Letter from Espargal: 22 August 2914

It was on her waifs and strays run on Sunday evening that Jones came upon a disconsolate French family whose car was perched on a steep bank midway up the zig-zag driveway that leads to Idalecio's farmhouse.

The family - dad, mum and two young sons - had arrived at a guest cottage the same day. Somehow, while negotiating the driveway, the dad had turned too early and plunged down the bank on which the car was now firmly wedged, one forlorn rear-wheel stranded in the air.

On hearing this news from Jones, I interrupted my game of hide-and-seek with the dogs - with apologies - and went to see whether I could lend a hand.

On the scene I found Idalecio's brother, Zé Carlos, who was packing rocks under the car to create a ramp, and a neighbour, Joaquim, who offered advice where he could.

Zé (pronounced Zay - short for José) is a farmer and, fortunately for the French, a strong man. (Radio and TV interviewees would inevitably describe him as "incredibly" strong, provoking me to profanity.)

I gathered from the "mum", who spoke English, that they had rented the vehicle in Lisbon. Her husband remained seated in the car which, surprisingly, showed no obvious signs of damage.

When it became clear that planks would be needed under the wheels, I hurried home to fetch several from the workshop and to take them around on the tractor.

En route, I shared the news with Idalecio's father, who arrived on the scene post-haste. So did Jones with the camera.

Inch by inch, packing and removing rocks and planks as necessary, Zé Carlos coaxed the driver down until the car was firmly seated on the driveway once more. He got a well- deserved round of applause.

Some of the rocks he'd hefted around were veritable back-breakers. Joaquim hurried off to fetch a bottle of baggy and a glass to settle our nerves.

Then, nerves restored, glowing with associated merit and congratulating ourselves on a job well done, we all returned home.

Monday and most other mornings, we spent an hour picking carobs. I have already delivered a tractor load to the Palmeiras, returning with huge watermelons.

That evening we went to the Fatacil fair in Lagoa - a large exhibition of animal, motor, industrial, food and cosmetic products, with dozens of knick-nack stalls, food kiosks and performances by well-known artists on the side. It was okay, if not dissimilar to last year's and the year's before that. Scouts and other young fund-raisers were on hand to swell their coffers although most of them hesitate to approach foreigners.

Tuesday we made our way to the sleepy village of Cortinhola (pronounced "Cortin-yola" - an "h" in the middle of a Portuguese word gets a "y" sound) in search of an adega that manufactures the world's best medronho) or, at least, so Llewellyn informed us after sampling a bottle. Having driven through the village without finding a soul, we turned around and stopped at a yard stacked with planks where an old man and several dogs came out to see what we wanted.

It was the very place, the old man informed us, calling his daughter away from the lunch table, She bottled three litres of the best medronho for us there and then. Now it remains on to see how best to transport some of the precious liquid to

SQUINTY - COVERED IN BURRS - AND BRAVEHEART AT SUPPER

Llewellyn. (Medronho, lest you wondered, is a herby liquor, generally drunk neat, distilled from the berries of a local bush.)

While we're on words, the Guardian newspaper has compiled a demanding "test your vocabulary" list at which, professing to teach English, I felt obliged to try my hand:
http://www.theguardian.com/news/datablog/quiz/2014/aug/14/a-levels-how-big-vocabulary
Some of the words are stinkers, where luck serves as well as judgment. Having achieved an acceptable if not exactly exemplary score myself, I invited Jones to try. Muttering that she was "hopeless at these things" she came up with the same score.

Wednesday we left the house to Natasha while we took May to lunch. May is not a happy soul. Her TV via internet starts buffering late each afternoon and disappears of an evening. I am in touch with sundry contacts in a bid to improve the situation.

Wednesday night I sat down at the computer to watch the Coen brothers' film, Inside Llewyn Davis, variously described on the box as "brilliant" and "a masterpiece". Admirer of the Coens as I am, this "masterpiece" is strictly for fans of film noir. As I told Jones the following morning, it wasn't her kind of film. To be sure, it wasn't my kind of film either. I'd been expecting something closer to O Brother.

Thursday, like Sunday a hunting day, we restricted ourselves to a short (40min) walk around the hill. In the distance we could hear the diehards banging away in the heat. Then we carobbed and cut back the bushes under the tree in the sheep pen.

It's not exactly fun on one's knees, swatting the flies with one hand while pricking the other on the thorns secreted like IEDs around the fallen carobs.

Yet, there is something strangely satisfying about it - a primeval closeness to the earth perhaps. All across the Algarve, tens of thousands of people are out whacking carobs down from the trees and putting them in sacks.

Tractors weighed down with a pyramid of sacks stagger home at sunset, invisible - like scavenging ants - beneath their loads.

AN ANT DRAGS AWAY A SWATTED FLY

After that I took five pages of letters and forms up to the parish office to await the signature and stamp of the new "presidente".

The previous parish leader was a local man. The new person, following Benafim's reluctant union with two other parishes, is a woman from Querença whom we've yet to meet.

I hope she proves to be as cooperative as her predecessor.

OUR CREST - THE GENT ON THE LEFT MAY BE BEN AFIN, FROM WHOM THE VILLAGE GETS ITS NAME

The documents - invitations, IDs and guarantees - are now required by the Portuguese consular authorities before they will consider issuing a visitor's visa to a third-worlder - in this instance a South African cousin once removed.

Although Portugal hasn't faced the wave of leaky-boat betterlife-seekers who've been splashing ashore in Spain and Italy, the only visitors it wants from the dark continent are the coming, paying and going sort; from other continents too, come to think of it.

Letter from Espargal: 15 August 2014

This blog begins last Friday evening when we travelled with our neighbours, Sarah and David, to the nearby town of Salir to watch their son-in-law, Rob, play football. He is the star player for the team fielded by the village of Cortelha, where he and wife Helen have a house. We were impressed by the facilities at Salir, especially the classy artificial turf on which the match was played. Although Rob was outstanding, as ever, his two goals were not enough to offset the four scored by his opponents.

The game was remarkable for the absence of fouls and the applause opponents afforded each other for outstanding play in a hard-fought match. Even more remarkable was the ref, whose authority was in no way diminished by the sandals in which he slopped his way around the field. Afterwards, the players headed off to a restaurant for a celebratory supper, an example we followed ourselves.

HELEN & FRIEND, LIZ, WITH DAVID right

Saturday evening: we joined neighbours for a very special meal prepared by Marie, who had invited Manuel and Graça from the Hamburgo restaurant as guests of honour. Graça cooks for a living and Manuel manages the tables which, for once, were turned, albeit most pleasantly. My literary skills do not run to either food or clothes but it's fair to say that Marie went to an enormous amount of trouble to serve up a memorable meal.

Sunday: Natasha, who came to work for a neighbour, brought with her Slavic and his brother, Roslan, newly arrived from Ukraine to seek a living in Portugal. The lads spent a couple of hours working for David and Sarah before coming over to us.

SLAVIC WORKS IN THE MIDDAY SUN WITHOUT A HAT!

The first task facing Roslan, who speaks only Russian and Ukrainian, is to learn sufficient Portuguese to get by - something for which his countrymen in these parts show a flair. Slavic speaks the language passably and Natasha excels. She also gets along in English when she has to although she's not comfortable in it.

After lunch I took the tractor down to Mr Palmeira's orchard where plums from several trees lie thick on the ground. I picked the best of the rest. The riper fruit has already gone into the pot, en route to the jam jar.

JONES WAS RELUCTANT TO TAKE THIS PICTURE GIVEN MY UNPREPOSSESSING STATE

BUT THE TRUTH MUST OUT

While Jones jam is delicious, it does rather tend to drip on the bed clothes if one is not very careful - which one sometimes is not, particularly when half asleep.

Monday: Jones busied herself in her garden. Delicate plants require daily attention.

As well as plumming and hanging pictures, I spent some time setting up Kaspersky's Password Manager. This endeavour was prompted by an email from my sister, describing her husband's efforts to protect his own cyber identity. While I ensure that my trusted Kaspersky security suite hovers mindfully over my computer, I haven't fully exploited its resources.

At Llewellyn's bidding, I also downloaded the Android OsmAnd app and several maps ("Openstreetmap.org") to my mobile phone. This is a most useful wiki that the public can modify with names and places of interest. Llewellyn and I have already inserted the names of surrounding hamlets and villages.

Monday evening we joined Celso and his two children for supper at the Hamburgo. We got to know Celso and Brigitte when they ran the snack bar in Benafim. Squeezed by the "crise", they moved back to France where Celso has been picking up work around Paris. He was delighted recently to secure a contract to drive one of those monster car-delivery trucks.

Joey 11, lives with mother Brigitte some distance away. Celso sees them when he can. Daughter, Elena 17, who stays with her grandmother in Benafim, is still at school here in Portugal. The situation is not ideal, as Celso ruefully concedes, but needs must and his relief at having secured steady employment was palpable.

Tuesday morning: we set about the overdue task of collecting our carobs. Some are ripe and clattering to the ground while others still cling to the branches as though for dear life.

Much whacking with a long stick is required to bring them down. This is my job.

Mainly I leave Jones to do the bending down. I am not a bender. When necessary, I go down on my knees or use barbecue pincers to retrieve those on the ground.

CASTING A SHADOW ON CAROBS LYING BENEATH A TREE

We managed to fill two large tubs. Just another 20 or 30 to go - to be passed along in due course to Mr Palmeira in thanks for all the fruit and veg we receive.

We'll try to put in an hour a day most days.

Tuesday afternoon: two tons of firewood arrived on a truck, along with two young men who spent 90 minutes offloading it on to my tractor and repacking it in the woodshed.

David, who had ordered a ton for himself, came across to lend a hand - much appreciated. It was hot, especially in the woodshed, where the workers dripped as they stacked the logs.

We are now well set for winter. As far as I'm concerned, it can't come soon enough.

Wednesday: May was in good form over lunch, reminiscing at length over one experience or another as she enjoyed her fried shrimps. Late in the day I fielded a call from a courier who had three Amazon parcels to deliver in Espargal.

He was tickled pink when I met him down at the old school and signed for our fellow expats as well as ourselves, before making the deliveries on his behalf. Amazon clearly does good business in these parts.

Our parcel contained two DVDs, Inside Llewyn Davis and The Dallas Buyers' Club - still to be viewed. I hope they live up to their billing.

While taking the dogs out for a final treat and pee, I sat on a chair that wasn't there. Oooh! Gravity is so unforgiving. The dogs rushed to lick me better.

Thursday: Slavic arrived to continue working on odd jobs around the property - paths, steps, walls and other minor improvements. I sent him into town to fetch some cement while we went walking. I can't say that I always set out on our morning walks with a cheery heart. But I am aware how important that hour of fairly vigorous exercise is to our overall health and fitness; and we always return feeling glad that we have made the effort. It settles the dogs down for the morning too, a big bonus!

Thursday evening: we supped on the patio, under the lights in the trees, and shed a tear or two for Mary, whose loss still lies heavy upon us.

Friday: the feast of the Assumption of Mary into heaven. It's still a public holiday in Portugal, all the more appreciated this year for falling on a Friday.

The feast was among the major celebrations in the liturgical calendar when I was a Marist Brother - a little brother of Mary - my "vocation" for a decade, in another life that I find difficult to relate to. So do some of my ex-colleagues with whom I still correspond.

Even more surprisingly, half a dozen of my fellow novices have remained faithful to their calling down the years and are now celebrating 50 years of monastic life. Sadly for them, they are now an order of old men. The average age is past retirement.

In 1950 Pope Pius XII proclaimed the Assumption an article of faith of the Roman Catholic church - a dogma that prompted doubts which were ultimately to lead me away from the faith. An assumption too far!

Letter from Espargal: 8 August 2014

High summer is the season of village festivals, a celebration of music, dancing food and wine. No village worthy of the name lacks a festival.

Last weekend brought Benafim's, an occasion that unites everyone who's anyone in the town and lots of people who aren't anybody at all.

We went along on Sunday night, I to enjoy my annual plate of pork and porridge, Jonesy and neighbours for the barbecued chicken and all of us for the fado.

The two fado singers were enthused if not famous; inbetween their songs there was much conversing, children ran around, parents looked on and everyone had a good time. One has a real sense of community. Beer, wine and spirits are freely available but even the village drunk looked reasonably sober.

The festa has a serious purpose as well as a social one.

The profits go towards the completion of Benafim's retirement home, an institution that's sorely needed given the number of retired people in these parts.

HIDE & SEEK AGAIN: I AM WRAPPED IN THE FLAG

On Monday the government announced that it was rescuing the troubled Bank of the Holy Spirit at a cost of several billion euros. Relieved as we were to know that our investment would be safe, we were more concerned to know when we could fetch Ono's incontinence muti from the vet.

While we waited for a call, I set about confirming the cruise excursions that we had earlier reserved online. This was easier said than done. After logging in to the cruise-line website, clients can choose from a list of options including Excursions. When they choose Excursions, they are instructed to LOG IN to the site - and so on.

I KNOW YOU'RE NEAR - BUT WHERE?

It gets worse. After extricating myself from this vicious circle and filling in my details, I hit SUBMIT PAYMENT - only to have the screen freeze; an email followed, informing me that all our excursions had been cancelled.

I called the helpline in the US where a polite but unhelpful person advised me to call the travel agency instead. Clara, the travel agent, couldn't access our booking online but promised to sort out the problem the next day. She's the kind of person who keeps her promises.

I THOUGHT SO!

When the vet did call, it was to say that Ono's medicine would arrive the following morning. Before that we got a "HELP PLEASE" SMS from the dog refuge in Goldra saying that they'd run out of food. Could we bring forward our monthly delivery? We could.

Lidl is where we shop for basics. We loaded the car with bags of biscuits and cans of meat. The refuge is situated high on Goldra hill overlooking Loule, at the end of a bad road, some distance from the nearest houses . (En route we fetched Ono's drops from the vet - to be administered three times a day, the vet said. Ono hates them!)

At the refuge Marisa and her sister, Ana, welcomed us. So did the dogs.

Although she is recovering from a recent back injury, Marisa still hefted two bags of dog food at a time from the boot and carried them down to the gates.

It wasn't prudent. I warned her - with the weight of 30 years' experience - to treat her back gently or face the consequences. She earnestly assured me she would as she went back to fetch another two bags.

OUT YOU COME!

Mid-morning Marie texted me to say that Portugal Telecom was sending her publicity, using my email as a reference (never mind the detail). Perturbed that my personal details might be at large, I went to see PT in Faro. Half a dozen young PT ladies were addressing customers' needs and their own.

I explained my concern to one of them. When she failed to allay it, I insisted on seeing her boss. The boss explained that my name was linked to Marie's in their system, probably because I had reported her number out of order at some point. And she assured me that nobody else was getting my details. OK!

COOL IT FELLOWS! TREATS ARE COMING

We lunched on cheese and ham sandwiches and a glass of red wine each at a café (1 Maio) we have recently discovered in the hamlet of Funchais, about half way to Loule.

It offers easy parking, shady seating on the patio (for us and dogs) friendly service and excellent fare at silly prices.

With temperatures now up in the mid-30s, finding suitable parking and somewhere for Ono and Prickles to conceal themselves beneath a table becomes a priority.

OKAY, HERE'S A CHEWY EACH FOR BEING SO SMART!

Mid-afternoon Clara emailed me to say that she had been in touch with the cruise line and we ought now to be able to finalise the excursions. So I tried again - with the same result. Very frustrating!

A last attempt and finally I succeeded - success I shared with Clara, adding a detailed, distinctly unflattering account of my experiences on the buggy website. She replied that she had forwarded it to the cruise company. I recall similar shenanigans before our fjords cruise. The office staff were hopeless - although the cruise itself was brilliant.

JUST FRIENDS!

Wednesday we took May to lunch. Beforehand, while Barbara did May's shopping, I squeezed in a haircut with Fatima. Fatima works alone, cutting men's hair, in a small salon off the main drag. She'll do women's too as long as it's just a wash and cut. Fatima is very popular and it's wise to book an appointment.

She grew up in France and switches effortlessly between French and Portuguese to suit her customers. I asked her which language came more readily. They were the same, she told me, although there were words in each that she couldn't easily render in the other.

EASY NOW!

In the afternoon we headed for a medical centre at Quinta do Lago, where I had an appointment. While I waited we sipped coffee at a café overlooking the immaculate greens. The resort is a parallel universe, bereft of life's potholes and weeds. Some uninspiring golfers were hacking their balls down the fairway. Evidently wealth doesn't guarantee talent.

I wasn't there for the golf. My annual crop of heat bumps has gone viral. I look as though I've been used for shotgun target practice. Jones reckons they're insect bites rather than a heat allergy. The dermatologist agreed.

PREPARING SUPPER - A BOWL OF FRUIT AND VEGES

As usual, he also zapped me with his gas gun. It stings for half an hour, especially in the sun. I drove home feeling like a human dart board - although it occurred to me that I wouldn't get much sympathy from the people of Gaza. What a catastrophe!

Thursday: It's bloody hot. We walked early, while the sun was still rousing itself. After coffee and post in Benafim, I blogged and Jones gardened in the shade. And thus the days pass.

We have invested in two new appliances - a (lemon) fruit juicer that works just fine and a mosquito enticer-cum-zapper that the mosquitoes mock at night before they stuka down on me.

Letter from Espargal: 1 August 2014

THE DOGS SPOT THAT I HAVE HIDDEN UP A TREE DURING HIDE & SEEK

Today marks the start of the month of August (named after Augustus Caesar which, of course, you knew.) In these parts August means heat, holidays, tourists and the opening of the carob-picking and hunting seasons.

Because the trees are heavy with carobs this year, we shall have to do a lot of picking. As for the hunting, we shall have to pick our way more carefully around the hills on Thursdays and Sundays.

COME DOWN OR WE'LL COME UP AND FETCH YOU DOWN

While in Gilde's (most useful) hardware store, I heard Isidoro ask one of his clients whether he had painted his carobs black yet. While we knew well enough after 20 years that carobs start off as tiny green beans and finish off as large black ones, I had not heard the expression before. So I asked Isidoro what it meant. "It's really just a way of asking if your carobs are ready for picking," he told me. I have filed the expression in my mental New Portuguese Expressions folder.

IT TAKES A MINUTE OR TWO - I AM NOT AS AGILE AS I USED TO BE

It occurred to me that Isidoro (meaning "gift of Isis") was a strange name for an adult man to bear in Portugal, given that the former military regime refused to register any babies who were not named from a list of approved saints. And I had never come across a Saint Isidoro. However, a quick search revealed that Isidoro was a learned Spanish bishop in Seville cerca 600 A.D., subsequently canonised.

There were also, while we are on the subject, several Saints Terence, the list of whom I have no intention of joining. Given the uncertain rewards of sainthood, I can't see that it's worth the effort.

OK, HERE'S YOUR TREAT FOR BEING SO CLEVER

On the other hand I am still making a "tempered" effort to lose weight and have dropped below my personal red line. Mostly it's not too demanding - except that is when we sit down under the trees on the cobbled patio in the evening, the dogs at our feet.

I mix Jones a baggy (lemon juice, coke and ice) and try to content myself with a chilled fizzy water as I imagine the illusory slimmed-down shape that awaits me.

On Monday I sat down at the computer and went through the excursions being offered on our Black Sea cruise in October. The excursions that we were really keen on were those on offer at the three stops originally scheduled in Crimea. But since Mr Putin decided to annex Crimea, the cruise has been rerouted around it - much to our regret.

Even so, we have opted for (although not yet paid for) half a dozen excursions in Turkey, Greece, Bulgaria and Romania, mainly half-day walking tours of ancient sites. Just 60 days to go. We are really looking forward to it.

Tuesday, before we fetched May for lunch, I chased up the lawyer who had submitted our Casa Nada registration request to the council to ask if she'd heard anything. (There'd been no response from her to an email inquiry from me a few days earlier.)

I found her just leaving her office and accompanied her down the road as she hurried to an appointment. The council had rejected our request, she informed me, because we had done work on Casa Nada (true - if only minor) without permission. That was news to us, unwelcome, but news none the less. The lawyer was under the impression that we'd received a letter to that effect. We hadn't. At least we now know the position.

Wednesday we took Ono to the vet. He's our oldest dog, discovered as a still-blind, wailing, furry handful under a bush near the Quintassential on the eve of the new millennium (2000 i.e. rather than 2001 - if you recall that controversy!) and hand-raised. In spite of his graying eyebrows and muzzle and twin cataracts, he still manages the hour-long morning walk across the hills. He nearly always accompanies us in the car and he tends to follow me from room to room.

But - and here's the rub - he's begun to develop a slight bladder problem.

The vet wanted a urine sample from him before deciding what to prescribe for his bladder. (Later: We hear that there's no infection. The vet has ordered pills that will arrive on Monday.)

Thursday, as we went shopping, we came across Natasha's car with the hood raised on the side of the road with Natasha waiting beside it. The car has long had either an electrical or computer problem that's proved difficult to diagnose (without putting it through mega-expensive workshop tests). On this occasion Natasha said that "fumo" (either smoke or steam) had risen from the engine and the car had drifted to a halt. She couldn't restart it and was waiting for Slavic to rescue her.

The midday news was all about the multi-billion euro loss recorded by BES (the troubled Bank of the Holy Spirit) in the first half of the year.

The pyramid of holding companies is shrouded in financial murk, the share price has collapsed, the former boss is in court, the administrators have been replaced and accusations are flying around.

That the situation is nervous-making is putting it mildly - and not only for investors. Portugal's austerity-laden economy is barely staggering along and hardly in a position to deal with a mega-bankruptcy.

Thursday evening we joined neighbours, Sarah and David, for a sundown supper at the "telef" (beacon) that sprouts from the hilltop above us. The views are down across the great Algarve plain to the distant Atlantic.

We have often fantasized about having our house on the southern slopes of the hill with its glorious sunny outlook - not that we're unhappy with the prospect across the valley to the northern hills.

But the south is virgin hillside and Portugal's strict zoning regulations now ensure that any new building takes place only in approved areas. You can still build a house with authorization but you won't get any services to it and you'll never sell it.

THE POT PLANTS DEMAND DAILY ATTENTION

August, like July, demands at least an hour's watering - often two - of the garden each afternoon/evening.

Jones divides the garden into three sections, one of which gets watered each day.

This takes up a lot of her time and more than a little of mine.

I have adopted half a dozen spreading pumpkin (or similar) plants that have sprung up from seeds in various beds and require daily refreshment.

They're flowering nicely.

All we await now are the pumpkins.