Letter from Espargal: 8 of 2012

The week began with a funeral, that of a man we vaguely knew, whose ever helpful sister, Ana, works in the parish office. It was really on her behalf that we wanted to put in an appearance. Her brother, Vitor Borge, was a designer who worked with the local architect; he was 49 and he suffered from epilepsy. He died from complications arising from an attack.

There was a huge Sunday afternoon turn-out of townsfolk, who followed the cortege a mile from the church on one side of the town to the cemetery on the other. I think it’s a great way to send somebody off, and a pity only that the deceased is unable to witness the regard in which he was held.

Jones says she hadn’t been to as many funerals in all her years as here in Espargal in recent times. I reminded her that we’re not getting any younger although, as in the case of the unfortunate Vitor Borge, comparative youthfulness comes with no guarantees.

My Monday English lesson was cancelled to allow for carnival. The festivities could be heard booming across the valley from distant Alte. We gave the carnival a miss but we took May to lunch as usual. She recalled her first visit to Loule carnival with Harry, who had been severely put out to be struck by an egg. Half the fun for kids is to hurl eggs or flour bombs at the unwary, which is one of the reasons we leave it to the younger generation.

Our favourite lunch venue is a restaurant called Campina (a prairie, meadow or field) on the far side of Loule. We’ve been going there for years. The principal waitress, Cristina, knows us well and has the table laid with our usual bottle of wine waiting by the time we get inside. She is super-efficient.

After lunch I fell into conversation with Eugenio, the owner. We both lamented the endlessly sunny days and the now severe drought afflicting the country. He took me outside to show me the damage that the frost had done to his peppers. They’d been wiped out although not before he had picked the peppers to make piri-piri sauce. The formula, he explained, was peppers, olive oil and whisky. And when he learned that Jones was fond of the fiery stuff, he presented me with a bottle, instructing me to top it up with whisky – which I have done.

Tuesday we joined Olive, who is preparing to let out her house to holiday makers while she spends six months in the UK. Natasha and Slavic were both working away, putting finishing touches to the house and garden.

Wednesday the pair of them arrived here. Inevitably, following Natasha’s window cleaning the previous week, we’d had a mini-shower that did nothing for the garden but thoroughly mussed up the windows. Mary, who spends a great deal of time staring out through the study window and giving little worried barks at the tossing branches, found the dribbling rivulets equally troubling.

Slavic has been touching up the gates and iron railings as well as working on more paths. Jones and I have been using a paint roller to soak the absorbent path tiles with linseed oil to foil the bird bombers. The oil brings out the colour of the tiles as well as protecting them.

I have sanded down our garden benches and given them a coat of paint as well. They look splendid, sitting on Slavic’s newly-tiled patio-island under an olive tree.

Slavic returned on Thursday and Friday, building Jonesy a delightful slate path through the south garden.

The problem with all these improvements is the speed with which we come to take them for granted. For a few days they are a novelty, thereafter just part of the scenery. But one is always conscious of the tasks that remain to be done. Like crocodiles' teeth, they line up behind one another, new ones emerging to replace the old.

Also on Thursday Manuel arrived by truck, first with a load of stone-dust and then with a load of cobbles, both of which were deposited at the bottom of the drive-way, to be ferried up later by tractor. Manuel is a builder, introduced to us by Celso at the Coral as someone who could lay cobbles.

You might think that laying cobbles is pretty unsophisticated stuff but like so many jobs it’s much harder than it looks. Getting the levels right takes expertise and tamping the stones down requires a special machine. Work is due to begin on Monday on a patio extension in front of the house. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two. If we’re happy, we may well ask Manuel to quote us for cobbling a much bigger area in front of Casa Nada.

Jones is eating her heart out over Barry’s fate – Barry is Maggie’s fast-growing puppy, both of them on Jones’s feed list each evening. Until a few days ago, Barry ran free although she stayed close to Maggie, who is secured on a run in front of Joachim’s garage. Then Barry went and caught one of Joachim’s chickens and found herself secured as well.

Joachim said he would let her off the chain at night when the chickens roost in trees. But Jones is not reassured and we wonder whether we have might space for any more dogs. (Yes, we’re crazy; we know we can’t save them all!) Apart from anything else, both bitches need to be neutered if they are not to produce more unwanted litters.

I have nearly finished The Plain English Guide by Martin Cutts, a book I obtained from the Griffin book store in Almancil, which – sadly – is closing down. It’s not so much that I feel in need of learning how to write plain English as of putting off the evil day when I feel compelled to return to the German for Dummies that lies beneath. Procrastination is the mother of ....well, something or other.

Letter from Espargal: 7 of 2012

Wednesday night: the house sleeps; I’m about to go down and fetch Prickles, who otherwise comes whining to the bed in the early hours, pleading to be escorted to his favourite chair in the study (in case it’s already occupied by a cat).

WATCHING TV

On TV all sorts of clever people have been debating whether Greece will leave the euro – and what will happen if it does; I am more concerned with any domino effect.
A return to the Portuguese escudo would not be welcome.

My internet is down, for the first time in months. I don’t know whether the problem lies with the router or the line. In the meanwhile I can still log on with a connect pen but I can’t afford the kind of leisurely surfing that generally fills a pleasant hour before bed.

Natasha and Slavic have long since departed. Slavic spent the day working on a stepped path through the south garden. He builds excellent steps. Each riser is made of rocks and each tread dressed with tiles. Mini-barricades of thorny espargo (wild asparagus) bar entry to the dogs, who like nothing more than to inspect developments, stamping their paw-prints into the wet concrete as they go.

After spending the morning cleaning the ground floor of the house (Jones does the upper floor), Natasha joined Barbara in the park to do some cutting back. We don’t plant anything in the park – a fenced hectare of hillside beyond the garden – nature takes care of that. But we do try to keep it trim.

Midway through my English lesson with Natalya on the south patio, Fintan dropped in with 5 litres of moonshine for us; it was a gift from an elderly Portuguese neighbour whom the pair of us had assisted to sort out water supply problems. Jones was delighted to have it as her baggy stock was running low. (My tastes are more expensive.)

Moonshine in these parts comes mainly as either fig liquor or bagaceira (distilled from the grape husks); mixed with coke and a generous squeeze of lemon, they taste pretty much the same; their effect is pretty similar too. There is also a great variety of brandies as well as my favourite aguadente, medronho.

At my weekly English class at the senior university, we talked about a programme to supply guard dogs to goat and sheep farmers in the mountains, whose flocks are threatened by wolves. “O lobo”, whose numbers were severely reduced by shooting and poisoning, is now protected by law and is doing well. Inevitably, the predators are prone to taking livestock. Although farmers are compensated for their losses, the money is slow in coming. The dogs being issued to the farmers are from rare breeds that were once raised specifically to guard the flocks.

As we talked about such things, the subject of wild boar arose. These animals roam the Portuguese hills in their thousands although they are nocturnal and seldom seen. Old Ignacio said he’d seen lots of them. In fact, he’d shot two the previous night. He and his companions put down bait - a substance that the animals love to roll in – before retiring to a hide in the moonlight. When the pigs came along for a wallow, the hunters potted nine of them – or so Ignacio said. I’ve no reason to doubt him.

GARDEN LOOKING GOOD

After the lesson, at the prompting of a neighbour, I went along to the headquarters of the electricity department In Loule to ask what they were doing about our electricity supply. Between six and ten in the evenings it’s simply dreadful. The lights dim, the television blurs and the computer complains. So have we, often enough, without seeing any improvement. One dare not turn on the oven or microwave for fear of tripping the system. We suffer most as our house is at the end of the line.

At the EDP headquarters I was shown into the office of an engineer to whom I explained our predicament in my very best Portuguese. (I’d checked the relevant vocabulary with my pupils beforehand.) After making a phone call to ascertain the situation, he assured me that the EDP were fully aware of it. They were upping the supply from the local transformer asap, he assured me, and planning to install a second transformer closer to the village in the coming months. This good news I was able to convey to our long-suffering neighbours.

Friday pm: It’s clouding over. There’s a remote chance of a shower. It would be very welcome. We are desperate for rain. But ideally, we’d like one after five pm when Slavic finishes. He’s been tiling an area under the trees in the south garden where we like to sit out in the summer evenings. It makes for a little island of shady serenity.

In the meanwhile, the birds have been decorating Slavic’s paths and steps. I suspect the azure-winged magpies although I haven’t actually caught them in the act. The culprits invade the olive trees to feast on the fruit before leaving inky stains all over the tiles below. As the tiles are absorbent, the spots are the very devil to remove. Not that I intend to try. There’s no point in going against nature. Far better to see the effect as an avian Jackson Pollock creation.

Thursday we took Olive and her daughter, Ann, to look at furniture. From a store on the far side of Olhao, where they made their purchases, we continued to the small resort of Fuzeta for lunch in the sun. The place looked sleepy, apart from a randy dog that was honing his skills – from both ends – on a pal (also male) outside the restaurant. Few tourists were around and nobody minded. Fellow lunchers appeared to hail from the motor-caravans parked down near the beach. The restaurateur was German and the food was excellent.

En route, I stopped at the computer shop in Loule to ask Rui kindly to check out my router. When I collected it at the end of the day, he reported that it was working normally. So I took it home and reconnected it – and voilà, my internet link came back. I’ve no idea what the problem was, neither do I care as long as the line holds. What is life without an internet connection?

Letter from Espargal: 6 of 2012

Every now and then something small and marvellous happens, an insignificant event that really lifts one spirits. And such was the case last weekend as I was turning over the soil in our large field. We’ve had no rain at all this year and the ground was exceptionally hard. This was perhaps for this reason that an egret glided down and began stalking along barely a metre behind the scarifier blades, stabbing into the furrows as he went. He was beautiful and I felt really privileged to be in his company.

He followed the tractor faithfully and fearlessly for several minutes until, much to my annoyance, he was chased off by a neighbour’s dogs. The dogs were just doing what dogs do. But I did wish that they’d leave my egret alone.

Later, when I returned to my task, I was joined – not by one – but by three egrets. They were not as bold as my former companion and kept their distance. Even so, I was delighted to have their company and to be able to provide them with a snack. I have often been followed by a robin when turning over the soil but never before by egrets.

That night, Jones and I had more company, more than we needed. A breezy evening grew gradually windier until we found ourselves sheltering from a fully-fledged gale. The force of the wind was quite frightening. I managed to close most of our large shutters, which are otherwise liable to get ripped right out of their hinges. It was hard to concentrate on either the TV or the radio.

We could hear items being hurled around the cobbles and something clattered heavily from time to time on our roof. I think it was part of the solar water-heater.

Slavic and I later went up to discover the culprit – without success. We doubly secured and insulated the pipework that might have been responsible. We’ll have to wait for the next gale to see what success we had.

The storm left all our animals deeply uneasy, unable to relax and unwilling to lie down. Little Prickles was impossible. Jonesy eventually took him into bed with her. Ono was already there, so was Dearheart, the cat. And Mary was on the carpet beside the bed. There was barely room under the duvet for two humans. We lay in the dark for what seemed like hours as the furious winds gradually blew themselves out. In the morning we found our possessions strewn about the cobbles.

To make matters more complicated, the electricity supply was so poor after nightfall that we and a neighbour both phoned the EDP’S 24-hour complaint line. A sympathetic official noted the situation and said he would send out a team to check. Thirty minutes later two fellows in yellow jackets arrived on the scene. They had tested the supply at the bottom of the village, they told us – shouting above the wind - and had found it seriously wanting. They promised to try to remedy the situation the following day. We know the cause of the problem: we’re too far from the nearest transformer and we doubt that things will improve much until a new one is installed but we certainly can’t complain about the service.

Wednesday: The Met Office warns us to expect another big chill until at least the start of next week. It’s cold; close to freezing overnight. I wore seven layers today – I counted them – while driving the tractor and working with Slavic in the garden. He was pretty warmly dressed too. He continues to improve our paths and garden steps as well as repairing the crumbling walls of the old sheep- and pig-pens.

These were built in traditional fashion by the farmers who originally lived here, some just of stone and others of stone with clay as a bond. They've done pretty well in spite of their fragility; they must be at least 50 years old. But under pressure of the elements they do appreciate a little tlc from time to time.

Also immersed in several layers was Natasha, who was cleaning the large windows on the south patio. She didn’t thank me for taking this picture. Women liked to prettify themselves before being photographed, she explained, and she didn’t feel at her best. I informed her that I never felt at my best, not where pictures are concerned. I always look a lot funnier than I feel.

Here are some flowers that Jones rescued from a supermarket. She feels a strong bond with flowers and communicates with them. I heard her reassuring these that they’d soon be sitting happily in the sun. And so they are. It didn’t sound corny, at all. The BBC reported this week on how plants alert one another to possible dangers. (Read it for yourself if you don’t believe me: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-16916474) I talk to the animals all the time – and they sure make their feelings clear in return.

Portugal is gearing up for carnival, which it always does to mark the start of Lent. (I thought the name came from the Latin, “carne vale”, meaning a farewell to meat. But according to Wikipedia, one can choose from several rival etymological explanations.) February is a silly time to hold street processions in Europe but that’s how it is.

The floats are pretty racy, some of them, and the girls riding on them don’t leave much to the imagination, in spite of the cold weather. This picture shows a huge “rabano”(French turnip or black radish, according to my dictionary) that a local worthy had carved in anticipation of the celebrations. Its owner cut a slice for us to taste - a bit like a radish, said Jones. I took her word for it.

Letter from Espargal: 5 of 2012

It’s quite cold. The Arctic air mass that’s frozen most of the continent solid is breathing down Iberia’s neck. True the day temps are still into double figures – this is the Algarve, after all - and you can doze in the sun streaming through the windows on the south patio.

On the other side of the house, however, the wind from the north is bitter, cutting through layers of clothing. We found the dogs’ water bowl frozen over when we emerged to go walking this morning. Jones looked more like an Eskimo (however they’re spelled or whatever they’re called these days) than an Algarvian.

She hates being cold.

It’s hard to imagine what conditions are like in eastern Europe where scores of people have been freezing to death. Cathy reports from a deep-frozen Berlin that the Gohdeses have turned all their radiators up high for the first time.

Here, the dogs have been huddled around the fire that does such sterling service warming the house. We daily give thanks for the wood-burning stove. It’s brilliant – cosy, comforting and company as well as an economic heat source. The Portuguese Met Office, which sends me its daily forecasts and weather warnings, informs us of “the persistence of low values of the minimum temperature”. If only it were warning us of rain! Our drought grows serious.

Outside, Slavic has kept his leather zip-up jacket on as he works to improve our steps, stone borders and paths. These days I fetch him up from the bus just after nine and drop him back at the bus-stop shortly after five. He used to arrive by car but he damaged it in an accident and says it’s not worth repairing.

I don’t know exactly what happened – he’s not a very talkative guy - but it seems that he came off the road and hit a tree or something – not another vehicle - just as traffic police were approaching from the other direction. And it also seems that he’d had a few drinks beforehand. The bottom line is that he’s lost his licence for six months as well as his car. Fortunately he suffered no injury, nor has the quality of his work diminished.

MARIA & BJ - OLD PICTURE

Jones has trotted up the road to see Maria, who inevitably plies her with cake while Joachim ladles out fig liquor to accompany it. Fig liquor and cake make for a perfectly acceptable tea, especially when consumed around Maria’s kitchen stove. Maria is always pleased to have company. She is semi-housebound, victim of a bad hip and an operation that didn’t improve things. She’s a cheery soul nonetheless and we owe her much. It was she that we bumped into as we sought a new house around the turn of the century, and who pointed us to the property we now occupy.

One afternoon we drove 15 minutes across the hills to Alte to take in an exhibition of cork objects at the local museum cum library. It turned out to be a very small exhibition, occupying just a single table, but worth seeing for all that. The objects were carved by a villager who is apparently recovering from some grave illness and finds his hobby therapeutic.

I can’t show you pictures of Sonia, the museum’s diminutive curator, who declined to be photographed, nor of her husband, Francisco, our former postman, who spends his spare hours sculpting and painting. He invited us to visit his house to look at his works, an invitation I’d like to take up at some point.

I’m taking this opportunity to illustrate a Ferrari that was parked in the street beside the fish market in Alte, the only kind that I’m ever in any danger of owning.

And this is the kind of ad that I can live with – forgive me if you’ve seen similar. It reads: “Don’t break (the glass); In case of emergency, enter and ask for one.”

While I’m on pictures, let me stick up a couple of the Aussie ex-monks with whom I correspond. Tez, the man in the first picture, is a keen photographer who normally posts pictures of birds. But he has also been keen on snakes for years, as he’s happy to demonstrate.

Not to be outdone, Doug, who owns a couple of acres up in Queensland, has his own visiting pythons to deal with and is equally relaxed with them.

He writes: “this species, if handled carefully is harmless. They're plentiful around here. I found one in the rafters of our shed the other day. The wet weather brings them in and they hunt down the rodents. They do tend to defecate etc while sitting high for days and the smell becomes quite pungent.” There you have it.

I have finished The Etymologicon. What a brilliant read! I love discovering derivations such as “bankrupt” – from banca rotta, broken bench, which is what happened to the benches of early Italian money lenders who failed to honour their pledges. In my next life I’m going to be a wealthy eccentric speaking at least half a dozen languages fluently, that’s if global warming and financial crises haven’t wiped us all out.

We went to see The Descendants. We thought it well done although hardly deserving of all the hype. I was interested as much in the Hawaiian scenery as the plot. There are several other films we’ve noted down. One of them was to be The (much lauded) Artist but I’m reserving my position after hearing from Cathy that she and friends found it greatly disappointing.

Otherwise, it’s more of the usual stuff. Jones has been worrying about Maggie and Barry surviving these freezing nights, and has added an old blanket to their kennel.

On the home front, Mary has won her battle to join the upstairs dogs in spite of Jones’s best efforts to keep her downstairs. She said she couldn't handle any more dogs upstairs. We tried blocking the stairs but then the upstairs dogs complained that they couldn’t get down for a pee.

THIS IS THE LIFE

They’d come nosing through into the bedroom at 02.00 asking for us to remove the obstacles. So we gave up. Jones says I didn’t try hard enough. It’s true. Mary is very seductive and I’m a sucker.