (where I had searched at length) and tipped me off. It’s a matter of great regret to me that Ecco have closed their factory in Portugal and moved manufacture to the Far East – the story of our times.

What I haven’t got sorted out yet is my wifi connection to the internet, in spite of a visit by a Portugal Telecom technician and numerous calls to the helpline. The connection remains unstable, cutting off Skype calls and banking operations with equal indifference. Very frustrating!

Portugal – for all its financial woes – is relatively high-tech. Most of our banking statements and invoices these days arrive by email as pdf files. City dwellers get high-speed cable connections, generally as part of a satellite TV and telephone package. While broadband is commonly available in country areas as well, it depends on the quality of the landlines, which are far more finicky.

The alternative is to purchase a connect pen that links to the mobile phone masts. I keep a couple for emergencies and for travel. But they are a more expensive option and the connection speed varies hugely.

One of my internet tasks this week has been to apply for temporary exemption from the road tolls that are about to be introduced on the east-west Algarve highway, this amid much public clamour from road users who want to continue travelling free. This road, providing a high-speed connection to Spain, is one of several that the government says it can no longer afford to maintain.

Henceforth, cameras mounted on gantries will note motorists’ registration plates and charge them accordingly. (This raises all kinds of questions about foreign cars that I can’t answer.) Local residents will benefit from a temporary discount – assuming that they’ve registered and submitted an application.

JONES HIDING HER FACE IN EMBARRASSMENT AT A STORY I WAS TELLING

I regret that I have passed on my chest cold to my wife, who insists to neighbours amid her coughs and splutters that she’s fine. We shall do our best not to share our bugs with her brother, Robbie, who is flying in to see us tomorrow from Switzerland, where he’s making a business trip. At least the weather for his visit looks ideal, before the next depression arrives in a few days’ time.

Wednesday evening saw a gathering of the locals at the Hamburgo in Benafim for the celebration of Liz Brown’s 70th birthday. (The Hamburgo is so-called because the proprietors used to live in Hamburg, not because they offer the mincemeat pattie that derives its name from the same.) While you can get a snack or even a light meal at several venues in Benafim, the Hamburgo is the village’s only real restaurant – and an excellent one too. It’s a family affair. Manuel serves; his wife, Graça, cooks. She did us proud with roasted chicken and pork.

Thursday I took the car into Honda to get the air-conditioning attended to. It gave up the ghost last week, reminding us one hot afternoon just how much we had come to take it for granted. (In summer you can tell what cars lack AC in the Algarve because their drivers have their left arm hanging out the open window.) Fortunately, the car is still under its 5-year guarantee. Unfortunately, the air conditioner was out of gas and recharging it was not.

Why, I wondered to the receptionist, had the unit played up after just a couple of years when my previous Honda’s air conditioning had worked fine for 10. She shrugged. It was just one of those things. “Seventy six euros please! Oh, and that includes a new light bulb for an interior light – also not under guarantee.” I’d have changed the latter myself if I’d only known how to get at it. Honda believe in invisible screws and catches.

Friday afternoon: We’re just back from a coffee, baggy and toast snack at the Coral. We managed to give the dogs a leg-lifter between the showers. These days, Russ insists on joining the two usual suspects in the car. The silver tractor is a Swiss-Italian Hurlimann (pronounced: oorlimun). If we win the Euromillions this evening, I shall think about it, although in truth it’s a bit big and I prefer the American McCormick that’s poking out just in front of it.