Letter from Espargal: 17 May 2014

On Monday my English class and I discussed the threat to our health caused by the over-prescription and misuse of antibiotics. We also discussed what to do with ourselves. The same hardy half dozen, well-retired pupils have been with me for several years and they're not getting any sprightlier.

Each year a few new pupils arrive and then drift away. This is not heartening. I called for suggestions from the class about how to vary or improve the lessons." We like them the way they are," I was told. "Don't worry about it".

Tuesday brought the east European contingent to Espargal. Slavic - who's Ukrainian - arrived to help me fashion Mary's garden. Doro, out-of-work husband of Nadia - Barbara's seamstress, both Russians - arrived to cut back the jungle.

They were followed by Natasha, who arrived to clean the guest quarters for Margaret and Terry Ferrett, who were arriving themselves from Gatwick that evening - quite enough arrivals for one day.

They all did great work. Slavic created a most beautiful river of flowing stones in the south garden; Doro gave us sight again of a bank long drowned in vinca and Natasha got the house gleaming, as she does.

Mid afternoon we met Terry and Margaret at the airport and accompanied them over the bridge to Faro beach for a beer and a sandwich at the Electrico. They were as delighted with the 30* temps that greeted them as they had been depressed by the cold weather they left behind in Portsmouth.

Wednesday we nipped into Loule for some odds and ends. Jones collected a couple of items of (beautifully and inexpensively) altered clothing from Nadia. I had arranged to meet my wife at a favourite snack bar for the habitual coffee and shared rice-cake but I found her hurrying towards me as I approached.

She was fleeing an encounter with acquaintances who never let one go without at least ten minutes of conversation.

Speaking for myself, I am never happier than finding no-one I know in a cafe or supermarket for I dread the inevitable "how nice to see yous" while I wrack my brain for their names.

I have been known to cower behind stacks of baked beans, intently reading the fine print, in order to avoid such. Supermarkets in my book are for shopping, not conversations, other perhaps than to find out where the staff have now stacked the dog biscuits.

Mind you, this belief is foreign to many country folk. It is not uncommon for people to wait in line with their groceries, ears flapping, while the cashier catches up on the life of a client that she (always a she, I'm afraid) hasn't seen for a while.

I got caught up in a similar situation at the hardware store where several of us were waiting for an elderly fellow to search his pockets for the euro he was short of for his purchases. He'd already taken an age to obtain the exact fittings that he required for a tap.

As he painstakingly tried yet another pocket, I slapped a euro on the counter with a "you do someone else a favour one day", earning a small round of applause from my fellow waiters, who were as impressed as much by my fluency as my generosity.

Wednesday afternoon Jones took a break from her garden to pack and check the arrangements for her early flight to Lisbon the following morning - thence to Copenhagen to meet (her brother) Robbie and Carol, who are embarking on a fjords cruise this weekend. Neither of us manages to sleep well ahead of an early morning rise.

We were awake at 03.30 and away an hour later, doing our best not to disturb the household. We'd left the car outside the gates in preparation for an easy get-away. There was time for a shared coffee and cake at the airport before Jones, slim and smart as ever, slipped through security into the lounge.

Also on Thursday Slavic returned to continue his path and bank-building activities. We made three tractor trips down into the veld to collect the necessary rocks. The great machine that had been stripping the hillside lay idle for once beside the road.

It had certainly done us a few favours for the rocks we sought we found scattered around on every side, rudely ripped, like the trees, from the soil where they'd long lain. I needed Slavic's weight on the tractor to give me front-wheel traction as we came back up Espargal hill.

We got a lot done. By the end of the day my bones were aching and the last of Llewellyn's Laphroaig tasted wonderfully refreshing. While taking a bone to the waifs and strays (on Jones's orders), I was ambushed by a friendly neighbour who insisted on pouring me a generous shot of fig liquor.

So I needed more than usual care as I made my way back home up the steep and stony right-of-way to our house. I was most grateful to Margaret and Terry for their assistance with the watering that still awaited me.

MARY'S GARDEN

Jonesy texted me from Copenhagen to say that all was well. She was going back to the airport to meet her relatives and will have a little over 24 hours with them before they board their cruise ship.

I am pleased that she has the catch up opportunity as she hesitates to make the long trip out to South Africa where most of her extended family remain. The exceptions are nephews in the US and Canada and her brother in London.

I was surprised one evening to receive an email from the Portuguese post office online service, CTT, with which I am registered, informing me that it was having difficulty delivering a mis-addressed parcel to me.

My ever-suspicious security system had blanked out the "click here to fix it" button, the appearance of which I hope would have alerted me instantly to its nature.

In the event, a quick internet search brought up a bank warning that malicious trojan-laden emails in CTT colours were now flying around cyberspace and ought to promptly deleted. It's the first such I've received in Portuguese.

(A corps of West African philanthropists continue to pester me daily {"Dearly Beloved,"} to accept mountains of cash. And to think that the Nigerian authorities had the gall to ban "District 9" because of the film's portrayal of Nigerian gangsters!)

Friday: The Ferretts have gone off to lunch with neighbours, having got to know all the local expats over the years that they've been house-sitting for us.

I'd love to get a text from Vodafone to say that my phone is ready for collection. No word yet.

The house is silent, apart that is from the gentle snoring of dogs recovering from a long, hot walk, and the strains of Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony. Time for my siesta too!