Letter from Espargal: 27 February 2015

This has been a windy week, a restless, tree-bending, leaf-tossing, window-wailing kind of week. Nonetheless, a good deal got done one way and another.

The work began last Friday when we hitched up the trailer and trekked to Gilde's hardware store to look for two more stiff, wire panels to reinforce the pen. In spite of all our previous efforts, we would return from where-ever to discover Sparky gambling around outside the pen while sidekick, Mello, bellowed in frustration within.

Happily, Gilde stocked the panels I wanted (2.5m x 60cms) and these we promptly affixed to the top of the pen along the western flank where, we suspected, Sparky was somehow making her way out. She is an extraordinary athlete, scaling a one-metre high fence topped, like a Guantanamo cage, with half-a-metre of horizontal fencing wire.

By the time we were done we thought the pen as secure as Devil's Island. The orphans run around the village much of the day. But there are times when we want them securely inside the pen.

On Saturday we made our monthly food delivery to the dog sanctuary in Goldra, where Ana still lacks the support of her sister, Marisa, who nearly died of blood poisoning after being clawed by a cat she was saving from some dogs.

Thence we carried on to Sao Bras to top up our baggy supply. Bagaceira - distilled from grape must - is Barbara's regular tipple, taken with an equal shot of lemon juice and topped up with coke; in summer, add a couple of blocks of ice.

My preference is for a peaty malt whisky although I don't complain if I'm served cognac.

Sunday, we continued from the expat brunch at the Hamburgo to the picturesque village of Querenca for the monthly morning market. The supply - mainly food products and nick-knacks - far exceeded the demand from the thin crowd.

I stopped at a stall to buy some dried figs from an equally dried old man but backed off when he grasped a handful in earthy fingers and thrust them into an old plate as a measure.

Monday was a red letter day. Just after nine Marco and Nuno turned up in their lorry with our new front door (shortly before Cathy and Jonesy went off in the car to look after May).

The first job was to remove the heavy old iron, double front door. It came off fairly easily, as did the metal frame supporting it, although they struggled to carry it. I had promised it to Idalecio, who arrived well-pleased to take it away.

Thereafter the two workmen set about installing the new door. This had been delivered from the factory in Spain in sections - the frame, the door itself, numerous lengths of trim, the handles and the reinforced glass panes.

The problem they faced was getting the frame vertical in an off-the-vertical concrete door-frame, albeit by just a couple of degrees.

To compensate for this, Marco had to trim the edge of the frame before wedging it into place, guided by an instrument giving off a vertical lazer light.

He and Nuno pushed, pulled, trimmed, drilled and screwed until they were satisfied. I was most impressed with their workmanship and style. One held the vacuum cleaner while the other drilled. They were perfectionists.

Finally they hung the door and fixed the heavy double-glazed security panes into place before sealing the edges of the frame.

It wasn't silicone, Marco pointed out, because silicone didn't last and his compound would. Although it was white, it could be painted any colour once it was dry.

I love the door. It's bright, strong and well insulated. No more draughts, no more dingy, dark hallway. All that remains is to teach the cats to use the cat-flap.

In-between times I phoned Canon to seek news of my printer. It would cost over €200 to repair, a technician informed me, as all the electronics had to be renewed. When I told him that I'd already installed an (expensive) new print-head, he said it had to be replaced again - and explained why.

In short, as soon as the printer gives warning of a low ink cartridge, that cartridge should be replaced.

Otherwise, there isn't enough ink remaining to regulate the print-head temperature and it burns out. I wish I'd known these things a few hundred euros ago.

Anyhow, I declined Canon's offer to repair the printer - I can buy a new one for the same money - and asked them to recycle it.

The multi-function Brother I subsequently acquired is adequate although it doesn't woo me the way the Canon did.

Tuesday we drove east along the coast to the town of Olhao, where we dined on toasted sandwiches on the promenade that runs along the estuary.

Lots of beady-eyed seagulls watched us from rigging of boats anchored offshore. Service was slow but the sandwiches were worth waiting for.

I was surprised at the number of tourists/ expats in the area.

That night we supped at the Hamburgo with the usual gang, along with David (son of Irish neighbours, Fintan and Pauline) and his American wife, Nicole.

David is a drummer with the band, The Commitments. Between gigs, like Nicole, he tour manages other bands. Nicole has been looking after Rod Stewart and Coldplay; he after an American group called Linkin Park.

As interested as I was in the stories they had to tell, I had to admit that I wasn't into bands.

NEW DRIVER

On the way home, I got a dashboard warning of an engine problem.

Wednesday, after dropping into Honda, I had a post-surgical check-up at the hospital. The doctor and his nurse peered at their handiwork. "Looks satisfactory," he said. "Don't hesitate to make an appointment if there are any problems." I assured him that I wouldn't.

We came home via Loule station in order to book tickets for Barbara and Cathy, who planned to spend Thursday in Lisbon before Cath returns home to Berlin that evening.

Jones wasn't carrying an ID, which meant we couldn't get the discount due to "seniors", so we came home and did the booking online instead.

The site is a bit ponderous and one has to log in twice, first to book the return journey and then the single. But for 50% off first-class, it's worth the trouble.

Thursday morning the pair of them caught the 7.11 express from Loule to the capital where they are nosing around the Gulbenkian or similar as I write. I took the car to Honda who tested everything and weren't sure whether there was a real problem (with a valve) or not. I'm to keep an eye on things. I arrived home to find that Sparky had escaped the pen again in spite of all our efforts. She's unreal!

Friday morning: Cathy is back home in Berlin. Jonesy is doing the washing downstairs. I have had a massage session with Jodi. Natasha is cleaning Casa Nada. End of story

THE WAY IT USED TO LOOK

AND THE WAY IT LOOKS NOW

Letter from Espargal: 20 February 2015

This week has denied me the opportunity to prepare a blog.

Here instead are a few pictures and reflections.

The boys returned last Saturday to complete a series of steps down the steep incline from the top gate to the park.

It's from this gate that we generally set out on our walks as it's the most distant from the rest of the village and leaves us in least danger of bumping into other people or - for that matter - the orphans, who are frequently on the loose.

On Monday I took the train to Lisbon where I dropped off my non-functioning Canon printer with the Canon agents. I await their quote to repair it.

Thence I myself repaired to the airport to meet Cathy and the two of us took the late afternoon train back to Loule.

Here she is on the couch with Bobby.

Bobby, like Ono, has a long and fond memory for previous guests and was very pleased to see her.

In her case Cathy brought me a bottle of whisky as a gift from Rolf, who is hiking in Majorca.

To express my appreciation, I sent him the adjacent picture.

While I am not much into birthdays or Christmas and all that stuff, I do find such expressions of family solidarity most acceptable.

Cathy was delighted to find the Algarve so full of colour after the winter bleakness of her native Berlin.

The almond blossom was a particular joy.

She stopped the car on the hillside overlooking the Nave de Barao valley to secure pictures of the almond trees below.

Little wonder then that almond cake and almond tart are everywhere to be found in the Algarve.

On Wednesday I nipped into hospital for a little attention to an injury that was reluctant to heal.

While the bed was capable of being contorted in every direction, the mattress left something to be desired.

The nursing staff were delightfully attentive.

In spite of their welcome attention, on Thursday, feeling restored, I left again.

On Friday we prepared to hitch up the trailer in order to purchase a couple more railings from Gilde's hardware store.

The intention is to curb young Houdini's daily escapes from the pen (in spite of all the precautions we have taken thus far).

We made the mistake of leaving the boot open while Raymond was about. For reasons I don't understand, he hops in and ABSOLUTELY refuses to hop out again.

Here we are trying to entice him out - in vain.

Once or twice I have tried to compel him to get out but he makes it clear that he will not move - and he's too big to argue with.

So there's no option but to leave him there until such time as he gets hungry or thirsty and gets out of his own accord.

Cathy spotted these orchids growing in the park.

Although we are blessed with a wonderful variety of such lovely flowers, very few have so far appeared.

Jonesy puts it down to the lack of rain.

But there's still time enough for them to bloom and the rain to fall.

Here Jones is ushering the dogs down the path during my brief absence.

I have never seen her carrying a stick before. She said it was to assert her authority in the event that the incumbents should bump into the orphans.

Happily, harmony appears to have reigned in my absence.

Letter from Espargal: 13 February 2015

The Algarve is displaying its winter plumage. The almond trees are bathed in auras of blossom, both pink (bitter almonds) and white. They're a joy to behold, a source of nourishment for the busily buzzing bees and for the soul. You will forgive me if I put a few blossom pics on the blog.

I have finished reading Hack Attack by the Guardian journalist, Nick Davies - no mean feat! It's an exhaustive account of his considerable part in exposing the criminal behaviour of the Murdoch media in the UK that led to the Leveson inquiry and numerous court cases.

What the book brings home is the extent to which the Murdoch press had top police in their pocket and political leaders doffing their caps while the journalists broke every rule in the book. It's the forensic, gritty detail of Davies's account that impresses - together with the salvos that he and his editor had to endure from hostile media along the way - reminiscent of the Washington Post's role in exposing Watergate.

On the movie front we have watched Boyhood. I noted the film's success at the Bafta Awards, a pointer towards the Oscars. But as much as one had to admire the 12-year endurance of the cast and the achievement of the producers, I was underwhelmed by the contents. Jones was more impressed.

I have indulged in a new pair of Ecco boots, a brand I came across years ago on a visit to my sister in Germany.

My favourites, Biom-Hikes are light, waterproof, hard-wearing, comfortable and supportive - and a bargain if one can find them on sale, which I endeavour to do, for they aren't cheap.

Possibly this paragraph is addressed primarily to my own conscience. I tell myself that they're my luxury. Jones would probably describe them as one of my luxuries.

I wore my outgoing pair (which are splitting on the side) for the last time on Saturday when the brothers turned up to construct a low wall down the western flank of the Leonilde field.

Slavic and I took six tractor rides down to Joachim Sousa's carob plantation to load up from his rock mountains while Roslan got on with clearing the edges of the field.

Slavic lays the base rocks and his brother adds the trim. Between fetching rocks and wheelbarrows of cement, I generally just watch them working.

By the end of the day we had reason to be well pleased with our efforts; indeed these have drawn the admiration of neighbours as well.

The three orphans, whom we had released from the confines of the pen, briefly inspected progress before taking themselves off to bark vociferously in a thicket (probably at one of our cats).

They have particularly high-pitched yips - squeals - which are both penetrating and unnerving.

We have made a practice of letting them out of the pen before breakfast and again before supper. Only thirst and hunger that coax them back inside, especially Paleface, who hovers on the sidelines. If we're at home, we try to let them out in-between times as well, a release for which they plead each time we pass.

It was while they were roaming on Sunday afternoon that I took our six into the park, - shock! horror! - to come face to face with the orphans who had either wormed their way in through a gap in the fence or launched themselves from an adjacent rock - as Jones spotted one doing. That was a scary moment.

Mercifully, I had made a practice of introducing them through the fence to the incumbents at every opportunity while strongly discouraging barking matches. Although our lot were as taken aback as I was and the big brothers (Raymond and Bobby) clearly resented the intrusion, I was able to entice them hackles-up back to the house. Truly, the orphans were taking their lives in their paws.

On Monday, after our return from a May lunch and English classes, the three little guys again shot out of their pen and made their way into the park. Anticipating a repeat encounter, I had closed the others inside the house. We Pied Pipered the orphans out again, loudly crinkling treat packets.

These confrontations are a real problem and it's very hard to know what to do about them other than confining the newcomers permanently to the pen - unthinkable! But there's no way to make several hundred metres of fencing orphan-proof.

Tuesday brought a second meeting with our accountants - with our income tax return in mind - to explain the inconsistencies in the registration numbers of plots that we had bought and sold. I showed Teresa, who deals with our account, the step by step record of the purchase, the division of the land (which had caused the confusion) and the subsequent sale of the remnant - and she pronounced herself satisfied. I hope the taxman feels the same way.

One has to take every precaution in preparing accounts because the Financas is the most organised, best-equipped and most ruthless department of government - with access to bank accounts across Europe. Hundreds - if not thousands - of residents have faced fines and had goods confiscated in lieu of outstanding tax. Arousing the inspectors' suspicions brings a comprehensive audit of one's financial affairs, which means a huge investment of time and effort in digging up old records.

Wednesday Jones had the stitches removed from her back, where the dermatologist had excised a small carcinoma last month.

CHILDREN'S CARNIVAL - FRIDAY MORNING

We stopped afterwards at Faro Beach with a light lunch in mind but found the scene depressingly dull and windy - at least I did - and went on to an eatery in Almancil instead.

Our last stop was nearby Loule railway station where, for the princely sum of €43, I obtained a first class return to Lisbon for myself and a single for Cathy, who will be flying in from Berlin on Monday to spend ten days with us. (No classes next Monday as Loule closes down for carnival weekend.)

The rail discounts available to pensioners are exceedingly generous. As mentioned, I'll drop the problematic printer off with agents based in the capital before going on to the airport.

We got home to find that Sparky had escaped the pen yet again in spite of my efforts to render it escape-proof - and we spent the rest of the afternoon reinforcing its already formidable defences.

Sparky is simply extraordinary - a real Houdini. Although she's the smallest of the three, she's the boss. She lays down the law to her companions.

Thursday we walked far into the hills while Natasha put in an extra morning cleaning upstairs. I spent an hour on our return re-introducing the resident dogs to the orphans. Barri and Russ are not fussed but the big brothers still need a lot of cajoling.

Friday morning: we are just back from the vet. Raymond has a lump under his rib cage that appears to be a lymphoma of some sort. The vets are examining the x-rays. The dog has to go back this afternoon for further examination.

PS: We are advised to take no further action at present but merely to keep Raymond under a watching brief.

Letter from Espargal: 6 February 2015

CASTING A PRELIMINARY EYE OVER THE BLOG

If I had to sit down and make a list of this week's achievements I would have some difficulty reaching double figures. Come to think of it, even single figures might prove challenging. That's to say, questions would soon arise about what might or might not qualify as an achievement.

For example, does getting the three orphans back into the pen count as an achievement? It can certainly take a great deal of effort. The two girls are pleased to dash back inside as soon as they catch sight of the food dishes. But Paleface is reluctant to enter the confines of the pen when he can career around the whole of Espargal.

And is fitting my non-functioning multi-function Canon printer into a suitcase an achievement, even if the suitcase doesn't quite shut? It wasn't easy; that much I can tell you. We couldn't use one of the big old wheel-less suitcases either (we still have a couple); it had to be one of the smaller cases with wheels because the device is weighty as well as large and will have to be manoeuvred along Oriente Station in Lisbon on Monday week by a man with a dicky back.

As you might have gleaned from previous blogs, the printer has to go to Lisbon for repairs. And since my sister, Cathy, is arriving in Lisbon from Berlin that day to stay with us,

LET US OUT!

I thought I might kill two birds with one stone (a poor metaphor, forgive me!). I had considered driving up to meet her but it's so much more expensive than train travel when one adds tolls to the fuel bill that it's hard to justify.

If I can think of any more achievements in due course, I shall add them to the above.

The workers didn't come last Saturday. I put them off because there was a gale battering Espargal, laced with occasional showers.

SUNBATHING ON THE SOUTH PATIO

The weather was wretched, really unsettling - a world out of kilter. Several days later the wind is still blowing and I'm getting twice-daily warnings from the weather bureau about the "tempo frio" that has descended on the Algarve this week.

For us that means overnight temps close to freezing. Given the added wind chill, it's finger numbing (although in the sun and out of the wind on the south patio is heaven). The boys and I waste no time, I can tell you, when we take ourselves outside for a late-night leg-lifter.

(In Portuguese "tempo" can mean either weather or time, depending on context although it generally refers to the weather. If you consider that extreme, remember that in English the word "sanction" can mean both permit and punish, which is just ridiculous!)

After brunch on Sunday Jones and I took a leisurely drive through the green valleys on the far side of Alte and Benafim. These are still picture-book vistas, spotted with occasional houses and small white villages. They seem divided by 100 years rather than just 30 minutes from the burgeoning tourist colonies on the coast.

COMPLETED ENTRANCE TO THE FIELD

There is no industry or development to speak of, which is a treat for ecology and the eye if not for the economy - for sadly, the beauty of the valleys is not sufficient to retain young people.

On Monday - a May day - my English class discussed Portugal's plans to make amends for its treatment of Jews some 500 years ago (when Jews were among its more illustrious citizens). At that point the country's Christian rulers, following Spain's lead, gave Jews three options - to convert, emigrate or die.

THE ORPHANS ON TOUR

Now Lisbon has announced that descendants of those Jews who were driven out of the country will qualify for Portuguese nationality, providing that they can furnish convincing evidence of their ancestry. Somehow I doubt that the measure will serve to swell the country's modest Jewish community. At least one may argue that it's a move in the right direction.

The cynic in me reflects that there's a great deal to be said for gestures that tick the right boxes without generating expense, effort or future problems. Unlike its European neighbours, Portugal has a tiny Muslim population and few concerns about domestic religious extremists of any hue.

TEMPTING FATE: CHALLENGING THE INCUMBENTS

Tuesday Jodi and I reflected on the perversities of the human body while she was massaging mine. As I explained to her, it's as though there's a baby fast asleep in the small of my back and while it's asleep, life is good. But when it's woken, life is miserable - and there's no knowing what might wake it.

Jodi said that if I thought this was tough, I should try waking her two-year old son; I might soon wish that I'd stuck with a troublesome back. I didn't argue with that.

Wednesday Roslan completed his repairs of a collapsed wall while Jones and I were still down in Guia, where I had gone to meet our accountants in preparation for our income tax submission. (We got a message from Natasha to that effect and had to scratch our heads over how best to employ Roslan pending our return.)

This year's meeting was more complex than most because under the capital gains rules we have to submit the figures for the purchase and sale of properties. The complications arise because we divided a property after buying it and before selling part of it, in the course of which its registry number changed - causing enormous confusion, yet to be cleared up.

NO STRAYS OR ORPHANS NEED APPLY

After the meeting we took a slow drive through the tourist developments that lay sleeping in the winter sun south of Guia. Come the spring, shutters will be pinned back. Come summer the area will overflow with holidaying humanity, before the gradual onset of hibernation once again. I can see the point although I couldn't imagine living there. I can't think what one would do all day. Mind you, boredom does occasionally seem quite an attractive proposition.

PS. I was delighted to see my former BBC colleague, Peter Greste, freed from an Egyptian jail and returned to bosom of his family in Australia. I hope that his Aljazeera co-workers may follow in his footsteps. He and I were once told off by a bitchy female editor whom we'd annoyed - and we took a great deal of schadenfreude in her removal from office some years later.