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.