Letter from Espargal: 4 of 2012

It’s Friday night. (That’s as far as it got - brain clog, all slog, no blog.)

Now it’s Sunday. The question is what to say about walks, work, weather and widows that hasn’t been said umpteen times before. Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen et al would surely have thought of something although no doubt they had their off days as well.

The week, like so many other weeks, has been gobbled up by a thousand lilliputian pursuits. While most of them have been useful pursuits, they amount to very little, certainly very little that’s reportable. Is it my lot, I sometimes wonder, to pursue mini-goals for the rest of my life or is there something that I still want to achieve apart, that is, from winning the Euromillions jackpot.

I guess it’s the kind of rhetorical question we face as we come to terms with looming septuagenarianism, when the probability of heroically rescuing grateful damsels grows remote and our best hope is to assist old ladies across the road.

I may bounce these reflections off our group of emailing ex-monks, Australians and South Africans who trained together in a novitiate west of Sydney in the sixties before falling by the wayside – or, at least, tumbling out of the monastery. Our group has recently expanded to take in a Communist parliamentary candidate in Sydney and an atheist research scientist in Queensland. We are nothing if not a heterogeneous collection of ex-monks.

On Thursday night I dreamed that I was introducing Hitler to a conference that he was about to address. As he entered the hall, I put out my hand to shake his but he gave it a dismissive half clasp before setting about his discourse. In my dream it was clear to me that Hitler did not regard me highly. I can only think that my brain was trying – unsuccessfully – to digest the BBC’s excellent series on Putin’s rise to power, the second part of which I’d watched a few hours before.

Then on Saturday night, after attending a lovely if poorly-attended concert of English music given by the Orchestra of the Algarve, I dreamed that someone gave me a cello as a gift, greatly to my surprise. At least he said it was a cello but it was huge, more like a double-base, and it instantly fell into a pool of water. I give up.

Jonesy has been taking lots more pictures. Please admire them if you’ve got this far and are going any further.

Some time ago I installed a new hit-counter on my blog, the one you can see at the top of the page. It is provided free by an outfit called StatCounter and is far the best that I have come across. There is also the professional version for those who are seriously interested in knowing who is accessing their websites.

Even so, the free version tells me how many hits the site has had, how many are repeats, what city and country they came from, the IP address of the searcher, what search term was used, what browser was used and what kind of computer (ipad or smartphone) – plus a great deal more. It’s not that I want to know all this, it just that I find it a bit scary. Little wonder that Mr Google knows more about you than you know about yourself.

Weather: unbroken sunshine. We are heading for a serious drought unless we get rain soon.

Widows: We found May bruised and shaky from a couple of falls. She lives alone in her cottage and isn’t finding it easy. A neighbour has rented a “walker” that we hope May will use.

SOMBRE ORCHID

Walks: Morning and afternoon. The dogs run free in the bush, chasing rabbits (real and imaginary) to their hearts’ content. Jones and I follow along, admiring the views to the coast and the bloom. The first orchids are out.

And while on dogs – we have taken Bobby’s old kennel around to Joachim Sousa, who was happy to have us install it in the place of the barrel housing Maggie and her puppy, Barry. (Barry is actually a she; her name derives from the barrel. Joachim calls her “borboleta”, little butterfly.) Barry adopted the kennel immediately and Maggie has followed suit. Barry now comes sprinting down the drive in the evenings to greet Jones as she arrives with treats – en route to feeding the stray 100 metres further the road.

From London we have received this picture of Llewellyn and his dogs taking the tube. Edgar, as is his wont, seats his rear on the cushion and stands his front legs on the floor. Awkward as it sounds, he appears to find it a perfectly comfortable position.

Work: Slavic has been doing a great job, using the old tiles from the Casa Nada floor to pave the steps I built some years ago from the house to the upper and lower gardens. Until now, they’ve simply been backfilled with dirt and gravel.

On Saturday Slavic and a friend arrived at the Dutch ladies’ house to prune some of their huge carob trees, one of which was threatening a passing electricity wire. I went down on the tractor to supply chainsaw, rope and ladder. Slavic declined the rope I offered him to secure himself, saying it would simply get in the way. He vanished up into the upper branches of the trees with the ease of a primate and branches came tumbling steadily down. The Dutch ladies seemed well pleased.

Natasha spent an afternoon at Barbara’s desk, trying to compose a statement in Russian. This is quite tricky on a Portuguese typewriter – her own – which lacks the letters of the Cyrillic script. But she managed to find a programme that enabled her to do this, albeit with much effort. I was able to help her frame the statement in Open Office org. She’s a quick learner, fluent in Portuguese and competent in English.

WHEN YOU CAN'T FIND A BASKET, USE YOUR INITIATIVE

I have received an assurance from Norwegian Cruise Lines (who continue to bombard us with offers following our cruise last year) that they take every safety precaution and that there is no danger of their ships capsizing. I wonder why!

Letter from Espargal: 3 of 2012

The sun is rising a little earlier than it did last week (nibbling away at my sleep-ins) and setting a little later. Not much else has changed. After a flutter of rain at the weekend, the skies have returned to their familiar deep blue and the temperatures to their comfortable January range. On our walk this morning Jonesy tried taking various pictures to illustrate the depth of this blueness, with some success, as you may judge. She’s become quite a dab hand with the camera.

On our return she attempted to snap the dogs catching the biscuits that I tossed to them. This proved more difficult as the catchers are lightning fast and the camera isn’t. Four of the six dogs are adept at such catches. The other two just look at me hopefully as the biscuits bounce off their heads.

As I was saying, the days are sunny and warm. This was noted by the accountant, whom we visited last Tuesday to submit our annual tax returns. He remarked on the (modest) income we now derive from the solar panels and said we weren’t the only clients who’d invested in them. What he couldn’t tell us was whether any tax allowance was made for such income. I somehow doubt that there’ll be any benefit, given the plight of the cash-strapped Portuguese government.

Afterwards we took ourselves a kilometre up the road to the shopping complex at Guia for a mini-raid on the new Iceland supermarket. Just outside the door a young lady was standing beside a table on which a number of items were laid out. It was clear from the badge on her lapel that she was collecting for charity. But she wasn’t the type to pester passers-by and the public was happy to look the other way. Like a statue of the virgin, the poor girl just stood and stood. So we made a contribution, more in sympathy with her plight than her cause.

Another morning we dropped in on the council to try to assist a Portuguese neighbour, old Chico (and his extraordinary partner, Dina). I should interrupt myself to say immediately that the real credit for helping Chico goes to his immediate expat neighbours, whose kindness borders on saintly. My part was just to talk Portuguese to the authorities.

The problem is that Chico’s water has been cut off because he hasn’t paid the huge water bills that he’s run up over the past two years. The trouble, Fintan tells me, is not that Chico uses a lot of water, it’s that he forgets to turn off the tap that’s filling his barrels. Chico has now received a notice threatening him with the seizure of his goods if he doesn’t pay – not that the authorities would find much to seize.

I explained the position to the clerk, who called in his boss, who called in the departmental head. The three of them were sympathetic. The question was how to reconcile the situation with bureaucratic rules. The head said that she would see if she could get the bill reduced to manageable proportions and let us know. In the meanwhile, Chico and Dina lurch 100 metres down the hill to the well with 5-litre plastic bottles and stagger up again, a bottle in each hand.

To celebrate some good news, Olive took us to lunch at the Lemon Tree restaurant in Almancil. It’s rather nice, a notch up from the places that we generally frequent. One sits in the sun-filled courtyard and briefly basks in the illusion of being important and well-cared for. The waiter, mishearing my wine order, returned with a bottle of the house red. So we sent him back to fetch the reserve. One has to set a standard after all.

Just beyond the restaurant, a couple of storks are raising their family on top of a dizzy chimney. I mention this only because it gives me the opportunity to put up this rather pleasing picture. The rest of the pictures are to Barbara’s credit.

Another luncheon was up at the family-run Hamburgo in Benafim, a regular pit-stop.
It was a relief to find a goodly crowd at the tables because the Hamburgo, like so many restaurants, has been hard-hit by the economic crisis – not to speak of the recent rise in VAT, which it’s had to absorb.

MANUEL & DAUGHTER, SELINA

In the good old days, Manuel would easily serve 30 lunches and an equal number of dinners. The previous night, he disclosed, a single diner had turned up. The restaurant was now dependent on its lunch trade and even this was much reduced by the disappearance of the building crews who had previously been a mainstay. Times are really hard.

I popped into Honda one afternoon for the replacement of the troublesome relay that has been playing silly buggers with the air conditioning. I wasn’t sure exactly what a relay looked like. Rui showed me the little plug-like object before he removed the lid of a mysterious plastic box under the bonnet and replaced the faulty unit. I confessed in embarrassment that while I had once serviced my own cars, these days I hardly knew which part of the engine was which.

On Wednesday Natalia and I worked on her phrasal verbs (which she at first pronounced “frazzle” verbs, much to my puzzlement). I had to look up phrasal verbs on Wikipedia to remind myself of their nature and variety because, like fishes and dogs, they come in many shapes and sizes.

One thing I have learned with Natalia is how impossibly unpredictable English pronunciation is. I frequently have to peer at a word in her book to make out what she is trying to say. The spelling gives little clue to the sound. Nor can one easily tell where the stress falls in a word. Portuguese is so much more consistent in these respects.

Nature is in its spring glory and so is our garden. The shoulder-high rosemary bushes lining the paths are in bloom and humming with bees. And closer to home, the purple irises compete in the beauty stakes with the white roses. What a lovely place to live!

Letter from Espargal: 2 of 2012

I know that this has been an exceedingly busy week, if only because I’m nodding off over my keyboard; when I perk up I may be able to remember some of the things that have made me so sleepy. In the meanwhile you may admire the sky and flower pictures that Jones has been snapping. She finds it hard to let our spectacular dawns pass unphotographed; ditto the blossom as the almond trees come into their January glory. Look at this great shot that she took of Dries's pigeons on a flypast.

Let me work backwards. Today, Friday, Slavic arrived at 08.30 to continue his wall-building efforts about the garden, which is starting to look ever so spruce as a result. Having set him up with sand and cement, we went walking. I whistle as we pick our way along the stony paths through the bush to keep the circling pack aware of our position. It’s so nice to let the pups run free instead of being dragged every which way.

At 11.00 Natalia turned up for the English lesson she missed on Wednesday when she stayed home to look after her daughter. Her Business English text book was on about different kinds of performance matrixes. (I'm told I should prefer "matrices") I warned her that I didn’t have the faintest idea of what a performance matrix was and that she might have to find a better qualified teacher.

Thursday evening we went up to the local for one of Graça's roast lamb specials to celebrate Anita Massey’s birthday. Anita, down from Dublin, is the eligible daughter of neighbours, Fintan and Pauline. Either side of her are her brother, David, and his fiancée, Nicole. The left-over lamb bones from the feast go into a pot of rice that Jones cooks up for the dogs, upon which they absolutely fall.

Thursday morning I took my car into Honda for the third time to see if they could sort out the air-conditioning. They’d warned me after their previous attempts that they might have to keep the car in for a couple of days while they ran tests on the electronic systems. In the interim, I rented a Seat run-around. If there’s one thing to be said for renting a run around, it’s the appreciation it brings one of the merits of one’s own vehicle.

ALMOND BLOSSOM

I was delighted to receive a call mid-afternoon saying that the problem had been traced to a faulty relay and that I could fetch the car as soon as I liked; it would take several days for the new relay to arrive from Spain. I fetched it within the hour and felt as though I’d just been upgraded from tourist to business class.

BUSY BEE

Apropos of nothing, I was collared by Honda’s expert salesman, Jorge Silva, who has already sold me two cars. I’d be excited to learn, he confided, that the new CRV model was due out in October. Was my mobile number still the same as he was sure I would like a test drive? He’s got style, Jorge Silva has!

I was warned by the car hire firm that if I used the east-west Algarve toll-road, I would be obliged to visit a post office or agency within 5 days to pay the toll arising. The car’s licence plates would be recorded on overhead cameras and in the event that the toll was not paid, the bill plus fine would be forwarded to the car hire firm, to be debited to me.

As it happens, drivers of foreign registered cars are meant to pay tolls in similar fashion. Some hope! How they are supposed to learn about the system is another matter altogether as there are no booths at on & off ramps and it’s only the overhead gantries that suggest that traffic is being monitored.

MAKE WITH THE BISCUITS

Also Thursday we called on Olive where I was able to extract a damaged plastic rocker from a broken light switch in her hall and exchange it with the rocker from a new unit. The hard bit was easing the rockers out without cracking the plastic casing. How pleasing it was to see the light go on again! That was the cleverest thing I did the whole week.

PUPS AFTER THE WALK

Another clever thing I did was to order Mark Forsyth’s Etymologicon from Amazon, whose UK deliveries are free. Jonesy brought it back from London. It’s a real treat for anyone who delights in the oddities and origins of the English language. Who would have guessed that avocado derives from the Aztec word for a testicle or partridge from the Greek for passing wind? I put the Etymologicon down on top of my German grammar book each night before I switch off the light, promising myself that I’ll come back to it in due course – when I’m feeling stronger.

My last clever thing was to phone up the Euromillions helpline to discover how to place bets for several successive weeks. A patient and helpful operator talked me through the process. It’s possible to place a bet for up to 12 weeks. Then all one has to do is sit back and wait for the money to roll in. Regrettably, that won’t be tonight as a glance at the Euromillions website shows that we lost our money yet again.

Rather more worryingly, the TV news informs us that 9 nations in the Eurozone have had their credit ratings downgraded – in Portugal’s case to junk status. That is not good news. In fact it’s somewhat alarming. Sympathetic readers eager to make supportive sterling, rand or dollar donations – even better, the Chinese yuan - can be assured of the utmost discretion.

ALMOND TREE IN BLOOM

Wednesday Natasha, Slavic and I set about a huge clear-up of the mountains of cuttings that I’d been piling up in the park. The day was perfect, with hardly a breath of wind to disturb the smoke arising from the flames. The days before and since have been equally perfect, much to Jones’s discomfiture. The first thing she wants to know in the morning, when she brings in toast and coffee, is whether there’s any sign of rain. I check the 10-day forecast on my smart phone. We’ve been promised showers several times but they’re always due the day after tomorrow.

BJ IN LONDON

Let me skip over Tuesday and Monday since my memory doesn’t extend that far, except to the usual English classes and widow duty. Sunday evening was when Jones came back from the UK. I met her at the airport and took her to a toasted sandwich supper at the Coral before bringing her home to the spotless house that Natasha had spent the whole day cleaning in anticipation. Unfortunately, the results don’t last very long but that’s life. Or, more accurately, that’s six dogs.

Letter from Espargal: 1 of 2012

Jones is away for a few days. (This handsome picture of her with Lucia at the Westfield shopping centre in London has just popped up on my screen, courtesy of Llewellyn). I have been working so hard in her absence that today I found it necessary to take two siestas. The first was really just a breath catcher that didn’t qualify; I tip myself over the arm of the leather settee in the lounge and fight off the dogs, who think it’s an invitation for a love-in. The second took account of the numerous buckets of turvena that Slavic had been passing over the fence to me to scatter on the path.

Turvena is a gravel-based road-surfacing compound that compacts to form a hard surface. It’s used on all the dirt roads around here. I’ve been laying it down on the tractor track that runs to the lower fields, as well as surfacing various paths that otherwise tend to become overgrown with weeds. This often involves parking the tractor outside the fence and getting Slavic to heave buckets of turvena over the wire into my waiting arms.

Slavic, ignoring my pensioner status, fills the buckets to the brim; I’m too proud to ask him to do otherwise. The result is aching limbs, wobbly knees, creaking hips and the need for that extra siesta. Even so, we have got a lot done – garden remodelling, wall-building, path construction and the siting of some huge rocks in the rockery outside the front gate. My aches are satisfying aches. And Slavic appears to derive a good deal of creative satisfaction from the work as well.

Also satisfying has been the eventual pay-out to Olive by a UK fund of the benefits accrued by her former husband. The process of extracting the investment has been long, bureaucratic and inefficient – much form filling, phoning and letter-writing. These pains were forgotten as Olive proudly displayed and then banked the cheque this week.

Because Jones is away, I have assumed her responsibilities for a few days. The first of these is to feed the cats in the morning. Dearheart is the grey and white job on the pillow here with her brother, Braveheart. Her enermy and victim, the poor Squinty, along with a lookalike, have adopted the Bijou Ensuite as their permanent lodgings. They come trotting down the stairs to enjoy their nibbles. Then I water the indoor plants and give the lounge a quick vacuum.

In the afternoon, I amble down the path to feed Maggie and her pup, as well as the stray and old Zeferino’s cat. This is a handsome muscular tom that could easily mug you if you forgot the nibbles. Close by, Maggie still shies away from me at the end of her chain although she no longer barks.

Barry, her puppy comes roly-polying out of the barrel and down into my arms. Poor little beast; I hope it faces a better future than its mother. Fifty metres down the road, the stray waits in the bush until I’ve put down a handful of dog biscuits – and then quickly moves in to demolish them. The stray is starting to look quite debonair.

I have taken the plunge and allowed the pups to run free on our walks. So far so good. They rush around madly with the other four, nosing through the bush, and yapping excitedly at the hint of a rabbit or a partridge. We follow a leisurely 40 minute route that they know well. Thus far they haven’t gone astray. Fingers crossed.

We have a new postman; that’s to say, a postwoman. Her name is Patricia (pronounced Pa-TREE-sia). I bumped into her in the parish office where I had gone to fetch a document issuing an invitation to a South African cousin to visit us. I didn’t mention that en route I had discovered a neighbour’s letter erroneously deposited in our postbox; Patricia is new and needs time to settle in.

When I inquired after the previous postman, the parish office ladies explained that posties work on 6-month contracts. After six months on a particular patch, they either move to a new area or seek other work. I was unpleasantly surprised. Not only does the system offer no job security, it means that the postmen are forever having to learn new routes. I don’t know how they manage. Many of the names on the postboxes in the village are all but illegible.

The Portuguese Met Office has sent me an email informing me that December was exceptionally dry. It was hardly necessary. Winter is a joke. Sunny day follows sunny day with no relief in sight. Afternoon temps hover around C20*. The flies are already making a comeback. The tourists have never had it so good.

As you may be aware, I find myself, like Moses, a participant – often unwilling - in some exotic dreams. I’m frequently back at work, generally with no desk or computer to work at or running late for broadcast. Such dreams may be explained easily enough, I’m well aware, but a recent dream was absolutely ridiculous.

This was a potentially romantic interlude with a delightfully seductive young woman whose demeanour made it plain that she found me equally attractive - don’t laugh. As she slid closer with unmistakeable intent, I bid her stop. I thought that we should go no further, I explained, without feeling some commitment to each other, even if that commitment were not to last. But since any such commitment was lacking on my side, I felt we ought to call a halt to proceedings. It was really a fine speech and I woke with the words still loud in my head the following morning. What happened to the young lady I can’t tell you. But I somehow doubt that she'll be back.