Last letter of 2012

FULL MOON - 28 Dec.
Like the year, the week has all but disappeared in a swirl down the plughole of time to where-ever the great archive of history is stored. It’s gone in a flurry of Christmas correspondence, festive meals with Llewellyn and Lucia, oldie-films, dog-walks and unseasonal funeral arrangements. I struggle to separate the days, even to remember what happened the day before yesterday. So let me start with yesterday. At least I can still recall that.

Having walked the hounds nervously around Espargal hill to a deafening chorus of hunters’ guns, we headed into Faro hospital for, hopefully, our last visit. I had been advised by Paulo, the undertaker, that I need to sign a form declaring that I (as Olive’s “cousin”) did (or did not) want an autopsy carried out to determine the cause of her death. This – after consulting with the family - I did. Like us, they are anxious to know why she died – and are struggling to come to terms with the events that came on them so suddenly. As her daughter says, she died before her time.

Afterwards we drove to the Algarve Forum where I planned to buy myself a fancy new mobile phone on the sales. In the car-park, however, Jones laid out all the reasons why I didn’t require a new phone – especially that there was nothing wrong with my old one. Why not wait, she cajoled me, for the next generation of phones and get one of those - a compromise to which I shall hold her in due course.

So, making a virtue of necessity, I agreed to go instead to Faro beach for coffee, a baggy and sandwiches. The day was picture perfect. Walkers strolled by in the sunshine. In the broad estuary below us, as the tide rippled in, a dog swam out to fetch a stick that his master was throwing. At the airport across the water, jets launched themselves magically into the air. A pleasant young lady served us the best ham and cheese sandwich we could remember and was delighted to keep the change.

Wednesday Llewellyn and Lucia took the train to Lisbon for a three-day stay. We dropped them off early at the station. He later reported that a coffee shop at the Queluz Palace had tried to rip him off, but backed down hurriedly when he challenged the bill in Portuguese. Tourists are regarded as easy pickings all over the world. (If God didn’t want them sheared, He would not have made them sheep!)

That afternoon I fired up the tractor and drove into Benafim to stock up on fertilizer for the carob and almond trees. This generally comes in 50kg bags that I find back-breaking to move. Happily I came across an outfit stocking 25kg bags that are much easier to manage. We’ve started to scatter the pellets under the trees.

Tuesday was Christmas. Midmorning we all went down the road to visit Ermenio’s growing private museum. He loves to show people around it. Apart from the barrels along the wall where his new wine is maturing, the room is filled with the agricultural implements of his youth,

along with his sculptures and some pieces of still near-perfect Roman tiles and paving that he recovered from the field below the house. His son also came across several Roman coins. The family tipped off the authorities, who are working with a team of German archaeologists to unearth the Roman remains. Ermenio said that the Romans had practised the art of grafting trees, just as the local farmers still do.

Now was the time to cut the tops off wild almond and olive trees, he advised us, at about shoulder height. Then in the spring, he would come and graft them for us. I shall be glad to take up his offer. I have a real sense that our trees do not belong to us. They are merely ours to take care of until the next generation comes along. Some, especially the olives, are hundreds of years old.

Afterwards Jones went off with L&L for a walk along the coast while I busied myself cleaning and mopping the floors as my Christmas present to her. Between the mud and dust that the dogs bring into the house and the hair that they drop so generously, the floors seldom sparkle for more than a few hours. It doesn’t matter how much one cleans or combs the animals, they simply shed a constant rain of hair. When I gaze at my balding pate in the mirror, I reflect that they’re not the only ones.

Tuesday’s as far back as I can remember. I know that we’ve been out to wonderful dinners and enjoyed some lovely wines. Jones arranged with Brigitte at the Coral to supply us with a veal-in-wine dish that served us well for Christmas dinner. Llewellyn brought me a superb bottle of whisky that will be lucky to see the New Year in. Jones has exchanged Christmas gifts with family and neighbours – and taken pleasure in unwrapping ours. She enjoys her Christmases and makes an effort to decorate the house accordingly.

While I appreciate her efforts I can’t say the same. I find myself caught somewhere between disbelief in the tale and disgust at the naked commercialism in its name. It might be different if we had kids and grandkids to conjure up the necessary magic. I stopped doing Christmas gifts at much the same time that I stopped having birthdays, except for the ladies at the parish office and two helpful bankers. Mind you, I still believe in non-birthday and non-Christmas presents.

L&L are due back here on Saturday and return to London on Monday. On Monday night the locals will congregate noisily around the summit of Espargal hill to celebrate the arrival of 2013 and to watch the fireworks lighting up the sky along the coast. The dogs will come crowding into the bedroom, unsettled by the din. Jones, if I know her, will fall asleep before the magic hour. I may stay up to reflect on the good things that have come our way in 2012 and to hope that 2013 brings more - to us all. And so the year ends, and with it this chapter.