Letter from Espargal: 27 June 2014

As I was telling Jones, being a god is not as easy as people seem to think. It's not as though deities can put their feet up and sip an endless supply of heavenly cocktails while ogling passing goddesses and considering the rules for future universes.

Like ordinary mortals they find that being comes with often onerous concerns, responsibilities and duties.

(I've just recalled that we are a fortnight overdue with the annual inoculations and dog licence renewals! On to the vet to make arrangements!)

For instance, you can forget about divine sleep-ins. One's adorers are at the bedside bright and early, reminding one in no uncertain terms that it's time for the morning walk.

Then there's the daily round of biscuits, treats, grooming, games and you name it. I would say think carefully before elevating yourself to godhood. Although divinity has great compensations, it's not all that it's cracked up to be, not if one wants a quiet life.

Last Friday, at Armenio Palmeira's invitation, I drove the tractor cautiously down the steep track to his orchard, ducking under overhead branches, to pick a bucket of plums. The route has grown more challenging down the years by the spreading branches that now force tractors right to the edge of the track.

Few people know about the orchard as it's both awkward to reach and tucked out of sight. But the birds know about it and they sure had whacked into the fruit, both the plum-pecked carpet beneath the tree and the plums above.

Even so, I came away with a useful bucket. The better plums went into the fruit bowl, their wrinkled and damaged companions into the pot along with a measure of brown sugar for some excellent Jones jam.

It was really satisfying to see that whole sequence through in a matter of hours - even more satisfying than growing one's own beans, especially after such a miserable crop we raised this year. Leonhilde's beans, just a few metres away, seemed determined to put ours to shame.

Saturday was busy. It started out at the Ponto do Encontro (Meeting Point) snack bar with neighbours, Fintan and Pauline, for discussions on a curry meal that Jones has been considering.

Jones and Pauline were both born in the month of July and have sometimes held joint celebrations. But my wife describes the occasion she has in mind as a tribute to the seventies (or something similar - a sort of non-birthday birthday celebration).

In the event, the village buzz-bikers had also gathered there for conversation and refreshments, including the family who run the local restaurant. Unusually, they close on Saturdays.

Manuel, the restaurateur, is a bike enthusiast. He confesses to owning three buzz-bikes. And apart from restoring a classic motorbike, he has acquired a most impressive new tourer (for a price that had me blinking. I am led to understand that BMW offers exceedingly generous terms.)

As we returned home through the valley, we came across a group of men stripping the towering cork oaks that line the road across the flood plain. Three of the workers were perched up on the huge boughs of a tree while a fourth gathered the sections of cork bark that came tumbling down.

Those up the tree hacked away at the bark with small axes. It was spectacular to watch. I asked them if I could take a few pictures, promising that I'd make prints for them - and they were perfectly happy either way.

With the light behind them and their figures in outline, they made great pics. At least I thought so. Judge for yourself.

We had planned to visit the company premises on the far side of Sao Bras but finding the workers back on site a few days later, we passed over the photos in person and promised them a few more of those they especially liked. They were well pleased.

Cork is still a major Portuguese industry although it's been under a lot of strain as wine producers turn to screw tops and plastics.

The industry has responded by exploring new avenues for its product. It's developed a method of using fine layers of treated cork for upmarket bags, shoes and clothing as well as producing a range of trinkets for the local pocket.

Saturday evening brought the annual party of the Senior University, held this year at a cavernous restaurant in the heart of old Loule. Gone are the days when we gathered at fancy five-star hotels on the coast for a real banquet. Now it's house-wine in jars on the table. How times have changed!

As it happened, Barbara had committed herself to a birthday gathering cum wedding anniversary celebration with friends David and Dagmar, so I found myself both single and the only English speaker in a company of a hundred or more.

Fortunately, the dramatic Germany-Ghana match was playing out on a large TV screen close by and my companions were not disappointed with the little conversation that I offered them.

A fellow who was offering some firm opinions a few chairs along turned out to the the boss of Loule council.

I made my excuses early, coming away with a handsome glass bowl, the gift chosen by the university this year to reward its corps of voluntary teachers.

Sunday, Monday and Tuesday were delightfully cool, with welcome showers that refreshed the garden and spared us the watering, a summer chore that takes Jones an hour or two each evening.

She divides the garden into three sections, each of which gets watered twice a week. Pots and sensitive plants get attention every day.

The fruit trees - we've about a dozen - fall to me. I do them on the weekend.

In spite of the numerous drought resistant plants that we've established all around the property, watering remains a demanding task.

On the other hand, the garden brings us both great pleasure. I find it hard to believe that we are lucky enough to occupy such a wonderful bit of the earth.

At one stage I installed irrigation systems around the garden but these proved both ugly (as the black pipes climbed over rocks) and more trouble than they were worth - forever blocking or bursting. So I ripped them out again.

ANA

Wednesday we visited Sao Bras on the far side of Loule to support the newly-opened charity shop there - in aid of the dog refuge run by Marisa and her sister, Ana.

I sat down with Marisa at a nearby cafe for 20 minutes to hear more about the organisation and financing of the refuge - the former falling to the two sisters and the latter to their various supporters. Some give just a few euros each month.

MARISA

Marisa confided that she was looking after 19 dogs at home, including a clutch of puppies, most of the animals rescued from the street; that's on top of a hundred plus at the refuge. She does extraordinary work - 365 days a year.

She's in touch with animal societies in other parts of Europe that help to place as many dogs as possible. Sadly, with numerous strays running around and a culture where unwanted litters are simply discarded, there is no end to her work in sight.

En route home we stopped at a wholesaler (of sorts) to top up our supplies of locally distilled liquor. This isn't your typical bottle store. But the product tastes just as good and is considerably easier on the pocket.

There was no sign of Natasha's car outside the gates when we arrived home and we assumed that she had left. But we found her still at work. Her car had broken down a day or two earlier, she told us, and was under repair. The mechanic reported that he had got it going again but he wasn't sure what the trouble was or whether it would reoccur. Not good news!

Thursday afternoon Carlos called to vaccinate the dogs - our six and Poppy from down the road. We sat him down for a few minutes to prove to the dogs that he was a real visitor and not just a casual caller. They are very conscious of status and make a clear distinction between the locals and tourists staying in the village.

The dogs have been through the procedure often enough to know that it isn't fun but worth enduring for the treat that follows. Next job to take their ID papers up to the parish office to renew their licences.

Letter from Espargal: 21 June 2014 - The Longest Day

Last Friday: When I returned from the monthly food run to the rescue kennels in Goldra, the paraglider man was waiting with the aerial pictures of Valapena that I'd ordered. I shall dot a few of his pictures around the blog.

Monday mid-afternoon: This week is not starting out on a good note. Barbara, who was due to land in Faro shortly, is still waiting at Gatwick airport while Monarch repairs a fuel leak on her plane. Never mind that patience is undeniably preferable to haste, such delays remain both dull and frustrating - as we know so well - given the limited options for amusing oneself in a departure lounge.

WITH LUCIA IN LONDON

At the same time I have to confess that this setback is not entirely bad news. I had earlier complained to my wife that her arrival was likely to coincide with the start of today's key football match between Portugal and Germany, much of which I may now be able to watch.

However, given both over the dubious fitness of Portugal's injury-prone captain, Ronaldo, and the Germans' selfish habit of running their opponents ragged, it may not prove easy viewing.

On the plus side, Jones will be returning to a newly Natasha-magicked house and to bearable temperatures following a suffocating mid-30s weekend.

Let me thank Llewellyn for the pictures he sent from London of Barbara's visit. They include the shot below, taken at the south London home of a friend, Ann Christine, of a young fox visiting her garden.

They watched the scene in fascination from the window above. The visitor had a good sniff around before retiring to the small wood behind the house.

Tuesday morning: The day has dawned wonderfully cool and misty.

Football. Don't even mention it. It was worse than my worst fears - a calamity. The first half was so depressing that I was relieved to have to leave the match to fetch Barbara from the airport.

She arrived back in Faro three hours late. While we waited for her to emerge, Prickles amused himself by sweetie-pieing up to our fellow "waiters" and demanding head-scratches. None so cute as Prickles when he's in the mood.

A pretty girl sitting opposite me was all but seduced, not knowing what a little shit the darling can be when he chooses. All went well till a careless fellow tripped over Prickles' lead and nearly broke his neck. Time to make our excuses.

Via Verde, the organisation that runs Portugal's toll roads and some public parking, has just brought Faro airport under its wing. As long as one is registered and has the small transponder stuck to one's windscreen, one can now just drive into the airport parking and drive out again. The barrier opens magically in front of the car. No more hunting around for tickets or fiddling around for change at the pay machine. I like it.

HOUSE CENTRE PICTURE
PARK SURROUNDS IT
CARPORT ROOF RIGHT OF THE HOUSE
CASA NADA TOP RIGHT

At least the day finished well. We supped under the stars at the Hamburgo. Manuel warned us as we left that the traffic police were lurking outside the supermarket just up the road. It might be in our interest to take the circuitous route home past the church, he suggested. We took his advice. Manuel is a useful man.

Tuesday afternoon: Jones reported back on some cosmetics that I'd ordered for her from Amazon, to be delivered to Llewellyn's address. We had wondered whether she would be allowed by security to bring them back in her cabin bag - her sole luggage.

On inquiry it emerged that she had received only a single jar of night cream when I had ordered and paid for three.

I queried the delivery by email with the suppliers; no quibbling, they came back within minutes asking whether I wanted a refund or the missing items. I opted for the latter - to be delivered at no extra cost to Portugal this time. Fingers crossed.

SUPPER TIME

Wednesday: May was feeling below par and decided not to join us for lunch yesterday. We still had to shop for her groceries and ours. She confirmed that the EDP technician had called at the house last week to adjust her electricity meter. Now she has only to wait for her bills to fall.

I watched the Brazil - Mexico match and was most impressed. The Mexicans weren't at all awed by the hosts' reputation and put up a great performance.

I have started strimming the park, a chore long overdue. It's been bleached a prickly, dusty grey-brown by the dry heat of summer, nothing like the bright green visible in the pictures - although most of that green is trees.

Thursday: Spain out! The champions vanquished - gods with feet of clay. Imagine flying home to those no longer adoring crowds. First class never felt so uncomfortable.

Tonight it's England's turn. I wouldn't put my money on them. I dare not even think about Portugal's next encounter.

THE TREES AFTER I'D TRIMMED THEM

For weeks now, TV and radio reception from one of the satellites has been patchy and growing worse. The picture has varied from near perfect (occasionally) to breaking up, frozen or non-existent. I couldn't figure it out. It didn't make sense.

The technician, whom I'd messaged to report the problem, rang yesterday to say he suspected that the dish had moved, possibly under high winds, and reception was right on the edge.

THE BRANCHES THAT CAME OFF

This morning I climbed a ladder to take a look. It wasn't the dish that had moved. It was the branches of the almond tree below it. In the few months since the dish had been installed, the branches had grown vigorously upward, obscuring the path to the satellite.

I spent an hour perched on the upper rungs, carefully snipping away with the big secateurs. What a difference! And what a pleasure to have perfect reception once again!

Letter from Espargal: 13 June 2014

Summer arrived this week and in a rush, as though to make up for lost time. Temps started out in the high teens and finished in the low thirties. It suits Jones better than it suits me. I'm for shutting the shutters and closing out the heat. She's for opening the shutters and letting in the light. 'Twas ever thus.

At least we got our TV back, barely a day after the encryption was changed. Joao emailed me a file with the new key, I stuck it on a USB pen and five minutes later we were watching the pictures again.

Let me take the week a day at a time.

Saturday: Slavic was back for yet more stone pavements. He does great work.

Monday: May said she wouldn't come to lunch; her TV wasn't working (yet again) and she was waiting for her man-Friday to come and fix it. Our longstanding hairdresser, Fatima, just back from her visit to Egypt, fitted me in for a trim at 12.15.

She said that Egypt was the place to go if you wanted to see old stones of every description - which is one way of looking at it. When I emerged from her salon, I had four disconcerting little black dots dancing around in front of my right eye. The nearby pharmacy provided me with some eye drops. But if anything, they simply made the black dots clearer.

MARY'S GARDEN

Only four of the regular six pupils were at my English class, the last of the academic year. Virgilio had passed away the previous week and his widow, Severiana, was absent. She dispatched a note thanking us for the letter of sympathy that we had sent her. She said she was asking God for strength to accept the loss.

They had been together for some 60 years. Their separation was like splitting a tree asunder. We reflected that grief was the price of love. I asked the remaining four if they wanted to carry on next year. They all said they did. They presented me with a bottle of Antiquissima (the oldest of the old) for my troubles.

The EDP phoned late afternoon to say that a technician would be calling on May on Thursday to adjust her electricity. We phoned May to let her know.

A small van drew up outside the gates to the usual clamorous reception from the dogs. The fellow who emerged identified himself as the photographer in the two-man paraglider that we had seen drifting over Espargal a few days earlier. He had half a dozen photos of our property in which he hoped to interest us. Framing cost from €25 to €200, depending on the size. We opted for two midsize pictures, due for delivery towards the end of the week.

BEGONIA

Tuesday - a public holiday in Portugal: I still had little floaters dancing around in my right eye - at night, flashing lights. Jones said I might have a detached retina. It hadn't occurred to me. We looked up the symptoms and they fitted like a suit from Jermyn Street. Your eyesight might be in peril, the medical sites warned; prompt medical attention was essential. Scary stuff!

I called my GP who said he was off duty but would alert a colleague at the medical centre - adding drily that it was best to avoid medical emergencies on public holidays. I promised to do my best.

Jones said it was time that medical problems came her way for a while rather than mine. I said be careful what you wish for. To be sure, I have found myself for some time now being over-supportive of the medical community.

Wednesday: The receptionist called to say I had an appointment at 15.00. The ophthalmologist was sceptical of do-it-yourself internet diagnoses. He checked my vision - 20/20 good news! - and then put some pupil-dilating drops in my eyes and told me to wait.

THE LAST POPPIES

Fifteen minutes later he called me back and attached me to various machines. The bottom line was no detached retina - brilliant! - but age-related "posterior vitreous detachment and floaters". (Feel free!) No surgery required. Self-correcting in six months - if you're lucky.

I had feared emergency surgery, ruining - among other things - the three-day visit to London that Jones has booked for the weekend.

When I emerged from the consulting rooms into the bright afternoon sunshine, I was blinded by the cobbles. I had to retreat inside to phone Jones, who was walking the dogs, and ask her to bring my sunglasses from the car. Even then, she had to lead me by the arm. Beware dilated pupils in the sunshine!

We supped at the Hamburgo with the gang, who had offered to drive me down to the surgery. I was pleased to share the good news with them. Manuel, the restaurateur, said his new waitress had resigned. Her boyfriend had disapproved of her hours. There are lots of people out of work, he reflected, but they want to go home at five - and restaurants don't close at five. The chicken and pineapple kebabs were scrumptious.

Thursday: It's hot. The dogs and I cut short our walk. They were panting from the start. Forty minutes was ample. Jones went on a while. She needs to do a lot of walking.

We drove into Benafim to collect a parcel from the parish office - a cut glass whisky tumbler from the Ferretts to replace one that we (not they) had broken. What a nice thought!

Then we stopped for coffee, a cake and a baggie at the Ponto do Encontro. I managed to find parking in the shade of a tree for the dogs. Windows wide open. The place was busy and so was Tania, trying to stay up with orders.

JACARANDAS IN BENAFIM

We paused at Leonhilde's to fetch the loaf of special bread that's delivered on our behalf each week. She says she went to investigate one morning what was upsetting her dogs, which are confined in a small yard. Just the other side of the fence she saw two large wild boar nonchalantly consuming the almond nuts that had fallen from the tree above. They wandered off in their own time. Cool customers - and best left alone.

Friday: To the airport with Jonesy. She's due back on Monday evening.

Letter from Espargal: 7 June 2014

This blog starts on Friday the 6th of June - the 70th anniversary of D-Day, as the media keep reminding us. We have done lots of stuff already - been for a walk; been to Benafim to fill up and pay our bills; been to Aldi's for dog chewies; been to the coast to fetch prescriptions from the GP's surgery - in short, been running around.

The day dawned cloudy and cool, with a hint of rain. We moved the six bags of cement that Luis delivered (along with a metre of stone dust) while we were walking the dogs. Rain is unusual in June but not unknown and I'd be sorely irritated to lose my cement. Slavic is due back tomorrow to carry on with his stone paving.

On Sunday we plan to go to the handicraft fair at Alcoutim.

On Monday I shall give my last lesson of the Senior University's (none too demanding) academic year. I am still uncertain about whether to continue my English conversation classes in the new term, given the falling attendance.

Last Monday I arrived at class to hear that Virgilio, one of my stalwarts, had keeled over at a meeting a few days earlier and expired. He and his wife, Severiana, have been with me from the start. I was shocked - and sad to have missed his funeral.

VIRGILIO & SEVERIANA - LEFT

Much as young people tend to attend weddings, pensioners willy nilly find themselves attending funerals for reasons not hard to discern. It occurs to me that several of my neighbours are great-grandparents. In just over a month my wife will turn 70. And not long after that I will follow suit.

Not in my wildest imagination as a youth could I have envisaged reaching such an advanced age. The thought of it is a little scary. Jones says it's just a number. I know that. It's the size of the number that makes me nervous. Still there's not much choice.

While killing time at the Algarve Forum last Friday - Honda were servicing the car - I came across a bracelet at the Swarovski shop that took my fancy. (That's the problem with killing time at a shopping centre!) So I bought it and gave it to Barbara as a non-birthday present. (I avoid birthday presents lest they get mixed up with expectations.)

She likes the bracelet as much as I do, which is lucky. She recently read an article about Swarovksi which said that the chain was going downhill until the founder's great, great grand-daughter, Nadja, took the helm, began commissioning new designers and expanded the range.

Bracelets aside, May and June are our expensive months. It's over this period that most of our car, insurance and tax bills fall due. The latter have gone up sharply over the last year or two and look set to rise again. Portugal's constitutional court has just blocked most of the government's proposed cutbacks, which will widen rather than narrow the budget deficit unless the government raises new taxes.

This will be difficult as people are already being squeezed until the pips squeak. I would love to win a fortune on the Euromillions, mainly to support a number of local groups that really need a boost, including the local fire service, which is painfully short of professional gear as the fire season looms once again.

Such a win is vanishingly unlikely, not only because of the impossible odds, but because our syndicate is on the point of closing down. We haven't had a win in ages and our funds have run out. Tonight's draw is likely to be our last. (It was!)

My bank manager called me in the other day for a chat. He says things are improving. (I have to confess a deeply ingrained suspicion of bank managers' motives, now that bankers have to meet targets flogging company products.) A few years ago, he tells me, two enterprises were closing for every one that opened. Now it's the reverse. Maybe it's true. But it hasn't got through to the man in the street (or his wife!).

The world football championships are nearly upon us. It would be so wonderful if Portugal were to win. How that would lift spirits! The flag flies from our upper patio as a petition to the gods of sport to support our cause - if such gods there be.

I am pleased to report that all is well on the phone front. Jones is settling down with her Samsung Young. I recovered all my lost apps after Llewellyn told me how to go about it - so easy when you know.

On Wednesday we collected May and a host of documents - listed earlier by a call-centre assistant - and took ourselves to the EDP in Faro to sort out her electricity.

She has been paying a fortune for an unnecessarily high potential and an expensive tariff structure. The account was still in Harry's name - hence the need for death certificate, property title and much more.

May got summoned to the front of the queue (upsetting folks who'd arrived before her), the young lady assisting us was helpful and the task was soon accomplished (albeit at our second attempt; last time we lacked the property title). A celebratory lunch at Apolonia in Almancil followed.

NEWLY SHAVEN VERGES

Thursday was complicated. Slavic arrived at 08.30 as usual - or would have if he'd been able to get past the council tractor that was shaving the village's heavily overgrown verges.

I set him to work before we set out on a short walk. I had to get back in time to fetch a load of stones from the valley before going off to attend a meeting with Natasha and the vendor of the house she hopes to buy.

However, Jones dropped her mobile phone on the walk and we had to go hunting for that first. We found it on the road, fortunately undamaged.

I spent the rest of the day working with Slavic - on more stone patios, as ever.

One of these days the place is going to look wonderful.