Monday:
It’s been a wet weekend. For much of it we’ve had our heads in the mist. After a restorative morning coffee in Loule, I dropped Jonesy at the Chinese shop (there are actually half a dozen) and drove to Sergio’s place on the far side of the town to have four new tyres fitted. Sergio had recommended Michelins instead of the previous Dunlops. That was fine by me. He knew more about tyres than I did and the price was much the same.
ROCKS ON THE ROAD
Although my wheel-spinning days are a distant memory and I treat the car like a real lady, she is heavy on tyres. I’m on to my third set in four years. After barely 30,000 kms the treads are close to the legal minimum and in the wet season it’s prudent to change them early.
THE FORD
In spite of the rain there still isn’t a drop of water flowing under the Algibre River bridge. The odd puddle is all that’s to be seen. The ford is little more than a rocky crossing. The earth must truly have been parched to have soaked up so much water.
We took May to the bank before going on to lunch. Orlando, the bank clerk, knows her well and is ever so helpful. May hands over a cheque, he fills it in and she has merely to sign it. Although the bank will accept cheques written out in English, we have found it best to use Orlando’s services as May’s numbers sometimes go a bit awry.
Tuesday:
I've been engaged in an exchange of emails with Thomson (holidays), with whom we have booked a spring Norwegian cruise. I was concerned because Thomson’s confirmation email omitted both the postal code and Portugal from our home address, threatening the arrival of the tickets that a rep said were to be posted to us in due course.
I was astonished to be told that Thomson's system didn’t accept foreign postal codes and that I shouldn’t have been able to make a reservation without giving a UK address.
Several emails and a phone conversation later it emerged that this was nonsense and that our tickets would arrive by email - a case of not knowing one's bows from one's stern.
RUTH, AS WE REMEMBER HER
Wednesday:
We had news from Cape Town of the death of Barbara’s older sister, Ruth, who had been ailing for some time. Her family had prepared us for the news which, we knew, might come any day. RIP Ruth. You were much loved.
SOME SKY!
Mid-morning Celso (from the Benafim snack bar) arrived on a tractor to fetch a disused wood-burning stove from the Dutch ladies. With him he brought - and needed – muscular help, for the stove weighed half a ton. My part was simply to show him where the ladies lived and to lend moral support.
BENAFIM THROUGH THE CLOUD
This is the time of year for firing up wood-burning stoves (known here as salamandras.) Although temps have barely fallen into single figures, it’s miz in the foggy wet and a small fire keeps the house wonderfully warm and cosy.
We dropped in on Worten’s mobile phone department to query the workings of Jonesy’s new Nokia phone. It’s meant to be a “swipe” phone but it doesn’t swipe easily. A saleswoman reset the screen sensitivity, which has improved things slightly. I would have exchanged the phone for a different model but Jones says it’s been hard enough to learn the ways of this particular model and she definitely doesn’t want to have to start over again with another.
She continues to make strides with the iPad, with which she now frequently sits down to check her emails. Her “what’s gone wrong now” appeals grow ever fewer. For my part, I use the iPad more for reading books and my weekly Economist. What a brilliant device! I’ll be most interested to see how the new Microsoft tablet with keypad shapes up against it.
Thursday:
It rained cats and dogs all night. The rain gauge was overflowing this morning. We had at least 55mms. Nicoline, at the bottom of the village, reported that she had recorded 59.2mms. She’s a retired meteorologist and still maintains a professional weather station.
We drove down to the river to see if there was any water flowing at last. There was – a gushing, rushing, muddy, swirling, frantic, turbulent torrent that swept past us in a race to the distant ocean. The far bank was 150 metres away rather than the usual 20 and the grove of trees on the river bank was waist-deep in water.
The riverbed on which we’d gazed all summer and where I’d stood with the dogs a week earlier, was just a memory. The torrent rushing over the ford offered instant death to any motorist mad enough to try it. Where the stream bed had stood forlorn, great lakes of brown water churned angrily.
Marie and Olly arrived, along with a couple of Portuguese neighbours. They gazed on the scene with equal wonder - a rare sight indeed. A Portuguese lad said the river was overflowing the bridge downstream at Paderne. Idalecio’s dad declared that in his 70 years he’d never seen the river fuller.
On the way home Jones stopped to take a few pictures of the pots gracing Natercia’s patio. The front of the house is a mass of pots and blooms, a delight for all who behold them. Barbara paused for a few words and returned to the car with a box of cuttings. My thoughts turned to the courtyard gardens in old Cordoba.... Memories! FIM
No comments:
Post a Comment