Letter from Espargal: 27 March 2015

This is a short, standing blog. Standing blogs, unlike standing orders and a bit like standing stones, actually involve standing, a stance that I find does nothing for either incentive or inspiration.

As you may gather, I am still suffering from sciatica. This, for any readers lucky enough never to have experienced it, is a bit like fighting a tug of war with a demon for possession of one's leg - one or other of them. At least I'm still managing a twice-daily walk.

I have embarked on scans and consultations - of which enough for now!

Last Saturday we travelled five minutes down the road to the village of Nave do Barao for a presentation of Algarvian wines. Two euros bought visitors a glass and the freedom to taste any of the wines on offer.

These included several from the estate owned by Cliff Richard, a label that came with a premium that I thought undeserved.

We came away with several bottles from local estates that will serve us well. I should add that the Algarve is not a region of Portugal that has been traditionally associated with serious viticulture.

We also watched a film, The 100-foot Journey, a feel-good "comedy" that was so determinedly feel-good and predictable as to be slightly depressing. Nay, I exaggerate. It was okay.

Apropos of nothing, I note that the second woman bishop chosen by the Church of England, Canon Alison White, is herself married to a man bishop.

One wonders what they talk about over breakfast. And how do their children feel about being the offspring of two bishops? To be the offspring of one bishop may be considered unfortunate; to be the offspring of two starts to sound incestuous.

All we need now is a transgender bishop and a cross-dressing bishop and everyone will be well served.

Monday's achievement - since repeated - was to take both our dogs and the orphans on a harmonious joint walk, with just a little "what are they doing here?" from the regulars. The orphans squeak and squeal as they chase shadows merrily through the bushes, almost like three little fish darting through the water.

They are such a joyful trio when at liberty that their happiness is infectious. Paleface came back from one excursion covered in ticks, most of which he allowed Jones to remove. We have since bought insect repellent drops and are considering how best to administer them. The little beasts refuse to wear collars.

We continue to let the orphans out twice a day in the hope that they will return for their food in short measure. Barbara goes out to open the gate of the pen at 7.30, when they start squealing. In theory she shuts them in again a couple of hours later when she feeds them - with a similar story in the afternoon.

Half the time one or more are late to return and she agonizes over their fate. I tell her that we lock them in for our sake and let them out for theirs.

They certainly get around. All the village has got to know them.

Tuesday's air-crash and Thursday's news conference about the likely cause came as a huge shock. It felt close to home. My heart goes out to the families of the victims.

Jones has made another batch of lemon marmalade - her third in about as many days. In spite of her doubts, it's just as good as the first two, which is very good indeed.

Even better news, the peony that she has been nursing these three years past has put up this beautiful flower. And while her garden is awash with flowers of every kind and colour, none gives her more pleasure than this one.

The clocks go forward this weekend!

Letter from Espargal: 20 March 2015

TOIL AND TROUBLE

It is the orphans once again that have had us by the emotional short and curlies this week.

The roller coaster ride began on Sunday when we released the little beasts from the pen for their morning run-around before taking ourselves up the road to brunch.

It was a lovely sunny day, ideal for neighbourly conversations under the leafy bougainvillea that shades the tables on the Hamburgo's front patio.

After a help-please visit to the dog sanctuary in the heights of Goldra and a reflective baggy at Funchais, we came home mid afternoon to find that only Sparky had returned. She was vociferous in her desolation as she waited companionless outside the pen.

Vitor and family, who'd come up to visit the orphans, were disappointed. For some time they hadn't seen anything of the dogs although the trio had been frequent visitors to his back fence where they entertained his little boy.

Dusk and then nightfall brought no sign of the missing pair. Every so often, as Sparky's barks changed key, we'd make fruitless checks on the gate. Sparky continued to chorus us with her dismay as we retired to bed.

It was hard to sleep. Every hour one or other of us would rise. It was 02.00 when Jones returned from such an outing to inform me that Mello was back. Of Paleface, there was still no sign.

On Monday, before setting out to entertain May, we informed neighbours of his absence and asked them to keep an eye out. May had slept awkwardly, straining a muscle in her neck. A good lunch cheered her up.

My English class discussed the predicament of Algarve villagers whose backyard had been taken over by a huge raspberry and strawberry-growing enterprise; vast greenhouses, pollution and monstrous consumption of groundwater were making their lives miserable.

Monday evening brought no sign of Paleface. Jones asked me whether I thought that he might ever return. I replied honestly that there was no way of knowing.

I agreed with her that if he did return, he should be snipped asap. We suspect that his absence was probably a romantic interlude.

The problem is that none of the orphans will permit us to fondle or handle them. We managed to get collars on two of them while they were being spayed but these they promptly ripped off again - don't ask me how.

On Tuesday we woke to rain - welcome rain.

It's a month since any fell and two months since we had decent downpours.

The weather picture looks much wetter this next week or two. Jones expressed her relief. No doubt her beans are doing the same.

Mid-morning Paleface came home.

During one of her checks Jones found him sitting famished at the gate.

He didn't tell us where he went or what he'd been up to.

He simply tucked into a meaty bone before being lured back into the pen to rejoin his companions. He seemed to be ready for a good rest.

When I heard on lunchtime news that three British judges had been dismissed for watching porn on their office computers, I carefully checked my watch to ensure that April 1st had not arrived early. It hadn't.

As reports made clear, the judges concerned had broken no laws by spending their time ogling sexual high jinks instead of reflecting on their cases. They had merely displayed some very bad judgment. Possibly they had fallen victim to some of the many invitations that I get on gmail each day to meet interesting girls for a little fun.

Barbara spent much of the day preparing a large pot of lemon marmalade from a recipe that I printed out for her. It took a lot of preparation - much cutting, boiling, cooling and tasting.

At times she thought it too runny and at times too stiff. Whatever the case, the final results are delicious.

I might add that while our lemon trees are bearing moderately, those of neighbours are groaning under their load, a burden that we have been pleased to relieve.

Wednesday dawned bright and beautiful. We went for a long walk. The tracks were muddy, discomforting the dogs. They kept on pausing to try to dig the mud of their pads.

We kept the more adventurous dogs on leads as the soil showed fresh evidence of the passage of wild boar, encounters with which are bad news.

I should add that in all our wanderings we have never come across them, probably because they are diurnal and we are not. But friends of ours had a nasty encounter while walking dogs.

My Pebble smart-watch has given up the ghost. I greatly regret this as I liked the watch and found it really useful, especially in the car. Some weeks ago it went on strike, displaying a code that other Pebble users have found only too familiar, to judge by complaints online.

In spite of prompt and detailed assistance from the company's support staff, all my attempts to revive it have come to nothing. As the watch was out of guarantee there is nothing further to be done. That's apart, perhaps, from taking a keen interest in the latest generation of smart-watches.

As you may see, I am blogging on my knees. My back continues to play silly buggers and sitting provokes the sciatica that has plagued me for the past few weeks.

Jones feels that it is simply the inevitable price of age and misfortune, to be borne as best able.

I wait to see whether nature and medication will serve to improve matters.

Thursday the rain started falling just as we were about to embark on our walk.

So we trooped back inside the house, lit a fire and fed the dogs, which then settled themselves down on the chairs.

We are getting towards the end of our three tons of winter firewood, a mixture of oaks and other hard woods.

Each time I light a fire I reflect how lucky we are to enjoy such luxury and wonder how many more generations will be able to afford to do so.

It takes so much longer to grow a tree than to cut it down.

At the moment three hundred and fifty euros buys enough firewood to see us through the winter - far cheaper than gas or electricity and ever so much nicer.

THE SUN, NOT THE MOON

On Wednesday and Thursday evenings we watched a TV build-up to Friday's eclipse, the last apparently in these parts for 11 years. My wife wondered aloud whether we would see another.

Friday dawned partly cloudy with the promise of showers, like much of the rest of the week. Jones, who was poised with the camera at the window, didn't have much luck.

But when we went outside to feed the pups, the sun broke briefly through and I managed to snatch a couple of pictures.

Letter from Espargal: 13 March 2015

THE LION AND THE LAMB.....

Quite a lot has happened since my last blog a week ago but, as it happens, not much of what has happened has happened in Espargal. This is good news, given how rarely events turn out to be for the better. As I may have remarked before, we did not retire to the hills for the high life (even if that sounds a bit paradoxical). These days, supper at the Hamburgo is about as much excitement as we need.

Nonetheless, life has not been entirely tranquil. Mello has rewarded us for the care, food and home that we have given her and her companions by howling half the night for most of the week.

DECORATING THE HALL MIRROR

Her decidedly unmellofluous barks, shrill and piercing, penetrate our insulated walls and double glazing with the ease of neutrinos. Our only relief comes from turning up the BBC World Service radio on the bed-head speakers.

We are at a loss to know what is provoking her, whether it be the moon or some other ghostly cause. Jones has risen from her bed several times to throw handfuls of biscuits into the pen in an effort to distract the little dog. I have turned the midnight hose on the orphans, showering the pen each time Mello raised her voice anew.

Neither of these remedies has had any lasting effect.

Sparky, to our amazement, has been emerging from the closed pen seconds after we'd shut the orphans in, to bark once again for admittance at the tractor gate. It's clear to us that she wants to be upgraded from refugee status to canine business class.

I lured her back in to the pen with a chewie, only to see her popping out moments later from a narrow gap between fencing panels which she climbs like a monkey. The gap, which Jones illustrates, has now been closed.

Summer comes on apace. We have moved the sundowner table from its weather- protected position on the north patio back on to the cobbled patio. No longer do we require jackets on our morning walks.

We've been on the lookout all week for the orchids that ought to be appearing now. Apart from a dozen early purples at the lower gate, pickings are thin. Barbara has come across a single woodcock, there are a few straggly naked mans, a hopeful sawfly and a modest mirror orchid.

The bees are thick in the rosemary and lavender blossom that has burst out along our paths. Although they are generally good natured, they don't like being brushed off as we pass by and make their feelings clear. The dogs return panting from these outings, heading straight for the water bowls to refresh themselves before flopping down on the cool tiles.

On Tuesday Natasha joined me to prune trees in the park. It's heavy going with the big loppers. (Continuing sciatica has dissuaded me from using the chainsaw.)

We spent several hours thinning out the branches of the numerous almond and olive trees before fetching the tractor to pick up the waste. Piles of branches dot the terrain.

Whether we'll get to burn them before the onset of next winter is beginning to look doubtful.

At the bottom of the field Barbara's fava beans are coming along famously. So are her three newly-planted fig trees, each of them with a promising green tip at the top. I took them an additional can of water before thinning out the shoots on the surrounding almond trees that Mr Palmeira will soon be along to graft with fruit tree cuttings.

Wednesday evening 19.00: We are back from our evening walk. The dogs are fed. Of the orphans that generally arrive for supper at 16.30, there is still no sign. There has been much barking and yapping from the valley below. Jones is worried. What on earth might have happened to the little dogs?

THE ORPHANS

19.15 Sparky and Paleface rock up at the gates demanding supper which Jones promptly serves. Mello is still absent. Jones rehearses aloud all the terrible things that might have happened to her. I wonder whether for once we might be in for a good night's sleep.

19.45 Prompted by my wife, I set out on my tractor to see if there's any trace to be found of Mello. In the street outside Leonilde's house, I come across her dogs, Valete and Presidente, and lure them back inside the gate with the supply of the biscuits. They know me well.

THE LAST DROP!

Leonilde, who was unaware of their escape, emerges gratefully from her front door. A headlight tractor tour through the village leaves me no wiser about Mello's fate.

20.00 I arrive back home to find Mello squealing at the gate for supper and I notify Jones accordingly. Jones says there was no trace of the dog "a second earlier" when she went out to look. But she hurries out with supper and then tempts Mello back inside the pen for the night. My wife wonders aloud why we feel compelled to care for these creatures and worry so about their fate. I wonder whether we shall get any sleep tonight.

Thursday: We ran a food supply up to the dog sanctuary in Goldra. Marisa was back on duty although she has still to recover full use of her right hand.

Blood poisoning set in after she was clawed by a cat she was trying to save from dogs. Another of her supporters had delivered a score or so of large bags of dog biscuits.

As requested, we had brought cans of meat this time, 80 of them. Although they filled the boot they won't last long.

My brother in law in London, Llewellyn, has sent me a selfie of his new car, a Honda CRV of similar age and mileage to ours. He has just taken possession of it.

This happy event follows an equally unhappy one earlier this month when he returned from a walk along the Thames with his dogs to find his previous CRV submerged in a metre of water as an extra high tide flooded roads bordering the river.

The car, like the tablet computer under the seat, was a write-off, a most distressing turn of events, the more so as his insurers and brokers proved to be less than helpful.

Perseverance, however, is Llewellyn's strong suit and he wore them down.

It's great to see him smiling again. We hope that the new vehicle brings him and Lucia as much satisfaction as ours has.

Are you among the estimated 350 million strong audience for the BBC's Top Gear? We are following with fascination the saga of Jeremy Clarkson and the programme's suspension following his "fracas" with a programme producer, apparently over the latter's failure to provide hot food on location. Bigoted petrol head that he is, Jeremy provides us with the only hour of relief that we get all week from the daily gruel of UK media political correctness.

Given that the international sales of Top Gear (to over 200 countries) earn the BBC about as much money as all its other programmes combined, it will be fascinating to see whether the corporation sticks to its principles or puts its mouth where the money is. How nice it is to be retired to a quiet rural village in Portugal!

Letter from Espargal: 6 March 2015

BARBARA DAWN

Spring arrived on the first of March as if by appointment. The first flies buzzed into the house on the 2nd. Day temps have climbed into the low 20s while night temps are into double figures. It has become steadily more challenging to justify the fire around which we gather so pleasantly in the living room each evening. I've begun slapping sun cream on my face and hands before setting out on our morning walk.

For the first time this year we've had to park the car in the shade to keep the dogs cool rather than in the sun to keep them warm.

After walks Russ hops up on to the large patio table for a trim. He's going to need several more. The amiable dog is more than happy to lie back while I go to work on his arctic coat.

Natasha joined me in the park to cut back the trees and bushes that have been colonising the ground around them. I do most of the cutting and she piles the branches into heaps to be either burned or mulched. Any burning will have to await the next rains, of which there's no sign at present.

The ground is dry. Barbara daily bemoans the drought. In the afternoon she trots across to the Leonilde field with a pail of water for the three new fig trees - courtesy of Mr Palmeira -

that she has planted there. Her fava beans get a squirt from the hose and I shall shortly have to begin watering my fruit trees.

On Sunday, aware that Idalecio was expecting guests with dogs, we put the brothers (Raymond and Bobby) on leads before we set out on our morning walk. It was a good move. On the far side of the hill we ran into the orphans, who greeted us with squeals of joy and promptly joined the party. Russ is always delighted to see them. Ono, Barri and Prickles do their best to ignore them; the brothers, while not overtly aggressive, remain both suspicious and curious, as though encountering interesting but low-class cousins from the far side of the track.

TRAPPED BEHIND THE GATE - AGAIN!

After brunch we hitched up the trailer and drove west to Guia in order to purchase two more fencing panels from Leroy Merlin. We planned to use them as gates on the right-of-way that runs down to Idalecio in the hope that these would discourage the orphans from visiting his cottages and their occupants during their daily tours of the village.

No such luck, needless to say. The orphans dropped into his property as usual from the back and then got vociferously stuck on the wrong side of the gates as they tried to return.

THE FEMALE ORPHANS, SPARKY & MELLO

The little dogs have become quite possessive of their patch.

They burst into a volley of high-pitched shrieks at any perceived alarm or intrusion. A party of hikers who passed our gate on the way down from the hilltop with a boxer on a lead got a good barking for their temerity.

I waved to them from the upper patio to indicate that it was all sound and fury signifying nothing.

On Monday May's shopping list once again included new batteries. As she seemed to be getting through an awful lot of batteries, I made inquiries. They were for the TV and digibox zappers, she informed me, explaining that she replaced the batteries each time the picture went hazy (which it did most days as a result of the dodgy TV by internet link-up.)

Attempting to dispel a firmly-rooted May myth is not a challenge for the faint-hearted. I explained to her that the batteries had nothing to do with the picture quality. On reflection I might just have removed them to make the point. We chose instead to buy her a battery tester to allow her to check the charge of existing batteries before she discarded them.

END OF A LONG DAY

She took us through to her kitchen where, to my surprise, she had laid out several dozen (perfectly good) discarded batteries on the counter prior to disposing of them.

I tested half a dozen while she watched, holding the device up to show her the positive results, before leaving her to test the rest for herself.

I think we arrived just in time. Zeus alone knows what she's been spending on batteries these past months.

ORPHANS AT SUPPER

On Tuesday we walked late, setting off after 09.00, as agreed with Idalecio's guests; they take their own dogs out before that. The couple, professional cyclists who come to the Algarve each spring to coach aspirants, have three adorable little spaniels, far too sweet to mix with our common mutts.

I spent a couple of hours working with Natasha in the park before heading to Alte for a session with Jodi. It's been something of a sciatic week and I was grateful for her services.

BARBARA SUNSET

Last week Jodi confided that one of her dogs was missing, causing great heart ache. It had disappeared while out with her husband on an early morning run. Subsequently he found the body in the veld. It would seem that she had eaten poison.

Sadly, now that the hunting season is over, the scattering of poison - aimed at foxes and similar predators that take the hunters' rabbits - is not uncommon. I would consign poisoners, together with people who abandon their animals, to one of the innermost circles of hell and ensure that the heat was turned up.

BARBARA SUNSET OVER MONCHIQUE MOUNTAIN

Wednesday I went with Natasha on our annual visit to the accountant in Benafim. He looks after both the social security report that I have to file on her behalf and her income tax submission. His large office and two assistants, along with their desks, all but drown under the masses of files and piles of paper that fill the office.

When a phone rings, they sometimes have to scrabble under the paperwork to find the instrument. I hope that the accountant is well insured against fire.

While he was attending to us, the usual suspects, Ono and Prickles, back in the motor car, discovered a packet of chewies that I had failed to put away securely. Of this I was unaware until Prickles emerged from the car back at home with a large chewy protruding from his small mouth like a bone from a cannibal's nose, a prize viewed enviously by his jealous fellows as he set about consuming it.

The new front door continues to impress and satisfy. It was a great investment. We have sticky-taped open the cat flap to encourage the felines to use it. Braveheart and his sister have taken to it with just a little encouragement. Squinty remains to be convinced.

The first early purple orchids have appeared in their usual position below the gate in the lower field. Thus far, they are among the few representatives of their species to be seen locally. Barbara blames the lack of rain. However, the drought doesn't appear to have hindered the weeds, which are thriving everywhere regardless.

(Barbara, checking my script, opines that even the weeds are not up to scratch this year.)