Letter from Espargal: 12 June 2015

The easiest point to start this blog is last Saturday in Loule when Llewellyn lost his phone. He had taken his two dogs, his wife and mine to the beach - a favourite destination. It was afterwards as they repaired to one of the island cafes in the Avenida to enjoy a coffee that Llewellyn became aware that he and his phone had parted company. This was serious - on a par with losing a wife or a car. Llewellyn's phone contains more than his data, it positively bulges with apps and maps.

A frantic search of pockets and of the car proved fruitless. So did several calls to the phone.

Fortunately, Llewellyn, who's high tech, had his laptop with him. He'd set his phone up so that he could find it, disable it or delete his data remotely via the internet, rendering it useless to a thief. What he hadn't done, however, was to tick one or other box that enabled these functions, so no luck there.

Eventually, a Portuguese man answered a call to the phone and agreed to bring it round. He turned up some minutes later, explaining that he had found the phone beside the wheel of the car. The reason he hadn't answered it sooner was that he didn't know how to.

(This figured; one has to go through a whole ritual to answer Jones's new phone.) The finder was a bit of a sad fellow who was pleased to receive the 20-euro reward that Llewellyn offered him. Much relief all round!

While they were out, I got Slavic to help me attach the heavy plough to the tractor and spent several hours clearing my heavily overgrown fields. It's hard to express how much satisfaction I gained from this activity after three tractorless months.

The fields look infinitely better - and I suffered no sciatic woe for my endeavours.

On Sunday Llewellyn and Lucia joined us and the expats at the Hamburgo brunch. His two dogs, which like ours go everywhere, sat just beyond the tables in the shade. Unlike ours they are very well trained and are not accomplished bummers. Maybe it would be fairer to say that they are more discreet bummers (and just as effective). They indicate their needs more with pleading looks than by picking one's pockets.

That evening Llewellyn barbecued for us at home. He could have used the gas bbq but he declined this in favour of the old unit, with charcoal and smoke and all that neanderthal stuff. I should add that Llewellyn is an accomplished cook.

The bbq took some time. The Portuguese charcoal didn't behave exactly like the British product and had to be heated or cooled or something to work properly - a smoke and mirrors job.

Whatever the case, the chicken portions and lamb chops, when they came off it, were done to a treat and went down splendidly with the excellent wine that he had brought along.

One might add a little too splendidly.

The pair of us confessed to having to blink a few times the following morning.

On Monday, while Jones was doing May's shopping, I visited J.L. Simoes, gunsmiths in Loule, to obtain a new catapult. The elastic in the one that had lain in a drawer for years had perished. In the event, I came away with two, one rather more professional than the other.

The aim of these catapults - in a manner of speaking - was to dissuade the orphans, whom Lucia has rechristened the three musketeers, from keeping the neighbourhood awake by howling half the night. We've tried dousing them with water, bribing them with bones, exhausting them on walks - all to no purpose. They have howled on regardless.

For ammunition I first tried some of the small lemons from the glut in our buckets and under our trees. I should interrupt my flow to say that we have squeezed scores of lemons, filling bottles and ice-trays with the juice, as well as making tons of lemon marmalade. But we still had lemons to spare and some of these I nicked from Jones' bucket while she wasn't looking.

The launch pad was the north patio, about 40 metres from the musketeers' stronghold in the adjacent field. The lemons proved to be rather overkill. The smaller ones flew true, whacking explosively and impressively against the heavy fence. I feared they might prove too lethal(?), actually striking an orphan. What I wanted was to shut them up; not to wipe them out.

ON THE PATIO OF IDALECIO'S GUEST COTTAGE

Almond nuts proved to be the perfect ammunition. Our trees are drooping under the weight of this season's crop. So I gathered a hundred or two and waited till the orphans burst in voice around midnight. Then from the upper patio, I launched my fusillade.

It worked surprising well. I could hear the nuts pinging off the fence or the roof of the pen. Whether the orphans were terrified into silence or merely puzzled is impossible to know. But they stayed quiet. It was the same story the next night and the next. Success at last - for the moment, at least.

COBBLED TOGETHER
Tuesday night we tried a new restaurant (to us) Adiafa, on the outskirts of Boliqueime. It was ok, much like the Hamburgo, although not as attractive, with noisy expats packing the exterior patio tables and a few Portuguese and us inside.

Wednesday Jones met up with her relatives in Alte while I had a session with Jodi. My sciatica continues mild although it doesn't like hard, upright chairs, even those with seats covered with layers of cushion, as it made clear to me the previous evening. I have some sympathy for the princess and the pea.

That evening we trooped up to the telef to watch the sunset. It's Jones' favourite evening retreat, the only place that she can escape the demands of her garden, dogs, cats and waifs; maybe I should add husband to that list.

Truly it offers views forever in all directions, across the soft, huggable Algarve hills to the sea.

The others walked up the steep path alongside our fence, with the orphans following. I took myself up on the tractor.

We made ourselves comfortable on the rocky summit to gaze out on the evening; the outlook seemed to improve with each snack and sip of wine.

The orphans were pleased to get a nibble or two although they hesitated to come close.

It's not quite supper at the top of the Eiffel Tower but it's much closer, cheaper and more intimate.

LOOK MA, NO HANDS!

Thursday we called in on the vet to discuss the visit he is due to make here on Monday. He has to give our dogs their annual jabs - a prequisite for the issuing of their licences - and to give Llewellyn's dogs the prescribed deworming tablets that will allow his dogs back into the UK in a few days' time.

The hard part will be inoculating the orphans; they will not permit us to handle them although they frolic around our heels and will take biscuits from our fingers. I have obtained tranquiliser pills that, I hope, will render them sufficiently sleepy for the vet to carry out the task.