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!
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