Letter from Espargal: 29 May 2015

At Sunday brunch Pauline said that she'd got a great fright when she went out into the garden that morning. Out of a hole in the ground had emerged two large intertwined snakes that cavorted around her garden.

Any doubts we might have had about the energetic antics of these serpents were swept away by the video that husband Fintan produced in evidence.

Judge for yourselves.

Although most Iberian snakes are relatively harmless and unaggressive - we shrug off the occasional serpentine visitor - I wouldn't have wanted to bump into this pair.

On Monday my English class discussed the unfortunate investors in BES (The Bank of the Holy Spirit) a once substantial Portuguese institution that went expensively and suspiciously belly-up last year. The government, which had to find several billion euros to compensate "ordinary" depositors, divided the messy remains into a good bank - renamed Novobanco - and a bad bank which inherited the junk.

As depositors, we have a particular interest in these proceedings. Fortunately for us, we hold merely a current account and some fund investments. Several thousand investors who put their money into fixed deposits - "guaranteed" by the bank - have lost both their capital and the promised interest. As the minimum investment in these guaranteed deposits was 100,000 euros, those concerned are both much poorer and very pissed off. They include pension funds and corporate institutions that are taking the matter to court. One counts one's blessings.

MELLO GUARDS A "BORROWED" BOOT

May was in good form. When we stopped to draw cash for her, I asked what she would say if I asked for 10% as a commission. "I would say up yours mate," she responded, leaving me quite shocked. It's not the sort of language that one expects from a lady in her mid-80s. May can be quite sharp at times - or should that be quite blunt?

Tuesday, as Jodi worked on my back, we talked about the Englishman in his 50s with an inoperable tumour of the spine who, after a final meal with his family, travelled to Switzerland to seek the services of Dignitas.

He was less in danger of death than of being rendered imminently quadriplegic, a situation he dreaded. His choice inevitably provoked strong reactions in media forums. In similar circumstances I would be grateful at least for the option.

My sciatica, praise be, continues to retreat. I'm sitting down again, cautiously and on lots of cushions. It's a good feeling. However, being a sensible person and aware of the dangers of over-exertion, I'm taking things slowly. I certainly haven't abandoned my restorative twice-daily rests. Too rapid a recovery might endanger these welcome therapeutic breaks - or at least their justification.

Jones, when not repairing Bobby's depredations in her garden - we don't know what gets into him when we're out - has been making more marmalade from our surplus of lemons. She cuts the recommended amount of sugar in half, giving the product a wonderful, tangy edge.

Wednesday, after a message from Vodafone, we went back to the Algarve Forum to fetch my repaired mobile. Vodafone had replaced the battery, the apparent cause of the problem. The phone comes as a sealed unit so one doesn't have the option of changing the battery oneself. There was no charge as the device was still under guarantee, which was nice.

The downside was that Vodafone had wiped the phone in the process and it took me some time to restore my apps and data. We lunched at the Electrico on Faro Beach, watching the planes swoop down on the far side of the estuary.

In the evening I left the car down with Vitor at the bottom of the village. He's taking it in for its biennial inspection - a requirement for all vehicles at four six and eight years. After that it becomes an annual event.

The inspections, conducted on computerised rigs, are rigorous. I used to take my Golf along myself but Vitor knows the routine, can fix any little faults and charges so little for this service that it makes sense to leave it to him.

LARKSPURS

Motorists are required to display the inspection ticket on their windscreens. It's one of the items that the police look for in their numerous random traps.

Earlier in the day we saw half a dozen police vehicles and the same number of stopped motorists near the airport turnoff.

Drivers are also expected to produce their ID, a current licence, proof of insurance, the car's papers (in their names), a road tax receipt plus receipts for any new items they may be carrying in the vehicle.

Our mains water has been coming and going all week. "Mains" in this instance refers to the parish water supply from a borehole down in the valley.

Occasionally the pumps fail or there's a pressurisation problem and we have to revert to the cisterna supply at the bottom of the garden. This means crawling into the overgrown pumphouse, ignoring the spider webs and woodlice, opening one valve and closing another - one of Jones' many duties. I am happy to guide her from the path.

The only crawling I do these days is into bed.

ONE OF THOSE GROUP REFLECTIVE SESSIONS

The birds have been studiously ignoring both their bird-feeder and the adjacent water bowls that I have carefully suspended for them from a tree at the bottom of the south garden. I have put out a variety of bird food in the hope that there might be something attractive to different species.

It's hard to know whether to leave the feeder in place for a while or to seek a more propitious site. While there are many more such sites available, not many afford us a good view from the house.

Thursday: South Africa: The Witbank newspaper reveals that the municipal authorities are pulling out all the stops in a bid to pay overdue Escom bills before the electricity supplier shuts them down. As I shall be visiting my family there shortly, I have a personal interest in the outcome, more particularly as the southern winter is closing in.

The main difficulty, according to the municipality, is that more than half the local users refuse to pay for their consumption, having wired themselves into the system without bothering with the formalities. Efforts to encourage freeloaders to cough up hard-earned lucre have been met with barricades and burning tyres.

SUMMER HAIRCUT, LONGER THAN USUAL TO PROTECT EARS

Post Script: My siesta is interrupted by a huge barking match outside. Jones informs me that the dogs have cornered a large snake. It sounds as though the man of the house is required on the scene.

Jones points out the snake, which looks like those in the video. It has taken refuge under a prickly bush and is hissing vigorously to express its feelings.

With luck it will hiss off in due course. There's still time to finish my siesta.

Letter from Espargal: 22 May 2015

My phone has been playing up. It has been intermittently overheating and turning itself off, which is a bit of a pain. For phone buffs, it's an HTC One-X; I like the HTC brand and especially this model.

So midweek, as Natasha set about the house, we drove in to the Algarve Forum on the outskirts of Faro to ask Vodafone to check it out.

(Because Natasha takes over the ground floor with mops and vacuum cleaners and things, it's best to stay out of her way. If we're in, the dogs whine to join us.)

With me I took the Apple iPhone that my brother, Brendan, gave me during my visit to South Africa last year.

After explaining the problem to a helpful Vodafone assistant, I asked him to transfer the number from the HTC to the Apple.

In the old days, this would have meant just moving the simcard.

No longer! My HTC takes a micro-sim while my Apple needs a nano-sim (although with some models, the reverse is true.)

Maybe you know about these things.

ALLIUM REVOLUTION

The bottom line is that the HTC has been sent off for repair, the number has been transferred to my Apple and all my contacts have been downloaded from Vodafone Backup.

For her part, Barbara seems to have settled in with her new Samsung (Ace Style - previously known as the Samsung Young, a name that presumably didn't much appeal to the intended market).

Also requiring attention have been our electric dog clippers. To trim the long-haired dogs for summer I use Wahl multi-cut electric clippers. They work well on Prickles and Barri but throw up their teeth in despair when it comes to Russ.

The dog has a coat like a grizzly bear. Two or three cuts serve to blunt the clippers to the point of uselessness even though I carefully lubricate them with the prescription oil.

Previously I have ordered new blades from Amazon. Last week I ordered new clippers (which arrived post haste from France).

People who make clippers, like those who make printers, seem to rely for their profits on selling replacement parts rather than the machines themselves. So there's little saving in blades only. Russ is happy to hop up on to the patio table for a trim. I use the occasion to dig out the deep-buried burrs and seeds from his knotted hairy recesses.

On to the subject of cats: One doesn't have to live in the village for very long before coming across dastardly toms having their way with feline femmes on the roadside.

It's a sight that provokes Jones to lower the car window and give the toms a piece of her mind - not that they take a lot of notice.

A few weeks ago, the Dutch ladies entered their garage to find that a mother cat and five newly-born kittens had taken up home there. Being kind ladies, they are raising the brood - and plan to have the kittens neutered. The mother remains shy but her offspring are happy to be handled.

Close by lives Michael Brown, a hobby carpenter whose bird feeder I admired during a visit. Michael, who is also kind, agreed to make us one - which he did.

This we sprinkled with a variety of bird food and hung from the branches of a tree beyond the front patio. When the birds showed no interest in visiting it, we moved it to a similar branch beyond the east patio (with equally little effect) and finally to a branch in the south garden where the birds like to gather. We await results.

On the sciatic front I remain much improved if not cured - praise be! This week I have joined Jones on the morning walks - albeit shorter ones than she likes - and resumed my English classes. On Monday we discussed all the options now available to people to pay for the tolls on the A22 east-west Algarve motorway.

Because the highway was designed as a freeway (with no allowance for toll-booths at the ramps) the authorities have had great difficulty collecting the tolls, especially from foreign cars. They can track and fine locally-registered free-loaders recorded on their cameras but thousands of visitors from abroad use the road with impunity.

In truth this has been as much because of the difficulty of paying the tolls as any desire to avoid them. Until recently, the tolls could not be paid by casual users until at least 48 hours after their last passage - crazy for tourists. (http://www.theportugalnews.com/a22-algarve-tolls-what-you-need-to-know)

As much as we love our adopted country, it's not somewhere that one retires for the sake of efficient organisation.

There are notable exceptions, one of whom is Manuel, who runs the Hamburgo. The restaurant is strictly a family business. Most days he single-handedly takes orders, serves food and drinks and clears the tables as well as running the bar - while his wife, Graca, prepares the meals, sometimes with extended family assistance. As Manuel points out, he seldom knows whether to expect five people for a meal or fifty. This makes his life both extremely busy and stressful. In spite of the stresses and strains, he remains unfailingly courteous and helpful.

In high summer and on Sundays he likes to take on an assistant to ease the strain - the more so because many people chose to dine outside on the patio, under the flowering bougainvillea, which means much to-ing and fro-ing. Last year Manuel had the services of Elizabete who now works at Benafim's new retirement home. So far this season he has been unable to find a replacement.

"No-one has any money," he remarked to me, "but no-one wants to work". That's to say, no-one wants to work unsociable hours. Manuel has my sympathy. It is certainly evident that many migrants manage to secure work here where local people remain unemployed - a story common across western Europe.

Portugal's principal electricity supplier, the EDP, has informed its customers proudly that 80% of domestic consumption is now derived from renewables and more than half of it from wind power alone. Wind turbines line the west coast and there are vast photovoltaic-panel farms that stretch across the countryside.

There are those who complain in the local press about the ugliness of eolic and solar generators, complaints for which I've no sympathy. Give me wind turbines and panels any day (indeed, we have erected photovoltaic panels of our own) rather than the throat-catching fug of the coal-powered stations in whose shadow my Witbank brother lives.

DISTANT TURBINES AT SUNSET

A winter visit to the region during a temperature inversion makes the point. Having said which, I hope to be with him in a few weeks' time.

The irony is that the town authorities have not paid the national energy supplier's bills and residents are threatened with an electricity cut-off next month - surrounded by power stations as they are.


THE END OF A LONG, HARD DAY

The dogs have been playing merry havoc with Jones's garden while we're out - and it's hard to know what to do about it.

Letter from Espargal: 15 May 2015

Whenever and where-ever this past week got underway, it got off to a bad start. Take Sunday afternoon, just as Jones was setting out on her waifs and strays run. "Do you have your mobile phone with you?" I asked her. This is a question I put to her each time she leaves the house because I want to be able to communicate with her if anything should arise - as anything occasionally does.

As is often the case, she didn't. The trouble is that she doesn't have an obvious place to carry her phone while out and about. While mine resides habitually in my breast pocket, hers generally remains in her bag or on the nearest table; on a walk it sits in a pocket.

(She now takes all six dogs with her in the mornings - occasionally eight if the female pups join in. I await their return with treats in the park.)

So I started phoning her number. After some minutes we traced the phone to the orphans' pen. It must have slipped out of a pocket while she was feeding them. Although the phone still rang, it did nothing else. The tooth marks told the story. The touch screen was frozen and the keys served no further purpose.

The discovery upset Jones, who hates waste and deplores the throw-away culture. Moreover, it was not the first of her phones to have undergone such canine (dentine?) modification. I reassured her that it was not an expensive model (true!) and that I would be pleased to get her another. She was not consoled.

What upset her more was the loss of photos of a spectacular butterfly that she had come across in the field the previous day and taken great pains to capture. I hoped that these might have been recorded on the undamaged SD card or Sim but, as it turned out, they hadn't.

Monday we resumed our May duties - something that Jones was determined to do either with my assistance or that of neighbours and taxis.

While she was attending to May's shopping, I popped in on the senior university to catch up.

I hoped to be back the following week, I told them - to be confirmed after a mid-week consultation with the surgeon.

I have been absent for the best part of two months - far too long.

Before fetching May for lunch, I bought my wife a new phone, similar to the old one. She hates learning new routines.

We found May in reasonable form, somewhat forgetful and frail but pleased to be going out for a meal. It was a compromise meal. Instead of sitting her down for the usual two hour lunch, we ordered her a take-away and satisfied ourselves with starters and a glass of wine.

I stood beside the table; sitting is still not my thing if I can avoid it. At the computer I'm spending more time on my knees than I did in church in a previous life

LUNCH TIME

That evening, as I was preparing the dogs' supper, there came sounds of a brief violent canine altercation on the back patio.

I rushed through with my walking stick, threatening the culprits with blue murder. The usual suspects are Bobby and Russ who compete for rank. They generally confine themselves to an exchange of growls but food and attention tend to bring out the worst in them.

RUSS

Russ looked his usual tranquil self. Of Bobby there was no sign. A brief search revealed the dog licking a bitten paw and bleeding copiously from a torn ear.

The damage had Russ's signature all over it.

As sweet-natured as the dog usually is, he has his red lines (as the UK politicians like to say).

Bobby retired to the kennel to nurse his wounds and his pride.

He declined our attempts to clean him up. He is not a good patient at the best of times.

Tuesday began with Bobby throwing up on the couch.

It seems that this was caused by eating grass rather than any damage from the set-to with Russ. For this, at least, we were grateful. We've had our share of vets' bills this month.

With the day came temperatures in the low 30s and my usual afternoon physio session with Jodi in Alte.

Wednesday dawned unpleasantly hot and got steadily and oppressively hotter under a cruel leaden sky. (Weather bureau says hottest temps recorded in month of May.) I had a mid-morning toe-nail cutting and filing session with Mary in Benafim as my toes are now beyond my grasp. I declined the offer of a full pedicure.

Mary was keen that I taught her some English to enable her to communicate with her expat clients. I said I'd draw up a list of useful words and expressions that we could practise together on the next occasion.

The afternoon brought the weekly shop, a toasted sandwich lunch at Faro Beach and another consultation with Dr Alexandra at the hospital nearby. She pulled up my scans on the computer to address my remaining queries about spinal discs and nerve roots. Bottom line is that I'm more mobile after the injection into the spine last week than I was previously - a welcome improvement - but still far from cured. At some point I will need further surgery and the only question is the timing.

Thursday was just as hot although the wind seemed to blow much of the heat away, a reverse chill factor effect. The weather bureau is sending warnings of strong winds on Friday too.

I spent an hour assisting a friend to set up a blog site. That at least was the idea. But the configuration of the blogger software I use has changed so much since I began my own blog that I spent more time learning how to use it than assisting him.

My workers have taken the coming weekend off. They were going to spend it fishing at the Alqueva Dam in central Portugal they informed me. I wished them bountiful catches.

They deserve time off. They both have regular weekday jobs as well as spending many of their Saturdays assisting me.

We concentrated on trees that Jones wanted trimmed. As much as she loves greenery, she loves her views even more.

The operation called for an impressive gymnastic top-rung display by Andrei while Slavic secured the ladder below. In the course of the day Andrei disclosed that he was in his early forties and already a grandfather.

Like Slavic he hails from Ukraine. In the old days they found work in Russia; these days Ukrainian workers migrate west rather than east.

Each evening for some years Barbara has been putting a handful of cat biscuits into a plate that sits in a tree in the garden. These are for the benefit of a beast that we have never actually seen but refer to as "the tree cat". Certainly the biscuits are gone by morning.

A closer study casts doubt on the feline nature of the consumer. For shortly after the biscuits arrive, so do a handful of azure-winged magpies that whack gleefully into the offering. They are shy birds and hard to approach; even so the (blurry) picture speaks for itself.

LIFE IS TOUGH

Letter from Espargal: 8 May 2015

Thursday: At much the same time that I hope to be publishing this blog tomorrow, the people of the UK will be learning the results of their parliamentary election. So, for that matter, will the rest of us. We have followed the interminable election campaign in the media with a mixture of interest and frustration as politicians weaseled their way around awkward questions with the usual party slogans and mantras.

For the past six weeks the polls have shown the Tories and Labour running neck and neck, with neither likely to win an overall majority.

Friday: Well, knock me down with a feather. Who would have believed it? Libdems destroyed; Labour humiliated; the Scottish nationalists jubilant and Cameron back in Downing Street! For once I'd allow the use of the word "incredible"!

We have a genuine interest in the outcome because our pensions are paid in sterling and we spend them in euros. During the 17 years (can you believe it?) since our move from London to Portugal, we have seen the pound seesaw in value between 1.6 euros and 1.0 euro, with a corresponding rise and fall in income.

Elections aside, there has been little to distinguish this past week from those that preceded it. Slavic and Andrei turned up on Saturday morning to continue their labours in the park. With the arrival of (the month of) May and warm weather now upon us, I thought it prudent to check with the Fire Department in Loule before lighting any more fires. The fireman who answered my call took my name, address and mobile number before giving me the go-ahead to burn small heaps of cuttings. This we did with care.

The hardwood thicket that occupies the upper part of the park is a gift from the gods, or at least the previous inhabitants of the property.

I had hoped to complete the job that day. But we've got at least two weekends' labour ahead of us, including a lot of strimming. My inability to carry out my usual strimming and ploughing has rewarded us with the most wonderful fields of poppies interspersed with armies of spiky grasses and dandelions.

This might be a good point - forgive me - to deliver the sciatic update. On Wednesday I reported to the hospital at Gambelas for an injection of an anesthetic-plus into the spine under CT guidance. I was not exactly heartened by the prior exhortation of one of our friends "to be brave".

In the event (while not wishing to downplay my stoicism) not a great deal of bravery was required and I emerged from the hospital, an hour after arriving, completely free of any symptoms. It was a wonderful feeling (which it should have been at the price!). At the same time the surgeon had warned me that the effects were likely to wear off in a matter of weeks/months and that surgery would eventually be required.

To my great disappointment, the wearing-off didn't wait even a day. That afternoon the symptoms crept depressingly back. So far they're a lot less severe than they were beforehand and the pain-killers remain in the drawer. I've made a follow-up appointment with the surgeon next week.

In the meanwhile, further acupuncture sessions have been postponed. On the positive side Prickles would appear to have made a full recovery from his own (equally expensive) medical interventions. (Jones says we shall have to have a cheap holiday this year to make up for all this unplanned spending. "Yes dear," I reply.)

We have spent the last two evenings trying to rid our little dog of all the spiky hairs protruding from his muzzle as a record of the syrupy laxatives with which we tried to dose him to clear his obstructed bowels. He is not a willing patient and liable to scream blue murder at the first sight of the scissors. I can't imagine what it must have been like giving him enemas.

The orphans, perhaps resentful of their containment in the pen overnight, have continued to howl intermittently into the early hours. Eventually, deciding that enough was enough, I rigged up a hose to the fence with the nozzle pointing at the delinquents.

For the past several nights I have descended the stairs and made my way around to the tap to give them a dose of their own medicine. The downside is that one has to brave the chilly midnight airs for up to half an hour. I think we're winning although the babes are still checking whether they get a good squirt with every yap.

RARE BUG ORCHID

En route home from the Hamburgo brunch on Sunday, we came across our friends Mike and Lyn orchid-spotting in the valley, something they're both practised and good at.

They have a great knowledge of the local birds and flowers.

Lyn had come across some rare bug orchids, a variety we've not seen before. These she pointed out to us.

Further along the road, a handful of pyramid orchids were glorious in their prime.

Jones hopped out of the car to snap the one below.

On Tuesday Jones joined Mike and Lyn on a walk down along the coast from Quinta do Lago towards the airport.

Aircraft come swooping overhead on final approach to the runway.

It's a beautiful area lying between the expensive resort golf course on one side and the estuary on the other, home to a variety of water fowl and other birds and very popular with cyclists and walkers.

Roman remains testify to its occupation down the ages.

Further along one comes across the salt pans into which sea water flows in the summer months, to evaporate, leaving a thick white crust.

This deposit is thrust up by machines into great salt mountains that await distribution to the refiners, whether destined for the kitchen or the region's numerous swimming pools and water softeners.

(For what it's worth, there is also a salt mine, regrettably not open to the public, in the centre of Loule.)

PLEASE PASS THE SALT

For several evenings we have been enjoying Jones's fava beans. It's a crop that she planted, watered and picked herself although I have given her a hand with the shelling and the consumption.

The beans help to make a delicious salad and taste even better cooked with a few sausages or slices of salami.

We have to thank Leonilde for the donation of another bucket of beans - a welcome gift.

While my English lessons remain on hold, for at least another week or two, I continue to curse my beloved BBC for the horrors it inflicts on its listeners - albeit that this is a waste of good breath.

I yelp every time its correspondents inform us of the number of police officers or doctors per capita and squirm at the tortured tenses and jumbled verbs that litter its reports.

My yells alarm Jones, who inquires anxiously lest it be sciatica rather than grammar that's paining me. I am aware that these reactions are typical of crusty old men. But that doesn't stop me from cussing. Maybe that's typical too.