Letter from Espargal: 24 April 2015

ANDREI TRIES TO WIN OVER A SUSPICIOUS MELLO

Saturday Slavic arrived early with a friend, Andrei, for a day's clearing in the park. (Slavic's brother, Roslan, now works six days a week for a small builder and is unavailable.)

For some years the shrubs and plants have been taking over all available spaces to the point where the hillside had become a semi-impassable jungle.

The aim was to leave as many as possible of Jones's flowering plants in place while clearing paths between them and the trees.

I conducted affairs like a maestro, pointing with one or other walking stick at the bushes and low branches that had to go.

We cleared around the trunks of the numerous hardwood trees in the park and nipped off the season's suckers.

As fast as we cleared, we burned - albeit reluctantly.

At present I am unable to drive the tractor and it was simply impractical to try to remove the mountains of cuttings or to leave them to become a fire hazard in the summer.

Monday: Still disabled by sciatica, of which you will be as weary as I am, I went to consult more doctors. At Loule hospital I took an immediate liking to Dr Ricardo Soares who gave me 45 minutes of his time and a lot of information about spinal fusions - should things come to that.

My other appointment was with Dr Sun Bian, a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine, who has been proving a little more difficult to understand, if only because of her English pronunciation.

She comes highly recommended by several friends and lives barely 20 minutes away, which is handy.

ANOTHER JONES SKY PIC

Since acupuncture is a great deal cheaper and less traumatic than back surgery, I am giving her a try.

Her sessions last up to two hours. She deals with patients three or more at a time, moving from bed to bed. Treatments are scheduled every second day.

I certainly feel the benefit of her prickings but only until such time as I get back into the car. Sitting is simply not my thing.

DON'T MESS WITH ME

The pups have joined us each afternoon in the park when I take the regulars for an amble. Mello has been making eyes at Prickles, sentiments that Prickles didn't reciprocate. He's a bit of a curmudgeon.

Finally he flew at her to make his feelings clear. Mello fled, howling her distress although the injury was only to her feelings.

Prickles is our smallest (regular dog) but the others treat him with respect. He doesn't tolerate approaches by his fellows to his bed or his bowl.

Tuesday we went shopping. En route I thought I spied Luis the electrician's van parked in a neighbour's driveway. We stopped to check. As it turned out, the van did belong to an electrician although not to Luis. He introduced himself as Francisco. We asked him to pop around later in the day to sort out the bathroom lighting.

While in Loule we took a call from a neighbour who was unhappy about the pups' behaviour. It seems they had been visiting her property and making a proper nuisance of themselves as well as upsetting her elderly parents. (The pups love nothing more than chasing cats, ours and anybody else's.)

We invited the complainant around to see the miscreants in situ and managed to reach an understanding.

That afternoon Barbara interrupted my siesta apologetically to say that the electrician and his mate were at the gate. I hurried down. Electricians are like gold dust. Francisco proved to be a willing and able fellow. He confirmed that the electronics for the old mirror lights were caput. But, with a few modifications, he was able to replace the old lamps with two others that I had bought as stand-bys.

It was only when he installed the second of these that I discovered it to be slightly different in design from the first - very irritating! Still, they work perfectly well. Visitors may peer at themselves in the mirror once more.

We have been following a TV series about Harley Street; the second episode was about people seeking cosmetic surgery and why - as well as how much it cost.

Jonesy disapproved of using medical resources simply to look better - although she does sometimes mutter about her wrinkles, few though they be.

On matters of appearance, it's a couple of weeks since I have had to comb my hair. That's partly because it's thinning out but mainly because Mary, the hairdresser in Benafim, shaved me like a coconut without so much as a "how do you like it".

I haven't looked quite so bereft since my time in the Air Force Gymnasium.

The appointment was my first with Mary, whose salon is handily situated midway between Espargal and Jodi's physiotherapy rooms in Alte. Jonesy doesn't seem to mind the results, nor do the dogs, so no harm's done.

Wednesday we supped with the Espargal expats and a Canadian couple who are touring the world (much of it) on their motorbikes.

They were spending the night with our neighbours after bumping overseas into the neighbours' son who, with his girlfriend, is likewise on a mega motorbike tour.

The visitors were in their 40s, she a medic and he a financial adviser. They had planned the trip for two decades, they said.

They were doing it in phases over several years, returning to Canada between times.

Thursday morning Jones interrupted my sleep-in (my second post-toast and coffee sleep-in) to say that Barri wasn't well. The dog, usually high powered, was evidently ill, vomiting, trembling and still.

Jones managed to get her into the car and we hurried in to Loule to see the vet.

Carlos thought that she might have eaten something nasty or possibly even ingested and then vomited some poison. He gave her a shot and told us to keep an eye on her. We did. By evening she was pretty much back to her usual self.

Friday: I don't know what Dr Sun did to me this morning but I was both whacked and sore afterwards, putting in an effortless two recovery hours on the bed after lunch.

To be sure, I haven't done so much sleeping in years.

Dr Sun reckons that she can fix me. I sure hope she's right.

PS. I need one more millimetre to record 500mms of rain for the season. The skies are encouragingly grey. (The picture is a Jones dawn.)

Letter from Espargal: 18 April 2015

Monday was lazy - no May or classes. That evening my sciatic leg felt much better as I arose from my mattress in the lounge. The relief was welcome. Perhaps Friday's cortisone injection was taking effect at last - and about time. The nurse who administered it had said 24 to 48 hours.

Severiana, one of my English pupils, sent me an email:

"We are missing you very much," she wrote. "All of us love your English Lessons. So, please get better very soon, and come back to our sckool."

I was touched. Another pupil offered to fetch me at any time if I was unable to drive myself - kindness indeed!

Tuesday my sciatic leg relapsed into its usual querulous state. So much for a cortisone shot in the bum. We had a mid-morning appointment at the notary to register our wills. Also present were our lawyer, her assistant and two witnesses. I stood behind the group rather than joining them at the table.

Line by line the notary and lawyer went through the wills, making small adjustments and discussing the occasional point of law. As we have mirror wills, they covered all the controversial ground with the first. For the second, they merely changed genders appropriately. Ninety minutes wrapped it up.

Overnight it rained - 8 valuable mm. We slept in. That's to say, Jones slept in for once (after first getting up to let the orphans out).

I generally arise at 9 these days to lead the late-sleeping dogs into the park for a 30 minute amble. (Ono and Raymond dislike being separated from me!)

The more energetic ones go walking with my wife. We meet up for treats on their return.

Jones's beans (BELOW RIGHT) are looking good. And the three young fig trees from Mr Palmeira that she planted are all thriving.

Wednesday: In the postbox Jones found a notice advising us of a postal item to be collected from the parish office. From the post lady's scrawl, it appeared to come from the IMF, a body with which I've not had dealings (although Nigerian benefactors pester me daily with bequests).

We got to the parish office just as it was about to close for lunch. Ana, ever helpful, went back in to fetch the item. This turned out to be a letter, not from the IMF, but from the IMT, the Institute for Mobility and Transport. It contained the driving licence I applied for last May - valid till October 2016. (From age 70 to 80 drivers in Portugal have to renew their licences every two years - after that every year.)

As Natasha was busy at the house, we continued on a leisurely drive via Paderne to Boliqueime where Aldi has recently opened a new hypermarket.

Shopping done, we resumed our search for a country restaurant that neighbours had recommended. A previous search had proved fruitless.

With traffic building up behind me. I advised Jones that I would pull over to let other drivers through. We stopped and stared in disbelief. There it was, staring at us.

My dad sometimes used to say: lucky it wasn't a snake or it would bite you. That's how it felt. It was clearly a popular stop judging by the number of cars parked outside. We lunched instead at JL's, which does fabulous toasted tuna sandwiches, best eaten out on the patio where one can admire the view over a glass of wine.

Wednesday evening the hospital phoned to postpone for a fortnight Thursday's appointment with the neurosurgeon. I googled likely alternative surgeons and booked an appointment with one of them in Loule for Monday - a case of getting as many opinions as possible.

IN THE PARK

Thursday: Jones complained that Ono, who sleeps between us, had been making poos overnight. (Jones can't say "farts") She'd had to flap the sheet at him, she confided. I was grateful that he'd been facing me although his breath is hardly honeyed.

I phoned the pharmacy to see if it would renew my supply of pain killers without the prescription that I'd planned to repeat at the hospital that day. The pharmacist was both sensible and sympathetic.

Portuguese pharmacists tend to use common sense where their UK and (in my experience) North American counterparts stick rigidly to the rules.

As long as you know exactly what blood pressure or similar medication you require, pharmacists are happy to sell it to you over the counter, more especially if you're a regular customer and you can't get high on it.

We came home via the agricultural road through the valley. The fields of wild flowers were glorious. Jones identified some as marigolds and others as convolvulus.

The poppies needed no identification.

The valley is a deep, damp green carpet, rolling up to the village at the top of the hill.

Fresh shoots are powering out from the orderly rows of vines. It's a lovely drive. Yesterday we encountered a party of walkers who'd been bussed in to appreciate it.

Friday: As an ex-monk/student of theology and church history, I have taken a keen interest in a BBC documentary series entitled Sex and the Church, presented by Professor Diamaid MacCulloch. It explores how Christianity has come down the centuries to hold the views that are still prevalent among the hierarchy if not always the laity. Given the gender battles in the Anglican church and the dripfeed of priestly child abuse scandals, I found it enlightening. One of my fellow ex monks pointed out that it is also viewable on youtube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ua7eHAjg1Vg

CONVOLVULUS

Changing tack: For some months we have been using Whatsapp for informal smart-phone communications with friends and family, often in the place of emails and messages. We find it both flexible and easy. However, my cyber-guru, Llewellyn, swears by the Google alternative, Hangouts instead. I've downloaded both apps. While Whatsapp has picked up other users from my phone book,Hangouts has not. Please let me know if you're a fan of the latter. For the record, Jones and I are not facebookers and we're certainly not twitterers.

MAUVE POPPIES

Letter from Espargal: 10 April 2015

Friday: I will soon need a suitcase to accommodate all the medical files and scans that have limped along with me to various consultations this past week, growing like weeds along the way.

In short, the neurosurgeon in Faro with whom my files have landed suggested yesterday that I try a cortisone injection or two to relieve my sciaticly (?) stricken left leg before considering surgery.

With this suggestion I have gladly gone along.

I was puzzled when he merely gave me a prescription to obtain the cortisone instead of actually injecting it himself. "Any health centre will pop the injection in", he assured me casually as he ushered me out. His next patients, waiting in line, were pleased to see me emerge. Having waited for over an hour myself, I sympathised.

Anxious to avoid the queues that populate health centres, I went along this morning to Loule (private) Hospital where an attractive young nursing sister did the necessary after the briefest of waits.

Thursday: We got a lot of overdue shopping in - groceries, dog biscuits, pills for Ono, bones for the strays - before heading to Faro Beach for lunch and thence to the nearby hospital. Jones used to love lunching at the beach but she says she's beginning to associate it with hospitals.

At a table in front of us some young giggly French children were telling their wrily amused parents about contraceptives.

The occasional aircraft came and went from the airport just across the estuary. They seem to gather speed so slowly as they trundle down the runway before clawing their way miraculously into the air.

Hundreds of flights have been cancelled these past two days because the French traffic controllers are on strike again (and again and again).

TAP's aircrew are equally unhappy as they face the prospect of privatisation and such horrors as collecting all the passengers' rubbish in plastic bags themselves. Where-ever did the glamour go?

I remember mum sitting beside me, hatted and gloved, in 1960 as the family flew in a BOAC Comet to London, with several stops along the way.

Wednesday: The orphans come wriggling under the fence to join the regulars on an evening amble around the park.

The encounters are still a little fraught but they are working out.

A gentle amble has been about the limits of my athletic abilities.

Jones takes various animals out on longer walks that she needs as much as they do.

An overnight storm brought us a welcome 10mm of rain and some very unwelcome thunder and lightning.

I was just making my way downstairs to yank out the plugs for sensitive electronic equipment when a great flash of lightning seemingly right overhead fried the Skype phone base station with a hiss and a flash - the second time that this has happened.

The good news is that the vastly more expensive TV set and various digiboxes survived.

Tuesday: Natasha came to work in the garden and clean upstairs.

We left her to it, taking ourselves to lunch at the Hamburgo. Manuel serves us at the bar where I stand and Jones perches on a bar stool.

The food and, more importantly, the wine, tastes just as good as at the table.

Thence to Alte for another physio session with Jodi.

The evenings have been cool enough for a small fire. I settle down on a thick sponge pad that Jones has brought downstairs for the purpose. I have to get down pretty quick as the dogs also make a dive for it. They know a good thing when they see one.

Monday: Was rough. We cancelled lessons and May. Her good friends Wendy and Chris stepped into the breach at short notice.

I suspect that they will be sitting in somewhat better seats when we find ourselves in the great amphitheatre in the skies.

I shouldn't be surprised if that great final trip is also delayed by the contrary French air traffic controllers.

Letter from Espargal: Easter Sunday 5 April 2015

Easter Sunday is upon us. A happy Easter to us all! The poppies in the valley below are in their glory. If I had to choose just one flower to populate the earth, I think it might be the poppy. We admired them, a great red stripe across the valley floor, as we returned from Sunday brunch at the Hamburgo.

This bloglet is rather late. That's mainly because I had the services of the Ukrainian brothers over the weekend and spent much of my time overseeing their labours in the fields. They are great workers, the pair of them. The work itself was overdue. The lands are drowning in vegetation because I have not been able to plough the growth under. And the trees badly needed cutting back.

In-between times I have been having scans on my back and consultations. More lie ahead as we try to work out what to do about my troublesome spine. For the moment I'm taking things easy and spending a lot of time on the bed.

Jones has spent long, hot hours on the banks above the Great Wall of Espargal, hauling out the most undesirable weeds and encouraging the wild flowers that are trying to eke out a living. At night we have taken it in turns to drag ourselves out of bed and go downstairs to turn the hose on the barking orphans in a bid to shut them up. We can claim some success. So, I suppose, can the orphans.

Barking at the moon aside, they are joyful little creatures that share their lives and happiness with us, alongside a host of other creatures that need no further introduction.

So without more ado, let me wish you again the compliments of the season as an Easter Sunday siesta beckons.