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