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.