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.
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