Summer ends in the Algarve, not with a gentle slide into Autumn, but by falling over a cliff.
In the space of a day or two, temperatures dive from the sweaty mid-30s into the refreshing mid-20s.
And the air gets a different, moist quality, with a suggestion of rain to come.
Here, in Barbara's picture - most of the photos are hers - you glimpse the distant sunlit mountains between the dark hills beneath and the lowering clouds above.
The rain clouds timed their arrival to coincide with Cathy's departure for Berlin.
She was such an easy guest that she really just became part of the household.
I am putting up some of the pictures marking memorable moments of her visit.
Cathy is never happier than when holding a cat in her arms - well, seldom happier - and Braveheart would sometimes oblige.
Some years ago I hauled this tree-trunk into the yard with the tractor and set it up as a seat sculpture.
Since then Slavic has created the stone pavement that surrounds the two pomegranate trees.
I erected the stone sculptures right of frame.
And Jonesy added the inevitable pots and succulent plants.
The tin box left of frame holds a supply of firewood.
Cathy was not best pleased when I snapped this picture of her in her gardening clothes, sitting beside the garden tool box on the front patio.
She preferred, she said, to be photographed looking her best, and would rather not see the picture on the blog.
She relented after being persuaded of its merits; and here she is, as neat and tidy as always.
This is a characteristic she shares with my wife but not with me.
There is a little cafe in the village of Funchais, half way home from Loule, that serves wondrous ham and cheese sandwiches.
They taste even better washed down with a glass of the house wine.
The proprietor is happy to turn off the music feed to the outside speakers, the better to allow us to enjoy the sounds of silence instead.
The dogs snuggle down under the table and we reflect, between mouthfuls and sips, on the views down the valley, beyond the house that you can see reflected in the window.
This is Marie's living room, at the dinner she threw to welcome neighbours and their visitors.
Like all Marie's dinners, it tasted pretty special. She has the knack and takes a lot of trouble.
On Barbara's left - that's to say, her right - is Pauline, Marie's near neighbour.
Wine is served in Marie's inherited crystal glasses. We drank with heightened appreciation.
Less formal was lunch at a snack-bar on Faro beach.
We were as grateful that day for the shade from the (out of sight) beach brollies as for the cold beer and toasted tuna sandwiches.
Although the sun still roasted beach-goers, August's hordes had thinned out. There was ample easy parking and lots of space at the tables.
The proprietors were as pleased with our custom as we with their service.
Another outing was to the fair staged one weekend on the ancient bridge that crosses the Algibre river at the village of Tor.
These days the short-cut across the bridge, built by the Romans, to the main road beyond is restricted to pedestrians and cyclists.
Local handicraft was on sale at the kiosks that lined the walkway. The dog-leads in my hands dangle down to the usual suspects, Ono and Prickles.
Close by, an engineer was setting up for the music that was to entertain the crowds into the night. By then, we were long gone.
Although at this time of year, the Algibre runs dry, its nourishment drained by numerous pumps and boreholes, the river-bed is dotted with occasional pools.
This brilliant picture of one such was taken from the bridge.
Its merits need no singing. All compliments to Barbara please.
This picture centres on Anita, daughter of neighbours, Pauline and Fintan (immediately behind her).
Anita was down from Dublin for a break with her folks.
To the right is her host, Olly (we are back at Marie's dinner).
The man on the left needs no introduction.
Anita is good fun. If I were a Zulu, I might consider incorporating....never mind!
Another neighbour, Sarah, insisted that I make mention of the annual boules competition on the pitch that she and David have created.
Family in the UK were waiting to see the pictures, she told me.
As it happened, I wasn't present; Cathy partnered Barbara instead.
I was taking the car to the local workshops for minor repairs after coming too close to an invisible pole.
But here's a picture anyhow of most of the competitors against the background of Sarah and David's house - the old bakery.
The winners this year were Fintan and Pauline - and that on their 50th wedding anniversary.
Rumour has it that their delivery, somewhat like that of the Pakistani bowlers, was a trifle unconventional.
Whatever their technique, there was no arguing with the result.
Here they are being presented with the trophy by the Dutch ladies, who won last year.
I should not leave the boules pitch without drawing your attention to the new wall that the owners have built at the end of it.
Although builders assisted with the wall's construction, the cladding and artwork are Sarah's alone.
Look carefully at the picture. It is not recessed as it first appears. The tiles below, like the frame, are a painted 3D illusion.
They speak of Sarah's talents more eloquently than I can.
All week the Portuguese weather bureau has been sending out weather warnings.
Heavy showers, high winds, thunder and lightning!
Judging by the satellite-picture depression heading our way, we were in for a rough time.
But the black clouds rolling in delivered just a dribble of rain with nary a crack of thunder.
At least, we didn't have to water the garden.
The air was so moist that even the house floor tiles were damp.
Under the circumstances we lit a tiny fire, to dry the air rather than to warm us.
It was the first of the autumn.
Our newly-delivered oak firewood burns hot and long.
And small as the fire was, the dogs settled happily around it.
At the weekend Slavic and Roslan returned to continue their good work on paths and steps.
For much of the morning I had to leave them to it, as I tried to sort out a confusion between our lawyer, ourselves and a neighbour who was about to purchase a property from us.
This confusion arose, not over the sale itself, but over the complex bureaucracy surrounding it - and who would be responsible for it.
Praise be! matters were sorted in time although I aged several months in the process.
Neither legal complexities nor path construction get in the way of our evening games of Hide & Seek.
Here I instruct the dogs, waiting behind the gate to an enclosure, to STAY until I call them.
Then I head off into our large garden, trying to think of a hiding place that will take them more than a few seconds to sniff out.
Cathy waits (out of shot) to open the gate on my call.
We have tried playing the game without first enclosing the dogs behind a fence.
I put them on their honour to remain seated in the car port and not to move until they hear me call.
Prickles gives me 30 seconds before he barks; his companions take this as a clear signal that the hunt is on.
Whooping and wailing, they come streaming in my wake. I sometimes wonder what the neighbours must think.
I have to get their treats ready for the dogs insist on being promptly rewarded for finding me.
Prickles is our smallest dog - but only in physical size.
In spirit and in ranking, he's a giant.
He very much likes humans to scratch his head for extended periods.
A moment's pause brings a reminding paw.
As an alternative, I invite him on to my lap.
At the other end of the scale is Raymond.
He and his brother, Bobby, compete to sit beside me on the couch.
Here the pair of us are liable to drift off to sleep, particularly after a good supper and especially in front of a somnolent fire.
Once we used to insist that the dogs knew their place.
But after they had voted unanimously to become full members of the family, we gave up the struggle.
Each evening, on her waifs and strays run, Barbara pauses to feed Robbie Savage.
He was so named by Olly - after RS scratched (or bit) him - in a punny reference to the former Welsh football player.
Robbie Savage is still very shy and although he has come to trust Barbara, he will not permit her to touch him.
As a footnote: On seeing Robbie Savage, Olly declared that the cat was an imposter and not the real feline Robbie Savage at all.
Cathy entertained us one evening to a posh restaurant to celebrate Barbara's recent 70th birthday.
The occasion was a special one. As frequently as we eat out, it is seldom anywhere other than the local eateries (with which I find no fault).
As I write, I am painfully aware that I am soon to follow Barbara's example and enter upon septuagenarian pastures.
This is not an occasion that I look forward to. It is only my awareness of the dire alternative that encourages me to go ahead with it.
Let me turn to happier topics.
Barbara's garden is showing the benefits of her efforts and Cathy's extensive waterings.
These handsome flowers are called something that I can't remember.
I'll check with Jones in the morning - if I remember.
And the blood lilies are now in splendid bloom.
They emerge from the soil each year in response to the first rains.
We came across them first at the Quinta.
And we find them just as fascinating these many years later.
WARTS AND ALL
No words needed!
