Letter from Espargal: 28 of 2012

If our entry into heaven depended on the week's deeds, our application might look something like this. Monday: In spite of the heatwave under which Portugal sizzles, we are committed to taking May into Faro to do a little personal shopping. After dropping her and Barbara at the Algarve Forum,

I continue into central Faro, where the Nokia shop is located. For once, we have gritted our teeth and left the beseeching dogs behind. You can't shut dogs in a car, even with the windows open, when it's C37*. The Nokia shop is down near the seafront, a five minute walk from the underground car park.

The attendant there takes a close look at what remains of Jonesy's phone, which Barri has given a good chewing. By a miracle, the essential parts are undamaged and all the rest can be replaced. I wait 15 mins for a technician to do the necessary. He asks for €37 euros and returns the phone. It looks as good as new.

Back to the Forum to fetch May and Barbara. May clutches a bag of ladies' undies. We head to Almancil for a bite of lunch and grocery shopping. There's not a hint of a breeze. The sky is leaden and the air is heavy. I sometimes wonder whether global freezing would be kinder than global warming - not that we'll get to vote on it.

Tuesday: We plan a visit to Fatacil, the big industrial show 30 minutes away on the coast at Lagoa. Natasha phones to ask if she can work today rather than tomorrow because of a mix-up at her usual Tuesday venue. That's fine by us. Her mobile phone is playing up and I give her my old Nokia N95. It was once a world beater.

We make it to Fatacil that evening, just in time to find parking on the roadside. The show is popular; thousands of people turn up for the 10-day run. We skip the main dining area in favour of a corner specialising in smoked ham and cheese sandwiches. These taste wonderful, washed down with cold red wine.

As usual, I snap away with the camera. What you can't see is the kid holding the string attached to the balloon that's looming over his parents. Our aim is to find the stall selling the ceramics made by our neighbour, Ze Carlos, but we fail. Jones steers me away from the stalls selling the hyper-expensive, sleep-guaranteed mattresses.

Instead we purchase a copper brolly stand to replace the rickety wicker basket that holds my collection of walking sticks on the front patio. The salesman, a copper worker from upcountry, is delighted with the sale. Although the crowds are heavy, there's little commerce. People have come mainly for the entertainment.

Wednesday: Another scorcher! We have an appointment with our Iranian optometrist. Jones has decided that she needs new specs - and about time. I want photochromic lenses. I'm forever swapping my dark specs for my ordinary specs in the car. Membership of the local expat association brings a welcome 25% discount.

I spend a couple of hours outside on the patio repairing the folding chairs that Barri has nibbled. The wretch has chewed the front of the elasticised webbing making up the seats. I sew lengths of reinforcing ribbon along the leading edge of each chair. The electric fan hums away beside the table to provide a relieving breeze.

Thursday: Morning walk: We're down to our last mid-point 5-litre bottle of water. Jones uses two bottles a day, pouring one into a bucket (from which the dogs first refresh themselves) and the other in a rocky hollow. In the heat, the bees go mad for the moisture. Twigs in the water ensure that the bees can clamber out.

We fill the bottles from a water barrel that I take around on the tractor. Jones walks across the hill to meet me at the water point and help with the exercise. The bees buzz round impatiently, swooping on to the drops leaking from the hose. Jones rides home side-saddle on the tractor.

Mid-morning we travel into Benafim for refreshments. Celso is up a ladder repairing his awning. He's a man for all seasons. As usual, we order coffee and share a cake. Half a cake once or twice a week is permitted on my bespoke diet. I'm still shedding weight, albeit at a gentle rate. Jones says that's the best way.

We have arranged to dine with our friends, Mike and Lyn, newly-arrived from the UK. The Hamburgo's swordfish is excellent. The restaurant fills up as the evening wears on. We are pleased for the owners, Manuel and Graca, who have found the going tough this year. Many restaurants have already closed.

Kayleigh has spent a morning helping us to collect carobs. I am able to deliver another tractor-load down the road. The dogs and Kayleigh run a mutual adoration society. Mind you, the hounds have a knack of being able to check their admirers' pockets for biscuits while indulging in such exchanges of affection.

Letter from Espargal: 27 of 2012

In August it is difficult in Espargal not to write about being hot and collecting carobs because that's what nearly everyone is and does. The fields are thick with thwacking branches and dropping carobs while the roads groan with grundling tractors. Everybody is out picking carobs. Serious carob pickers -

farmers with plantations - start at 6.30, take a break for lunch and go out again in the afternoon, returning with tractors piled high with sacks, often with spouse perched precariously on top. My spouse isn't into perching but she's a jolly good tree climber, here being assisted by Kayleigh, the daughter of visiting friends.

Jones and I permit ourselves a relaxed picking regime, generally an hour or so after our morning walk and the same again as the day cools down. The dogs helpfully wee on the carobs to show us where they lie, assistance that Jones would much rather do without. She goes armed with two mini-rakes to remove the surprising

amounts of dog poo that collect under the trees. By the end of the week, we have a respectable load of carobs to take down the road to Ermenio's cellar. The approach to his cellar is via the workshop on the upper floor. We carry the baskets through the workshop and then tip the carobs into the cellar through the hole that you can see below.

Right now, the cellar holds just a few cubic metres. By the end of the picking season in a couple of months, it will be brimful. Some farmers stack their carobs in sacks but it takes more strength than I've got to hoist a 40kg sack of carobs on to a pile higher than one's head. The question farmers face is whether to sell immediately to one of the local dealers or to hang on in the hope of a better price later.

With the carobs safely deposited, Ermenio led us to the mini-museum that he has been building up in his wine cellar one level below. Most of the old implements on the walls we'd seen before. But we hadn't seen was his growing collection of natural sculptures, derived from the stumps and roots of a wild bush.

He cleans and dries the stumps before varnishing them, to produce the amazing ornaments that you can see on the barrels. He was merely enhancing nature's handiwork, he remarked, for no human artists could render such interesting shapes. As is customary on such occasions, we raised a glass to one another's health before taking our leave.

I have to confess that I generally find the local wines a bit rough but Ermenio's home-produced fortified wine is something else. He'd added grape-spirit and sugar in roughly calculated proportions to his red wine to produce a port-like blend which I found most acceptable. My appreciation must have showed for we came away with five litres of it.

Next door to Ermenio reside the Faisca family, who are also hard-working farmers. While Joachim is out on his tractor, his wife, Natércia (an anagram of Caterina, from the poet Camões), is often to be found tending the superb array of flowers that she cultivates in front of the house. Barbara stopped to ask her about some unusual ones and came home with several of them.

To my astonishment, Natércia turned out to be a reader of my blog. She'd been using Google Translate to turn the script into Portuguese, she said, but had recently been unable to - a problem that was, fortunately, easily resolved. But I did wonder what Google (and she) made of my less conventional constructions and made-to-fit words.

On a change of theme: Each time we go out, Russ drags his blanket from the back patio on to the cobbles and proceeds to chew holes in it, generally with a little help from his playmate, Barri. For a time Barbara and our ever patient house-sitters tried repairing the damage. But the time came when there wasn't much left to repair.

In fact, when we returned from supper in Loule last night, there wasn't anything left but shreds. Better old blankets than Jones's garden! Last night's outing was to a new Indian restaurant that's just opened. The food was good. Jones is particularly fond of Indian food - she likes it hot; I'm a mild man myself - and I imagine that we'll be going back.

What else, you might ask. Well there isn't any else. This is the Algarve in August. We're bracing ourselves for next week's heatwave and that's quite enough for the moment.

Letter from Espargal: 26 of 2012

This is a time when I should be very pleased to be somewhere cooler. Behind me, the study fan is grinding its way noisily through an arc. Downstairs, the fan we acquired this morning is doing the same thing in the living room. With temps close to C40*, I couldn't see us surviving the weekend without it. At the hypermarket a queue of people waited to place their bets on the Euromillions draw this evening, with a jackpot of some €200 million. Oh! the lure of lucre!

The season of carob-picking is upon us. The black pods have started falling and we have begun collecting them. We try to fill a tub each day. That takes about four hours of labour. I either stand and pluck them from the lower branches or kneel to pick them up, carefully avoiding the thorns as I do so. Bending is not my thing.

Jones is rather more flexible and agile. So, like Jack Sprat and his wife, we get along. Once the tubs are full, we tractor them down the road to Ermenio's cellar. For his part, Ermenio brings us generous loads of melons, peppers and whatever else he's growing. It's a great understanding.

Last weekend Benafim held its annual fair. From the community centre that hosts the event, I took this picture of Espargal hill, with our (brown) house visible upper left. Just to the right of it is Casa Nada (white), which houses the workshop, the tractor and the Bijou Ensuite. Jones spent a day cleaning the suite for two guests - the overflow from a group staying locally - who didn't arrive. We didn't mind. Neither did the cats who occupy it.

At the fair one purchases tickets for the drinks and dishes of choice. These are collected at various points and consumed at tables surrounding the dance floor. The evening was quite chilly for once and the girls were grateful for wraps or jackets. We were among the early birds. People continued to turn up late into the night.

As the music started, this little girl took to the floor to give her own spontaneous performance, clapping her hands to the melody before breaking into an impromptu dance. I was both fascinated and touched by her dancing, so natural and unselfconscious.

As she whirled to the music, I thought of Herod's daughter doing the same thing in rather different circumstances a couple of millennia ago - and that the father of this little girl should have been equally delighted with his daughter's performance.

It also occurred to me that to take pictures of other people's children without permission is a dubious business. So I was pleased to find a column from the Telegraph, saying: "...the Home Office...assured me that there is no law against taking photographs of other people's children, provided you do not harass or harm them."

What exactly the law is in Portugal, I don't know. Anyhow, the little girl, suddenly becoming aware of herself dancing all alone, grew nervous and looked around for her family. Whoever they are, I'd be glad to offer them the pictures as a memory of the occasion. What a pity it is that innocence has such a short shelf-life!

MITTAGONG NOVITIATE, NEW SOUTH WALES

As it happens, the group of former monks with whom I correspond - guys I trained with in the early 60s - have been comparing notes on child abuse in the Marist schools. One ex-monk was recounting instances when he warned his superiors of misbehaviour, only to have his warnings ignored or see the miscreants transferred elsewhere. It's hard to come to terms with, especially as we knew some of the subsequent abusers. Our correspondent group now includes atheists, agnostics and believers. Makes for interesting exchanges.

Back to the fair: Supper over, the dancing began, led by an accordionist - top right - hitched up to the usual electronics. The country Portuguese love dancing, the women more than the men, so it's not uncommon to find females dancing together when they lack male partners. Jones and I have found that dancing is not an activity essential to our happiness.

She and Pauline enjoy watching the dancers and engaging in those perceptive female observations about garb, expressions and styles. One can't help noticing the differences in approach between the long-established couples and the newcomers.

Sunday morning the gang gathers for brunch at the Coral. A toasted sandwich crowned with a fried egg is the most popular call, followed by coffee and perhaps a reflective medronho. We introduced Sarah's guests to medronho, and they certainly seemed favourably impressed.

I've no idea who this character is but for years he's been turning up to the cafe thus informally dressed. Although I'm not exactly a formal dresser myself, I do harbour certain doubts about the propriety of such navel displays. Mind you, in these parts it can be hard to say what propriety is. There is no standard dress for formal occasions;

it's a case of whatever you're comfortable with.
We have entertained and been entertained by our intermittent Dutch neighbours, Henk and Early. Like Jonesy, Early is an enthusiastic gardener whose efforts speak for themselves. Henk is a retiring dermatologist, with a practice in Holland, who is coming to appreciate the merits of village life in the Algarve.

It's time for my siesta. Maybe it will be a little cooler when I wake. If we win that Euromillions jackpot tonight I'm going to buy an aircraft capable of transporting 7 dogs, 4 cats and a couple of humans. And a house somewhere high in the hills, where it's cool in summer. For as quoth the ancient mariner:

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean

Letter from Espargal: 25 of 2012

Good Friday morning: It's a most beautiful one, with the white houses of Benafim on the far side of the valley almost clear enough to touch. We are back from our walk. The dogs are still catching their breath. The Portuguese Met Office has just sent me an email warning that today and tomorrow are going to be scorchers. We are grateful for the brisk breeze.

Thursday afternoon brought a new fire in the hills to the east of us. Three helicopters were buzzing around, water-bombing it. It was much bigger than the picture (taken from our patio) indicates, but tiny compared to the devastating blazes that destroyed thousands of hectares last month. I had an email from a British fund-raiser, attaching a letter from grateful fire-fighters for the large donation that he had made to them.

Most of the pictures that follow are from the Sao Bras fair - of which more later. First, a little tale!

SUPPER SCENE

Our car came with an alarm system, albeit a very basic system that I never paid the least attention to. And, as it happens, a few weeks ago I removed the small toolkit that I used to carry in the boot – on the grounds that there was no point in carrying tools for an engine I didn’t begin to fathom.

Last Monday I was snoozing in the car under the trees beside a busy road in Loule while Jones and May enjoyed a leisurely lunch nearby. I locked the doors, partially opened the windows for fresh air, ensured that the dogs were snug in the back seat and dozed off.

Some time later, I was woken by the ting of an SMS from Jones to say they’d finished lunch. So I sat up and tried to start the engine. At that point the car decided that it was being stolen and the alarm began to wail.

The noise was shattering and I had not the faintest idea how to stop it. There was nothing helpful in the bulky instruction book. Nor did I have a shifting spanner with which to disconnect the battery. So there I stood, like an idiot, scratching my head. Fortunately, the public ignored me and the racket. For all they cared, I could have stolen every car in the street.

Along came Jones and May, who decided there was nothing they could do to help – and took themselves shopping.

A phone call to Honda’s emergency line went through to a woman who said she would send a pick-up truck to rescue me. No! she didn’t know how to turn the alarm off.

Nor did the receptionist at Honda in Faro; sorry, her technical colleague was out of the office. Please call back later!

I was saved by a passing technician, a man who had installed our solar-water heaters, who recognised me and saw my predicament. Remarking that he had several times encountered a similar problem, he disconnected the battery. This at least restored peace to the area. Another phone call to Honda brought the assurance that the pick-up truck was on its way. There was nothing to do but wait.

Having availed ourselves of a hedge for relief – that’s Ono, Prickles and I - we settled down to make the best of it. It seemed like a long wait. Eventually, the pick-up truck driver arrived.

I explained the problem, one that was evidently familiar to the driver. He reconnected the battery (which set the alarm off again), closed the car’s doors and asked me for the remote. Click-click! and the alarm fell silent.

As he then explained. All you have to do is close all the doors and press “lock” “unlock” a couple of times. The man was happy to accept the grateful tenner that I pressed into his hand and went on his way, wishing no doubt that he could resolve all such problems as easily and profitably. So did I!

DAVID & BARBARA - SAO BRAS FAIR

Our former neighbour, David Davies, had meanwhile arrived (in response to our SOS) to retrieve May, who’d finished shopping. And so it ended. Well, it nearly ended; because disconnecting the battery meant that the radio/GPS electronics wouldn’t work until a security code was re-entered. Honda said the code should have been on the door frame. It wasn't.

DAGMAR AT SAO BRAS

That meant dropping by the Honda workshop in Faro the next day. The card with the security code wasn’t in the bulky log-book where it should have been. And it wasn’t in the glove box; But a Honda salesman found it in a mini-receptacle where Jones stores her make-up. He put the card in the log-book and stuck the peel-off copy on to the door frame. So now everything works again.

I won’t bother with the moral of the story. Yes, I’ve put the tool box back in the car.

JONES BROMELIAD

Talking of tools: it is with some pride that I can report the successful installation of a new lock on the front door. A key had broken off in the old lock, and since the lock was riveted to the metal door, I couldn’t remove the barrel without ripping off the lock. The helpful man in the lock shop said the model was out of production. Fortunately, he stocked a similar one.

This had to be squeezed into position and then riveted into place - which was managed successfully.....well, sort of successfully! (Yes I know it's not level!) The door closes and it locks. Normally, I wouldn’t report in such detail on minor repairs but in view of my brother in law’s extensive (and expert) handiwork around his house, I feel obliged to fly the Valapena flag in moral self-defence, if only to make a point with his sister.

Jones and I took ourselves last Sunday to the Sao Bras fair, for supper with friends and then a wander around the show. You have no idea how good fresh ham and cheese sandwiches taste when complemented with a glass of cold red wine on a warm night. I took mine standing as my back has been a bit out of sorts this week.

And, once again, I snapped away at passers-by with the camera, a most entertaining diversion. One has the immediate satisfaction of either admiring one’s handiwork or deleting it. Either Joe and Joana Blogs have no idea of how weird they look or they don’t care. And yes, I’m aware that I’m not Mr High Fashion myself.

We have had the pleasure of entertaining Sarah and her guests and leading them along the stony 45-minute pole path to point out the views and extol the virtues of living among these hills. There's no better way to conclude such an outing than with supper under the stars at the Hamburgo in Benafim - especially as Manuel has

recently got in a fine selection of wines.

Prickles and Ono were pleased to join us as ever, and Prickles got to lie back and get his tummy tickled by all and sundry, which he loves, as well being able to display the member for which he is celebrated far and wide.

THE MOON AT NIGHT IS BIG AND BRIGHT

Have you noticed that your spam emails arrive these days with a top line reading: Please click “Not Spam” above if delivered to spam folder. You can’t accuse spammers of lacking a sense of humour!