Letter from Espargal: 29 June 2013

OK. This is the scene. Jones has just brought me a cup of tea. It’s a hot Thursday afternoon with at least another 12 hot Thursdays in prospect, along with hot in-between days as well. A purple heat haze hangs lazily over the hills to the north of us.

I’m itchy in places that don’t often get mentioned in church. My pink summer heat bumps have returned to orbit my midriff like a series of planets. (I’m avoiding any unfortunate astronomical metaphors.)

Behind me the fan whirrs impotently. (I tried spraying water at it with the ironing spray, which I thought cooled the study down, but Jones has outlawed the practice.) The fan’s drone is being drowned out by the bellowing of a love-sick, tone-deaf cicada with a tannoy in a tree a few metres away. The dogs are mercifully out for the count, awaiting the cooler evening air.

This morning we tractored across to Sarah and David’s place, where we got whacked at petanque.

No doubt, like those slip-sliding ladies at Wimbledon, we could blame the preparation of the pitch or the weather or the irksome insects that buzzed around us.

But, whatever the case, we lost – a shameful 7-0 in the match that counted. My sporting reputation lies (literally) in the dust.

(Mike Brown's pictures are in a smaller format.)

The trophy went to the Dutch ladies, newly returned from their travels up north.

Earlier in the week we took back their little dog, Ermie, after a two week sojourn with our lot.

She went wild with joy on being reunited with them, whirling around the garden like a delighted satellite.

Pause there to examine an SMS that has tinged on my mobile. It’s in Portuguese, threatening me with legal action unless I settle a phone bill that relates to an account held by Olive, one of “our widows”, who died last year. I had given the company concerned my mobile number as a contact at the time because Olive didn’t speak Portuguese.

As I have just informed a gentleman on their helpline, they’re welcome to proceed with legal action if they can find her. In the meanwhile I have also added their company SMS number to my block list. (I just love smart phones.)

Yesterday I worked quite hard, driving the tractor (an under-rated labour) as Slavic loaded and unloaded sand, cement and turvena. The last of these is a mixture of gravel and other materials that is widely used here to surface agricultural roads.

The sand and cement were required to build a base for our (recently repaired, now spare) washing machine in Casa Nada and to pave one or two problematic areas under the trees. We have tried putting down bark but to little avail. The dogs kick it all over the show and the winter weeds delight in drilling through the anti-weed matting to turn the place into the usual January jungle.

Slavic and I made a trip down into the valley to collect rocks (which abound there). I warned him to keep a sharp look-out for scorpions as he sought out suitable rocks and piled them into the back of the tractor. We came across two of the little stingers – both menacingly indignant at the removal of their homes and their sudden exposure to the blistering sun.

I guess I’d have been indignant too at being evicted in such unseemly fashion. One never sees scorpions here normally as they’re nocturnal and spend the days sheltering beneath their rocks – at least until Slavic and I arrive.

In the evening we joined Celso and his daughter, Elena, for supper at the local, sitting out under the trees as a huge moon rose in the east. Celso is en route to France, where he and the children are due to join Brigitte in a search for better prospects. It hurts us to see them go.

A general strike has been proclaimed today by unions protesting against the austerity measures being imposed upon the country. Although we’re barely aware of any action here in the countryside, travellers are inevitably being hard hit. Local radio reports are full of the misery at Lisbon airport.

I’m sorry. I utterly fail to see the point of withdrawing one’s labours in these circumstances other than to give union leaders something to do. It makes life miserable for innocent people and hurts everybody, including the strikers themselves. We certainly didn’t see any of the local businesses closed.

Other Espargal news is low key.

Three of Mike Brown’s chickens have gone missing; he suspects foul play.

We saw another neighbour, who sped past us on the highway, getting a lengthy ticking-off from a policeman for one or other infringement. (We know it was lengthy because he was still being ticked off when we passed him a second time ten minutes later.) We were glad the policeman didn’t stop us because one is not meant to travel with unsecured dogs in the back seat.

Now it’s Friday. Jones is working in her garden. We went shopping for ourselves and May this morning. People were lining up at the supermarket to place their bets ahead of tonight’s Euromillions draw. I have been collecting dues from other members of our syndicate. The big one has to come our way sooner or later - probably later, I guess.

Letter from Espargal: 23 June 2013

This week I have declined a number of invitations. As I explained to two friends, I made a mistake some years ago of being persuaded to register with LinkedIn – and that these days I was Linked Out.

But that’s not all I declined. For the umpteenth time I have refused to look at Jenna’s intimate pictures on the internet, or to take a Newsweek digital subscription (I prefer The Economist) or to claim my KFC gift card

AFTER THE WALK

or to gamble at the online casino or to look at the seduction video that women don't want you to see or to accept a cheap cash loan or to buy a genuine replica watch or to register for a degree or to undergo a limited trial for fuller, firmer breasts or even to discover the eternal truth with the Baltimore branch of the church of Israel.

VIEW TO THE COAST

That’s quite a lot of declining for one week. Apart from all the declining, on Monday, as ever, we took May to lunch and shopping. May was a bit vague. She’d been hitting the sleeping pills. She’s a slow eater and quite talkative. It’s a good thing that Jones is patient with her.

After finishing my own meal, I take a 30 minute nap in the car before returning to the restaurant for coffee.

As we set off home, the veterinary surgery called to ask whether Carlos, the vet, could pop out the same afternoon to vaccinate the dogs. Yes, we said, he could, any time after four. I should explain that we thought it more sensible this year to ask Carlos to come to us instead of our commuting into Loule with the hounds, which requires at least two trips. They know his surgery and hate entering it, plus they often disapprove of other dogs they encounter there.

So Carlos came and vaccinated them while they growled their suspicions and I tried to distract them with the most delectable chewies. And in the fuss we forgot to take any pictures. In fact, there’s only the usual pictures of the sky and the garden and the household. Sorry!

GOTTA BE CAREFUL WHO YOU KISS IN THE MORNING!

Also on Monday afternoon my desktop computer stopped communicating with the router. It didn’t say why; it just refused to link up. And since my phone and laptop were still talking to the router perfectly amicably, the fault had to lie with the computer.
As it happened, Rui (the computer technician) was due to sort out a problem with Marie’s new computer the next day. I persuaded him to drop in here as well, which he did.

Having run the gauntlet of the dogs, he spent 45 minutes trying to resolve the problem – and failed. This is unusual. Rui plays a keyboard like a concert pianist. So he took the computer back to the shop with him and I resorted to using the laptop.

On Wednesday Natasha’s builder partner, Slavic, arrived at 08.30. Now that his usual boss no longer requires his services more than two or three days a week, Slavic fills in where-ever he can.

As arranged, I introduced him to neighbours, Sarah and David. They’re putting up a little summer-house and were grateful for his assistance. Slavic is an excellent builder. I’ve work for him myself when he’s free.

Natasha arrived separately later. Having seen her in, we drove to Alte where I had a massage appointment with Jodi the physio. The official reason for this treatment was my ever irascible back. To be honest, it’s hard to know how much Jodi’s massages improve my back, but they certainly improve the rest of me.

After coffee and a cake at the usual snack-bar in Loule, we drove around to settle the vet’s eye-watering bill and then continued to Almancil to see our lawyer. We needed him to notarise a document in English, a task too far for the otherwise helpful parish president.

Algarve lawyers do a great deal of business in English and are generally fluent in it – as well as one or two other European languages.

On Thursday I received two letters. One was from Terry Ferrett for me to translate and pass along to a Portuguese fellow who had occupied the ward with him in Faro hospital. Although the two could barely communicate, Terry’s companion had proved as amicable as any stranger could be – and Terry was grateful for his company.

Terry has meanwhile seen his own doctor in the UK and had his medication adjusted, a change that will hopefully prevent a similar crisis.

The other letter was from my HSBC banker, informing me that it would cost more than the face value of the US$27 dollar cheque (I had sent him) to bank it in our account – and suggesting that I might want to reconsider its future. I was grateful. I hope he hasn’t charged me for the letter.

Also in the post was a new remote control for our German sat-box, sent by Cathy in Germany to replace one that has given up the ghost.

They occasionally tumble from the railings beside the upstairs armchair and it does them no good.

Rui returned with the computer, which had worked perfectly well in the shop and which he finally persuaded to talk to my router. That was a relief. On the other hand, if it had remained mute, I might have had a case for upgrading from the old XP to a Windows 7 or 8 model - one of these days, maybe!

Jones has been doing some serious gardening while I do the daily watering on her behalf. The garden is looking good as you may see for yourself. The park, on the other hand, is just a huge seed patch and it badly needs strimming, a job my procrastinating back has been postponing. (Jones would tell you that it postpones a great many jobs). The long-haired dogs come back into the house full of burs, the worst of which have to be cut out.

IT LOOKED MUCH WORSE THAN THIS TWO DAYS AGO

The ticks are equally troublesome. We take a couple off us and the dogs each day. One got me under the arm early in the week and I watched the resulting itchy pink swelling nervously lest the tick was infected. It seems not.

BEES CLUSTERING ON THE SURFACE OF SARAH'S POOL

One afternoon we saw a mongoose streak across the road in front of us, only the second time in years that we have spotted one. Like the occasional fox, they are as shy as they are fast.

They are also very fond of chicken and more or less cleaned out Idalecio’s coop one year, scaling the fence effortlessly as he witnessed himself.

I am reading Robert Peston’s How Do We Fix This Mess, an analysis of how the financial world came to find itself in its present state. It’s very good, if not for the faint hearted. I’m deep into how we landed in the mess. I’ve yet to reach the bit on how we fix it.

On the TV front we have spent four fascinating hours watching Heathrow airport in operation, everything from the top of the control tower to resurfacing the runways overnight - utterly fascinating viewing.

As a kid it was always my intention to become a pilot - and I'm still as happy as Larry watching planes come and go at Faro airport.

Letter from Espargal: 15 June 2013

Let me start with the mundane stuff. We are back home from our travels. It is hot. I have shorn the three hairiest dogs as best I can, no easy matter when one is dealing with a sheep like Russ or his distrustful sister, who makes a beeline for the hills when she sees me approaching with that come-here look in my eye.

The garden shows the benefits of all the watering that our house-sitters, Margaret and Terry, did on our behalf but the green hills we left in May have turned a dry beige colour and the ticks are biting.

M&T were waiting for us at Faro airport last Sunday evening, looking as tanned as they usually do after a few weeks in the sun. (They’re a pair of sunbirds!) As we strolled across from the terminal to the car-park, exchanging news, I noticed that their hire-car was not the model I had ordered for them – and Terry explained.

While we were on our cruise, he had fallen ill. He had woken in the early hours covered in blood and feeling terrible. His brother-in-law, Barry, had hurried up the road to neighbours, Marie and Olly, to summon help. They called an ambulance and Terry was rushed to Faro hospital. (I’m skipping over the bit about 3 ambulance-men and 4 dogs in Terry and Margaret’s bedroom in the middle of the night.)

After a disturbing spell in the A&E section (which is always bedlam), he was admitted to a ward where he was to spend the next six days. Multiple tests followed.

According to the doctor who treated him, he had suffered a torn oesophagus, possibly as a result of medication that he was taking. In his absence, Margaret exchanged the estate hire-car for a smaller model as she didn’t feel comfortable driving the former.

She spent as much time each day as she could with Terry, with the neighbours (bless them) in a much-appreciated supporting role. To confirm the diagnosis, Terry said he had booked an appointment with his GP in the UK. We have yet to hear the outcome.

ARCTIC SUNSHINE ON BOARD SHIP

It also emerged that while we had enjoyed bikini weather for most of our travels, the Portuguese weather had been frequently dull and cool – not the sort that our sunbirds appreciate. I should add that they had barely departed when temperatures soared.

Their departure is another story. They had the misfortune to book a return flight for the same day as the malcontented French air-traffic controllers (curses be upon them) went on strike.

As a result the 22.00 flight was delayed by several hours and dawn was breaking by the time M&T arrived back in Gatwick with a 90-minute drive to Portsmouth still ahead of them. So, all in all, it wasn’t the easiest of stays.

I had previously told M&T that it wasn’t worth contacting us while we were away to convey bad news unless we had to return early. I couldn’t see the point of ruining a holiday by hearing of some disaster that I could do nothing about. Barbara, who has felt uneasy about this, preferred to stay in SMS contact. They, however, chose not to say anything about Terry’s episode until our return.

At least, we were led to understand, the dogs had behaved themselves. Well, mostly they had behaved themselves, that is. Little Prickles, growing restless one night, had dug a hole under the fence and taken himself several hundred metres down the road to Marie and Olly’s place, where he whimpered for admittance outside their bedroom window at 02.00. That set off their dog, Poppy, who woke Marie. She arose to let in Prickles, who promptly settled himself in Poppy’s basket for the night. (Prickles does like to be comfortable.)

He performed the same trick again on the night that we returned home. To discourage further such Pricklesian quests for nocturnal asylum, we have lined the base of the fence with thorn branches.

We have paid a first visit to the Coral, which has emerged under its new owner, Joao, as the Pont de Encontro (Meeting Point). He seems very pleasant and has obviously invested a good deal of money in the smart new furniture and awning. Of the previous owner, Celso, we’ve seen no sign.

He may still be in France where he went to sound out the prospects for employment.

We have been joined for a fortnight by Ermie, the dog belonging to our Dutch neighbours, Nicoline and Anneke, who have gone away. Ermie is so quiet that she’s almost a shadow of herself. After getting a somewhat biffing welcome from the usually placid Russ, she’s settled in well enough.

I was fascinated while in London to see a demo outside the SA high commission. (Only people familiar with the 24-hour a day demo outside the building under apartheid will appreciate the irony!) The demonstrators were calling noisily on Zuma to do something about rape and xenophobia - some hope!

Behind us in London we left our hosts, Llewellyn and Lucia

as well as their two dogs, Edgar and Hazel, and two cats, Tigger (who joined us in bed at night) and Charles Brown. Charles Brown is as shy as Tigger is sociable.

There are a couple of parks close to the house, as well as a pub that welcomes dogs where Edgar, who’s huge, inevitably arouses a great deal of interest. Fortunately he is the most amenable of animals.

Tigger, whose curiosity often gets the better of him, was fascinated by the bird “apple feeder” that we presented to his owners.

Llewellyn was clever enough to unlock my old HTC smartphone, downloading the necessary software from the internet and following the instructions that he found on “youtube”.
It’s a service offered by lots of phone outlets – for a price. I was both impressed and grateful. Equally impressive and enviable is his high-speed wifi, a Grand Prix performer compared to my sedate system.

His final service was to drive us to Victoria station to catch the train to Gatwick, much appreciated as my back was playing silly buggers and, anyhow, the District Line was closed for Sunday repairs.

We got an uproarious welcome from our dogs, who are delighted to get back to their daily hill-walks, even though they return parched and panting. They are also pleased to get back to their old sleeping arrangements. There you have it.

Letter from St Austell

6 June 2013

Jones is making our usual salad supper here in our little rented studio apartment. I am doing the obvious. Outside the birds are singing their sunset songs. Tomorrow we return to London and on Sunday it’s home.

A lot of water has passed under the bridge since we left the Thomson Spirit in Newcastle last Sunday. From there we flew to London and took the Heathrow Connect train to Ealing Broadway where Llewellyn and Lucia met us.

Let me skip over their gracious hospitality and pick up the story at Paddington Station on Tuesday morning. It’s four hours by train from there to St Austell, a sleepy Cornwall town where the main activity appears to be making babies. Everywhere we looked, young women were pushing buggies. We had chosen the town as a base for visits to the nearby Eden Project and the Gardens of Heligan.

The Google map that I’d printed off, showing our route from St Austell station to our studio apartment seemed to bear little relation to the town’s road system. Still, we made it with just a few questions to passers-by, as we puzzled our way along, wheeling my suitcase along the pavements. The studio is situated conveniently close to the local pub and supermarket. We have found it as well equipped as the (absent) owners promised but tiny. I can barely squeeze into the minute shower-room.


Tuesday afternoon we jumped on to a bus to take us the few miles to Charlestown, the adjacent village that once served St Austell as a port. These days its small harbour offers a choppy sanctuary to a few fishing boats and provides a murky swimming pool for the local kids.

The village’s main claim to fame is as a marine heritage centre. We decided not to visit the centre, preferring to inspect the sailing ships at anchor, their crew high in the rigging adjusting the furled sails.


Wednesday we took another bus, this time to the Eden Project. In fact we took a dozen buses during our stay. Once I’d downloaded the local timetable from the internet, we were able to plan our comings and goings precisely.


The Eden Project, sited in an old quarry, turned out to be as extraordinary as its pictures had led us to expect. It’s dominated by the two vast biomes that sit either side of a low-rise restaurant and services building. Just to trace our way through the bigger Rainforest biome took us the better part of an hour.


At one point in the extensive gardens, I lost contact with Barbara and it took us a long half-hour to find each other. (For some reason, her phone had lost its signal.) As fascinating and educational as the whole project is, it is very busy and noisy. There are lots of kids and young mums pushing buggies.


At the same time, there has been a worrying fall-off in the number of visitors over the past year. A member of staff said they used to get some 15,000 a day. The numbers have fallen; she didn’t say by how much. Dozens of the several hundred staff have been made redundant.

On Wednesday evening we walked the few hundred metres into town to see The Great Gatsby at the cinema. We thought it very well done. Impressively, the relatively young audience hardly issued a peep during the show.

Thursday morning we headed to the Lost Gardens of Heligan, so called because the former gardens and extensive estate were abandoned and totally overgrown for most of the 20th century. It’s been a huge task to restore them to something like their former glory, using old maps, plans and aerial surveys to trace the original layout.

We loved Heligan. Unlike Eden, it is filled with birdsong rather than the bustle of crowds and yells of children. It takes a brisk hour to follow the restored perimeter path around the estate, past exotic sculptures and ancient ponds.

At least another hour is required to tour the orchards, flower gardens and vegetable gardens, enclosed by high brick walls. Everywhere, green-clad gardeners are hard at work.

Numerous signs warn older or handicapped visitors of potential hazards ahead, however minor, a sign of the times I guess. But there’s space enough to lose yourself in the woods and we did, coming away with uplifted souls, as well as a few nick-knacks from the gift store.

SQUEEZING THROUGH
The lunchtime bus ran us a few miles into the little holiday town of Mevagissey, from where we planned to take a small ferry across the bay to Fowey. The bus somehow squeezes its way down the narrow winding street to the seafront with barely six inches to spare on either side. I exaggerate not. Pedestrians have to find a doorway to take shelter.

Mevagissey has a sizeable working harbour, encircled with long piers.

The inevitable gulls were sunning themselves while keeping a sharp eye out for a meal.


There was a high swell running and we watched in mild alarm as the approaching ferry bobbed and ducked through the water in showers of spray.

With some hesitation, we decided to go for it, joining half a dozen other passengers in the rear of the boat. What a ride! There was no wind to speak of but the swell had us corkscrewing around as if in a crazy fairground ride, with the skipper gunning and idling the engine by turns.

Spray came whipping over the gunwales until the crewman helpfully lowered the plastic blind.


My little Jones clung on for dear life, fearful of joining Davy Jones in his locker, and she wasn’t the only one. It took a long 50 minutes rather than the scheduled 35 to plough our way across to the calmer waters of Fowey harbour, where we alighted with a mixed sense of relief and achievement.

Fowey is an upmarket holiday and sailing town, its narrow streets choc-a-bloc with antique shoppes, Cornish tea shops, pubs and everything else for the visitor. It’s very pretty and clearly an expensive place to settle. Its history is laid bare in the small museum – entry £1 please.

A tiny tearoom, clearly part of the owner’s house, served us a fine Cornish cream tea; and the bus – we’d come to recognise the drivers – took us the 50 minutes back to St Austell. Our holiday is virtually done. The weather has done us proud. Our thoughts turn to home.