Hello from Espargal on a damp Friday night in the lead-up to a wet weekend. Never mind that Jones's superb dawn doesn't fit the picture. Jones herself is down in the kitchen fixing a salad supper. On the TV behind me, six choirs are taking part in a competition in which five of them will be disappointed.
It's been a "more of the same" week, which makes for difficult blogging. So I'll let the pictures lead the way. The couch is ideal for taking a siesta - my first of the week - in spite of the persistent fly that's trying to sit on my face. Hence the hat. We got back from an Olive shopping trip in time to light the stove and settle down.
Most of the week was devoted to the great cutback with occasional interruptions by rain. Here we are tending to the trees around the house. In recent years the trees have started to overshadow us. The upper branches of the almonds have soared far beyond our reach to rattle against the satellite dish.
Jones complained that her view was being spoiled. I liked the privacy the trees offered. So, as in most things, we compromised, taking off the tops while leaving the branches to expand sideways. Two vast piles of firewood pay testament to our efforts. We've enough for at least the next two years.
Idalecio's chainsaw flickered rapierlike up and down the trunks of trees, taking off the lower branches. An old plum tree got some overdue attention. Perhaps the hardest job - Miguel's - was dragging the mountains of branches to clear areas where they could be set alight. At last the job is done.
One afternoon we took ourselves to the village of Alte, 15 minutes away, where the spring-fed stream had grown into a brown torrent. Benafim was originally part of the parish of Alte. Now, much to our distress, it seems doomed to be merged with two other distant parishes. We await the final decision from parliament.
We came home slowly via the agricultural dirt road, doing our best to dodge the multiple muddy potholes. Prickles took the opportunity to ride business class. He's the smallest of our seven dogs but he doesn't know it. In his head, he's as big as his ego and, to be sure, none of the others will cross him.
The hillsides between Benafim and Alte are lined with citrus plantations. Much of the fruit is exported - and Portugal sure needs exports. But unlike the traditional olive, carob and almond trees, citrus requires extensive irrigation, inevitably from boreholes. We fear the impact of global warming and a drying climate.
Back in Espargal, the cats await the fishmonger's arrival, heralded by the screech of the truck's amplified horn. The fishmonger buys his fish either from the market or the quayside early in the morning. The rest of the day he spends travelling from village to village to sell on the catch.
And he never forgets the cats. This is what they've been waiting for - although the meal is not always shared.
For ourselves, there's not much to add this week. We saw "Argo" and thought it well done, even if it spiced up history in the interests of drama. That's movies for you!
Jones was pleased to see that the rose she acquired in Ruth's memory rewarded her by producing a bud. We haven't yet had time to settle the pot properly among the rocks. I am becoming an authority on the history and complexities of English orthography. What a mess - and one with no chance of ever being resolved!
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