Letter from Espargal: 25 January 2014

2014 is the year when Jones and I - God willing - are both due to turn 70. I find this prospect quite daunting, mindful of the "three score and ten" warning that is writ in His book. Jones is unimpressed, dismissing our septuagenarian onset as just another number.

Nonetheless, it has certain unwelcome implications. One of these is that for the next decade, I shall have to renew my driving licence every two years, after which - assuming I'm still around and driving - it will be every year. Renewal requires a certificate from a doctor to the effect that, medically at least, one is still competent to take the wheel.

As it happens, I shall also have to renew my passport. At some point in the next month or two, I plan a day-trip to Lisbon to submit the passport application. With these renewals in mind, I stopped at the photo shop in Loule this week to obtain the necessary snapshots.
I was careful to point out to the photographer the required dimensions and qualities, mindful of Jones's experience last year when the UK passport office rejected the pics she supplied and required her to take new ones.

The smaller shots, on the left, are for my driving licence.

Speaking of the UK, Jones returned last weekend from a brief visit marked by a frantic train journey to visit friends in Eastbourne. Her train, like a great many others, was cancelled because of flooding. She found herself directed to an alternative service from which she had to alight further down the line.

Railway officials guided passengers to front and back carriages on subsequent trains, according to their destinations, amid much confusion - with still more stops and changes to follow. It was with great relief that she eventually arrived in time for a very late lunch. The return trip was just as bad. The 90-minute journey took well over three hours. A large baggy and coke was required to help restore her equilibrium.

THE HYENAS CLOSE IN ON THE CAT'S MILK BOWL

The night before her return, Portugal was assailed by gales. Although I bolted all the shutters and closed all the doubled-glazed doors, the wind still howled and shrieked about the house, buffeting it with gusts that made me think of the big bad wolf and three little piggies. Such tempests always unsettle the dogs (as well as the humans).

Mary took the opportunity to join Ono and Pricks on the bed intimating, as she settled down beside me, that she was just a little girl in need of reassurance and would take up hardly any room.

She tried the trick again this week, squeezing Jones into a corner scarcely big enough for a rabbit. Jones says enough is enough, although exactly what she means by that I'm not sure, as Mary is bigger than she is as well as smart and determined. Matters may be relieved slightly when our new wider bed arrives.

With sadness I must record the passing of Bold, aka Sick Cat, a relative of our black cats, Squinty and Braveheart, whose survival against the odds has been entirely due to the long-standing kindness of Jones and our neighbour, Sarah, between whose houses Sick Cat has commuted. He has ailed as long as we can remember, remaining as thin as a rake in spite of consuming the generous and delicious cat temptations that his carers daily put his way. This week, as it became apparent that he was succumbing to his ills, Sarah and David took him to the vet, where he was diagnosed with feline HIV - it's thought as the result of a fight. He was buried in the field below their house. (As you may have gathered, all our animals are He's and She's rather than It's.)

The RSI that has been troubling my right elbow appears to be transferring itself to my left elbow. This may be because, to relieve my right arm, I have been using my left hand to play Spider Solitaire, an infernal game introduced to me by a niece. (You may count yourself lucky to be ignorant of it!)

Nonetheless, as you see, I am determined to get the blog up this week. To lose one blog may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose two .... etc

We have been watching a new BBC TV series in which amateur interior designers compete with a limited time and budget to redecorate the rooms of volunteer householders. Two "experts" then compare the results (with a great deal of hyperbole and gush) and declare a winner of each round - inevitably the least talented competitor. It's with awesome fascination that one sees perfectly liveable if somewhat dowdy living rooms turned into fashionable chambers of horrors. I have always harboured a prejudice against interior designers but I am now convinced that dry rot and woodworm are preferable visitors.

You will rightly gather that I am not a follower of fashion. Apart from being unwilling to go out looking like an idiot, I can't see the point of purchasing garments whose strut-by date is due to render them unfashionable long before they wear out, thus defeating their primary purpose. (Am I missing something?)

Nonetheless, over the years I have developed a fondness for certain classical brands, purely - I should emphasise - for their comfort and durability. These include Tilley hats, Stormtech jackets, Ecco shoes and boots and Falke Coolmax socks.

I do not completely rule out the possibility that in due course I might become slightly fashion conscious. However this transformation is not imminent and Jones certainly isn't banking on it.

I never cease to wonder at the dreams that command my sleeping hours. In one of these, I ascended to the upper floor of a house to discover, with great surprise, that it had become a large field. On it were several ex-monks - a species that continues to haunt my dreams - who showed little interest in talking to me. I had the distinct impression that I was out of favour.

Then appeared a group of five people who danced in a circle while singing a song that was clearly directed at me. This comprised several verses, each of which was followed by the refrain "Congratulations Terry B without rising".

I was sitting down at the time and took this to mean that I could remain seated although what I had done to deserve such praise eluded me. It still does. I strongly suspect that I would have driven Freud to drink. I certainly need a strong cup of coffee in the morning when I wake.

As it happens, I woke to my daily cuppa this morning to glance through the small bedroom side window to a glorious show of sun-lit almond blossom. That's as good as exterior design gets.

No letter from Espargal: 19 January 2014

Sorry folks.

I'm nursing a RSI-inflamed elbow - tendonitis in old speak - and trying to stay away from the keyboard as much as possible.

Back next week!

Letter from Espargal: 7 December 2013

Thursday: Twice this week I've had really satisfying experiences. The second was stepping on the scales to see that my weight had dipped under 90kgs, the first time in some years that such a reading has been conceded. I reckon I'm about halfway to my target. Jones asks what I'm going to do when I reach it - if I get there. She suspects that I'll start putting weight on again. Maybe she's right; it's happened before. But I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Meanwhile, the campaign continues.

FIRST NARCISSUS OF AUTUMN

That's to say that it continues for the next fortnight. On the 19th I fly to Canada to spend Christmas with the family there, at which point the diet pauses. Barbara will accompany me as far as Lisbon, where I'll leave the car and she'll take the train back to Loule. Not that I'm leaving her alone for Christmas. She'll be joined the following day by Llewellyn and Lucia. The arrangement's a bit of a compromise and like most comprises, it's less than perfect. But it's just not possible for the pair of us always to get away together. She plans to spend several days in London early next year when she hopes to see a couple of exhibitions and I mind the zoo.

Speaking of which: we were host for several days to Ermie, the ghost-like dog belonging to our Dutch neighbours. She's well known to our lot, who hardly seem to regard her as a proper canine. With her we fetched her mega-comfortable sleeping cushion. This was immediately appropriated in turn by Prickles and Braveheart, the cat. Ermie had to compromise by using a rug instead.

Returning to this week: the first experience was even more satisfying and almost as surprising. I nipped into Benafim one morning to seek some advice from Rui, the fellow who is overseeing the process of recording all the properties in the parish. With me I took a couple of files to show him where my uncertainties lay. Among other things I suspected that details on the forms he'd given me would all have to be amended to reflect the merger of Benafim with two other parishes earlier this year. (All the property numbers have changed as a result.)

As on previous occasions, I anticipated having to wait my turn. But there was no-one else in Rui's office when I arrived and he sat me down in front of his computer to go through the files. The software he was using was most impressive. It looked a bit like Google Earth but it could zoom in to reveal individual trees and certainly showed the fine detail of our property. Rui said it had been specially developed for the purpose.

On it he marked the approximate boundaries of each plot or residence, at the same time adding the title deed reference. The software computed the approximate area and other details at the same time. We spent 90 minutes at the computer and filling in the accompanying forms before lunch and an hour after lunch. That was it. Rui then emailed me the image you see of our nine properties. The others pictured belong to neighbours. I might add that Rui himself turned out to be a neighbour too, living barely a stone's throw away.

I thought I'd erected and initialled all the necessary marker stones - around the outer borders of our land. But, as I discovered, I am also required to mark the inner divisions, which means another day's work with Slavic some time next week. I also learned that the project is intended to provide uniform information to all the relevant departments - the courts, the Financas, the Council and the Register of Title-Deeds.
Matters had become very fuzzy over the years because so many plots had reverted to nature after the death or migration of the owners.

One afternoon Luis the electrician called around at my request to run a cable through a duct that runs under the cobbles to the fusebox in the house. At least, that's where I thought it ran - until, that is, the far end of Luis's plastic guide emerged from the duct on the fringes of the garden near the house. He thinks there's a way around it.

First he needs the assistance of Horacio, the builder, who's due here Monday morning to prepare the ground. The intention is to link up some lights that are attached to the boughs of a tree overlooking the extended patio. Currently, they're linked via an extension cord plugged into a patio socket - not a very satisfactory way of doing things.

Last Sunday we fetched May's nephew, Ken, from Faro airport and delivered him to his welcoming aunt. She had to welcome him from her couch as she's still struggling with a painful hip and walks with great difficulty. Ken himself is still getting over a fall a few months ago. He came off a ladder while gardening and badly damaged his right arm. Over a couple of meals in Loule, we discussed with him how to broach a number of potential issues, the first of which is likely to be the loss of the TV channel which shows May's favourite oldies. He returns to Edinburgh this coming weekend. May will miss him sorely.

At this point I went downstairs to the living room to watch a TV programme with Jonesy on the history of Byzantium (Constantinople, Istanbul). Shortly before 22.00, the BBC began flashing up sub-titled warnings of a major news development. A glance at my phone revealed it to be the death of Nelson Mandela. I never met the man. But we've seen and heard so much of him that we feel we almost knew him. Barbara was part of the NBC production team in South Africa that covered his release from prison in 1990 - and in 1994 I worked with a BBC colleague on the desk set up to cover the first post-apartheid elections. RIP Nelson Mandela.

Friday morning we took ourselves to the lawyer. Afterwards we met Natasha and I took her to meet my bank manager. She would very much like to purchase her first property instead of continuing to rent. Given her modest earnings, she's finding it near impossible to obtain a mortgage, never mind one that she can afford. We spent 15 minutes talking to my banker about the possibilities, emerging much the wiser but no more hopeful. She's well aware that property prices are now rock-bottom with all the banks desperate to flog properties on which they have foreclosed. But they're equally keen not to take on any more lenders unlikely to meet their mortgage payments.

Letter from Espargal: 11 January 2014

Our neighbours, Marie and Olly, have lent us a Danish crime series titled (in English) The Killing. This comprises 5 DVDs, each containing four one-hour episodes in which two Copenhagen detectives run around trying to discover who was responsible for the gruesome death of a young woman. The spotlight falls on one suspect after another, each of whom (so far, after 14 episodes) after further investigation is found not to be the culprit after all. The plot is as byzantine as it is gripping.

Having watched Borgen, another Danish series with English sub-titles, we had become accustomed to such foreign drama. But while Borgen is compelling, The Killing is addictive. Jones has twice sat up till midnight to watch episodes, a feat which no other drama has yet inspired. My advice is to steer clear of The Killing unless you have a lot of time to spare.

While we are hooked, we are none the wiser as to who dunnit. While researching the drama I discovered that the writer-director did not reveal the culprit to the cast themselves until the last moment. Before each shoot they received only the relevant script.

Also time-consuming has been the issue of a new bed. Let me explain. For most of our married life we have shared a double bed and found it adequate. But of late we have found ourselves sharing it with Ono, our old dog, which has made things a bit cramped - don't ask! - and occasionally with a cat as well. Since Ono tends to curl up behind Jones's knees and doesn't often snore - not true of all of us - I have borne with his presence.

Of even later, Prickles has got in on the act. He arrives in the bedroom in the early hours and whimpers until one or other of us gets out of bed either to cosy him up in a basket - or until he has hopped up on to the bed and made himself comfortable. When it comes to blackmail, Prickles is an artist. There is no ignoring his demands.

What to do? One option is to shut the bedroom door but he whimpers just as loudly and persistently from outside the door. And his fellows scratch to be allowed in or out.

Well then, shut him out of the house! That means closing the lounge sliding door that allows the beasts to go out for a pee. And since we are already trying to identify one floor puddler (active mainly on cold or wet nights) we are not keen to encourage any more. We have always left the back door open for them to come and go.

With no obvious solution in sight, I suggested to Jones that we at least upgrade ourselves from a double bed to a queen, an idea I've long promoted. She wasn't enthused, especially as we have recently invested in a mattress-topper. But with our nights increasingly disturbed and under growing pressure, she eventually succumbed, suggesting drily that I take the dogs along to be sure they approved the choice. The bottom line is that we have selected a wider new bed from an outfit in town, to be delivered some time next month.

Last Sunday we took ourselves to an evening performance of the Messiah at the public theatre in Faro. I had hoped that such a one-off event would fill the auditorium and was disappointed to see about a third of the seats empty. Of those that were filled, many were occupied by expats. Having performed in the Messiah herself as a teenager, Jones was familiar with much of it. I was acquainted only with the more popular parts.

We were impressed with the quality of the production, especially the small choir. Two of the soloists were a bit iffy on the lower notes. What didn't impress was the use of mobile phones around us by bored members of the audience. I blew a fuse when a woman ahead of me set about tapping out a lengthy message, leaping up to insist that she put it away (which she did in great surprise). The usherettes seem just to look the other way as if it's to be expected.

Sadly it is, at films as well, where mobile phones, conversations and crunching popcorn are part of the entertainment. I prefer to acquire DVDs for movie viewing at home. This disappoints Jones who is less bothered by such distractions and misses her film outings.

You may be aware that the Oxford Dictionary has nominated "selfie" as its word of the year. For my part, I have decided with Orwellian dictat to eradicate the words "fantastic"and "incredibly", both of which are abused endlessly on radio and TV. I squirm and cuss (irritating Jones in turn) with every "fantastic opportunity" and "incredibly clever" that soils the airwaves. "Awfully pretty" and "terribly nice" are bad enough for anyone with a pedantic streak.

Speaking of which, I am often impressed by the quality of the prose that I come up with in my dreams. During an argument with some dream character the other night, I declared with a flourish: "I grow bored with being right", a statement on which I complimented myself on waking. My brother, Kevin, likes to quote another: "I could agree with you but then we'd both be wrong". But then I doubt he dreamed it up.

Unlike frozen members of our families in North America and drenched members in the UK, we have survived the onset of the New Year in relative comfort - gathered around our delightful wood-fire. This isn't true, however, for many Portuguese who live near the sea.

Ten-metre high waves have pounded the coastline, flooding villages, sweeping away vehicles and undermining roads. Sight-seers in Porto learned the hard way the dangers of watching waves from the assumed safety of the road. http://uk.news.yahoo.com/portugese-spectators-forced-to-flee-to-safety-after-huge-wave-crashes-onto-porto-waterfront-165859254.html#r1a1vyh

You may admire the fine card that I received at Christmas, along with a distinguished bottle of whisky, from grateful members of the betting syndicate that I have chaired for some years. Members' sentiments speak for themselves.

As I frequently emphasise when reporting our weekly losses, we have a record of consistency that most companies would envy.

I sometimes wonder, if we do win any money, how it might change our lives, indeed whether any of us will still be alert enough to spend it. Well, we've time enough to worry about it.

Letter from Espargal: 3 January 2014

This blog begins on a damp Thursday - the first Thursday of 2014. For inspiration the dogs and I have a view of the mist drifting along Benafim ridge to the rhythms of Brahms' second symphony . There's a small fire in the stove, sufficient to dry the air and the washing that hangs from the rack above as well as settling the beasts; as so often, it's miz rather than cold.

We've ventured out on a short excursion; neither the slippery going underfoot nor the bang-bang of the hunters somewhere in the murk encouraged us to venture further. At one point the dogs took off through the bush with that high-pitched yelping that they emit only when chasing a quarry - usually a rabbit - but they returned puffing and panting a few minutes later with nothing to show for their efforts.

It's been run-around week or two. I flew to Calgary for Christmas at the invitation of my brother and his family, whose hospitality was as warm as the Canadian winter was cold. Barbara stayed behind to care for the zoo and for Llewellyn and Lucia, who arrived from London the day after I left and whom I saw briefly on my return.

VIEW FROM THE BACK DECK

As my own flights began and ended in Lisbon and there were no convenient trains or connections to Faro, I opted to drive the 300 kms to the airport and leave the car there. Jones was good enough both to accompany me (on a trip that began at 03.00) and to meet me back in Lisbon a week later, making her interim journeys by train. On the way up we had the magnificent toll-road more or less to ourselves. The return journey was much busier as numerous travellers headed south to celebrate New Year in the Algarve.

With me I brought back a couple of Pebble smart watches http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pebble_(watch) that Kevin had obtained for me in the US; they're not yet available in Europe - and will be double the price when they are. One of them I had already paired to my phone; the other I gave to Llewellyn, who was as delighted with his acquisition as I am.

Apart from the usual time functions, the watches display SMS messages and (some) emails. They alert the wearer to incoming messages with a faint vibration and light up briefly in the dark with a shake of the wrist. They can also be used to control music and other functions that I'm not into. I should add that I did not forget Barbara, who was happy to receive low-tech gifts of her favourite perfume and cashmere.

I returned to find that UK television reception was still available to us in Portugal, apparently because testing of the new transmission satellites (offering a much smaller footprint) is taking longer than expected. However, we still expect to be cut off any day - a situation that we will confront when it happens.

LLEWELLYN WITH BOBBY

The dogs alerted us last weekend to the presence of two young fellows who appeared at the fence bearing strange devices. On inquiry, they informed us that they were surveyors who had been despatched to record the stone markers that residents have been painting and initialling at the limits of their properties. Their measuring devices were new to me, comprising a long pole with a sat-nav reader at the top - a modern version of the theodolite total station.

At each stone marker, the fellows would pause to take a gps reading before recording the position electronically on a screen. I conducted one of them around the markers within our fence, which encloses several plots. You may recall that I had earlier spent hours in Benafim sorting out the details of our various properties with Rui, as the first part of the process (to record the position and ownership of all properties in the parish).

A pause there to read an email that's just arrived, alerting us to a performance of the Messiah to take place in Faro this coming Sunday evening - and then to book tickets online. The system is a bit cumbersome. Although one pays immediately and receives confirmation by email, one still has to fetch the actual tickets from the theatre at least 30 minutes before the performance starts or risk losing them.

At least it's an improvement on the system offered by the theatre in Loule, where we hoped to attend a New Year's day concert. A notice in the window stated that the booking office opened at 14.00 each weekday. So last Monday, after taking May to lunch, we waited outside at the due time - in vain. On closer investigation it emerged that the office was closed on Monday afternoons. We tried again on Tuesday afternoon, when I had an appointment at the bank. Again no luck; presumably the staff had Old Year's day off. So we shrugged and stayed at home instead. Some things are not meant to be.

Another pause: Thursday evening: the house gleams; Natasha has been at work. We took ourselves and as many dogs as we could fit into the car to Loule, the better to leave her free. Her task is not easy when it rains and the hounds have to be accommodated inside. She preferred to come to us on a Thursday this week to take account of the New Year.

NOT NATASHA BUT LUCIA AT TABLE

Like her fellow Russians she will celebrate Christmas only on January the 7th - a curiosity of the difference between the old Julian calendar (still observed by some eastern orthodox churches) and the reformed Gregorian calendar.

This difference was the topic of my last English lesson of 2013.

The Julian calendar, as good as it was, gained three days every four centuries, gradually throwing the equinoxes into confusion and upsetting the clerical formula for calculating the date of Easter. This in turn upset the Church, whose liturgical calendar was then observed throughout the western world.

(For nerds only: The Gregorian reform of 1582 corrected the imbalance by skipping 10 days, restoring March 21 as the vernal equinox; it further amended the formula to declare
that:
it is a leap year if it is evenly divisible by 4;
but it is NOT a leap year if it can be evenly divided by 100,

unless the year is also evenly divisible by 400. Then it is a leap year.

Bet you didn't know that!)

Happy New Year!