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.