We are on the cusp of mid-winter (whatever that is; I always wanted to write that we are on the cusp of something or other). Today marks the solstice. You would never know this were you here for we are basking in balmy sunshine at a temperature of C21*. Fellows were idling around in t-shirts at the Apolonia supermarket in Almancil, where we’ve just taken Olive for a basket of shopping and a cuppa. The met office tells us that this has been the 3rd warmest Portuguese autumn on record. Apart from the implications for Iberia’s climatic future, whatever they may be, it’s quite pleasant.
Slavic and I have been exploiting the fine weather by building rock walls. Slavic is Natasha’s partner and a 20-something Ukrainian. He’s a builder by trade, strong, skilful and hard-working. His Portuguese is sufficient for his needs although nothing like as fluent as Natasha’s. He rides with me on the tractor down into the bushveld beyond the village where we load up rocks. I drive the tractor and Slavic loads the rocks. We choose the holeiest, gnarledest ones for the best effect. Espargal is one of the rockiest places on earth. It’s really just a light scattering of earth and vegetation on a mountain of rock.
Slavic’s first job was to build a series of sloping walls on three sides of the solar-panel base, with lots of gaps for succulents. On the fourth side he built rough stone stairs to enable me to get up and take readings. Once we’ve gathered the materials and I’ve explained what I want, I leave him to get on with the job. The results are even better than I’d hoped for and I’ve spent a couple of hours since filling gaps with suitable plants, ones that can cope with dry conditions and little sunlight as they will live in the shade of the panels.
The next task was to line the bank at the bottom of the property with rocks, both for aesthetic reasons (it looks lovely, as you can see) and to support the bank; the narrow path above it was wearing away. I’ve half a dozen more such ventures in mind. This suits Slavic well; his main employer now requires his services only one or two days a week, a reflection of the hard times that Portugal is enduring.
Have you been following the Leveson inquiry in the UK into the behaviour of the tabloid press, I wonder. It presents one with an excellent opportunity to watch some relatively junior people telling unsavoury truths while their big bosses deny all knowledge of them.
For my part, I have finished Lance Price’s excellent tome on the relationships between Downing Street and the UK media. And I’m up to page 10 or thereabouts on German for Dummies.
The title is a misnomer. It’s clear to me already that no dummy would ever learn a language whose adjectives mutate for number, gender and case. It’s hard to understand how the Germans manage to communicate at all, except in English that is, which most of them seem to speak fluently. That’s judging by the number who have been talking in excellent English on radio and TV about the woes of the euro. The euro’s another story, mind you, and not a suitable subject for a letter on the eve of Christmas.
I shall not tarry on Christmas. It is not my favourite time of year, being neither fish nor fowl. (One hardly knows whether to carol or to carouse.) But the topic gives me an opportunity to say thank you to the many considerate people who have sent us Christmas greetings and who haven’t yet had the same from us. I even received a very kind bottle of something (I hope it’s kindly intended - it’s still wrapped) from the lottery syndicate, along with a note saying how nice it would be if we had a win. If only! My fear is that we’ll win the jackpot when I’m 85 and can’t remember my middle name.
For a couple of years now I’ve been part of an emailing group of ex-Marist Brothers, the religious order with which I spent a decade of my life. For the last few weeks we’ve been discussing the epidemic of child abuse that has emerged in recent times. Some of the personal revelations have been deep and touching. Most of us were too innocent for our own good. Not all, mind you; several of our company went to jail for their failings in this regard. I reflect often on that period in my life. It’s as though it was lived by a twin rather than myself.
My smart-phone is giving me grief. (Barbara doubts there’s any such thing as a smart-phone and I can understand why.) It’s refusing to communicate with the router. The only recent change it’s undergone is being mated via blue-tooth with the car’s comms although I had no problems for a couple of days thereafter. I suspect that it will have to go back to the workshop as it did once before. On that occasion, it underwent a major transplant. I’ll wait till the New Year as I’d hate to be without it over the holiday doldrums. It’s still picking up my emails and will link to the internet via the masts albeit much more slowly.
An insect has come to live with us. At least I think it’s an insect – a stick insect of some kind; I’ve never seen the likes. (Last time I wrote about a bug, someone pointed out to me that it was an arachnid and not an insect.) This little fellow – just over an inch in length - has attached himself to a gate post for most of the month.
Barbara cleverly adjusted the camera to take these fine close-up shots. We’ve done our best not to disturb him as we pass through the gate, not that he’s got a great future there.
Raymond is jogging my elbow to indicate that it’s time to go walking. He’s right. Half an hour to sundown. Happy Christmas.
No comments:
Post a Comment