Letter from Espargal: 28 August 2015

BIRD FEEDER AND WATER-BOWL IN MARY'S GARDEN

What has stuck with me all this week has been a vision of the English bride who was waiting last Saturday for the chauffer-driven Daimler due to take her to the church. The car never arrived. One can only imagine her frustration and disappointment as her family made last-minute arrangements to save the day.

As she would have learned later, the limousine's elderly driver-owner and his precious car were among those obliterated by a doomed Hawker Hunter jet performing at an air show. What a way to go!

Of this unfolding disaster Slavic, Andrei and I were ignorant as we prepared for a morning's work.

I was ready for them on the tractor when they arrived just after seven - the best time to get underway in the summer heat. Afternoon temps are still in the low 30s.

The pair of them started out on the roof, giving the uppermost rows of tiles a second coat of the flexible impermeable paint that I hope will put an end to occasional drips in the study during the downpours that winter usually brings.

The next job was to construct steps down the awkward bank alongside of the cisterna, where we keep several metres of water as a back-up for those occasional days that the mains supply fails, as it inevitably does. The steps were a Jones request. She particularly wanted access to a dying carob tree down beside the fence.

She fears that it's being starved of water. To remedy this I've bought another small immersion pump that I've placed in the filtered fossa, attached to a length of hose that reaches the extremities of the lower garden. We've been feeding the tree generous amounts of naturally enriched water. Fingers crossed!

Finally the workers laid a second concrete strip down the steep section of the Roman road to partner the first strip that they put in earlier this month. The pair of them are great workers.

The little they have to say to each other is in Ukrainian of which Jones and I are as ignorant as they are of English, although they speak pretty fluent Portuguese - the language in which we communicate.

Not that we waste energy on words unless there's something to be said, at least not until we sit down on the patio when the work is done to quaff a beer and reflect on the nature of things.

What I've reflected on a lot this week - apart from the improbability of being killed by a falling aircraft - is what happened to my Portuguese cash card. I clearly recall the last time I used it - to pay a grocery bill at the Continente hypermarket on the outskirts of Loule a week ago. The next time I checked, it was missing from my wallet.

Jones and I searched my clothes, the house and the car - to no avail. Finally, reluctantly, I phoned the bank to cancel the card and request a replacement. I half expected the missing card to turn up shortly afterwards but it hasn't - not yet. Nor has the promised replacement.

Fortunately, Jones's card still serves the purpose. Alternatively, one can take an old-fashioned cheque to the bank. (I did this one morning to find several members of staff on leave and one ill. It took me 40 frustrating minutes to reach the counter.)

We needed a wodge of cash on Tuesday morning when the firewood delivery truck rolled up with our winter supply. The wood is excellent - hard wood from the rolling Alentejo forests.

The delivery man assures me that farmers are permitted to cut down only dead trees. I know that the forests are protected; how effectively is another matter.

The only paperwork involved in the deal takes the form of euro notes, quite a lot of them, but then it's a lot of wood - three tons of it - enough to see us through the winter with some to spare.

SECOND INVISIBLE WORKER IS STACKING INSIDE THE WOOD STORE

Still on firewood - the driver and his mate raise the back of the truck to gravity-feed the wood down towards the tailgate and then set about transferring it a wheelbarrow at a time to the wood-store a few metres away.

It's hard work that requires care; the splinters can be nasty. I gave them each a pair of leather gloves to save their hands. The workers glistened a muscular bronze as they laboured bare-chested in the morning sunshine.

As soon as they were done I took myself to Benafim's community centre where Rui from the computer shop was busy reconfiguring the newly-installed router to make it more user-friendly. We became involved in the matter after chatting to Rosa, the woman in charge.

The new login that he'd set up proved to be quick and easy, a great improvement on the previous more secure but less user-friendly approach.

I didn't think that excessive security was a priority at the community centre where the facility will benefit mainly the staff - most of them kitchen and laundry workers using smart phones to access Facebook.

BEES AT THE WATER BOWL

We've made a couple of visits to Nadia, the Russian seamstress, in Loule, of whose services we make great use. Among other things she's sewn pockets on to two attractive white shirts of mine - both gifts - that lacked them.

Jones has encouraged me to wear the shirts as they're really special; I've been reluctant, only because my mobile phone lives like a kangaroo's joey in my shirt pocket and I feel ill at ease when the pocket is missing.

Tuesday evening we fetched Kenneth, May's nephew, from her house for dinner in Loule. He had flown in from Edinburgh over the weekend to catch up with May and her affairs.

We had planned to meet him at a mid-point snackbar - until he phoned to say that his aunt's car had overheated as he was leaving the nursing home. He had to get a lift home with May's Man Friday.

The problem, a faulty washer that spilled the radiator water, was swiftly repaired and the car returned to him the following day.

Most afternoons Jones and I have spent up to an hour collecting carobs. The dogs are content to relax in the shade watching us scrabbling around under the trees, picking up the large black pods. Jones squats; I kneel, ducking my head to avoid the generous licking that Barri hurries in to give my face and neck.

Most of the crop has fallen already. Those carobs that remain I whack down with a long, slender stick. I think we're about half way through the harvest.

In-between her many tasks in the garden Jones has made a second mega-raid on Sarah and David's grapes. She took up my offer to come over on the tractor to assist her.

Generous bunches dangled invitingly, high among the branches of an extensive old vine that covers half the garden, supporting itself on a pergola.

They were not easy to disentangle and retrieve as one reached up into the knot of branches, not without losing numerous grapes in the process. It would not be hard to imagine Bacchus peering down at the picker.

STEWED PLUMS

We have since shared the bounty with neighbours. They are the most delicious grapes; Leonilde tells me that they are an old and now rare variety known as coração-de-galo - heart of the cockerel. We regret only that their owners - back in the UK - are not present to enjoy them. Jones has also been raiding local plum trees, stewing the fruit which, with yoghurt and melon, makes an excellent lunch.

Friday 01.00: While we were at supper with neighbours last night, Ono - our old dog - seemed to suffer some kind of stroke in the car. He had difficulty walking. Jonesy has settled down with him for the night in the living room. We will have to see what dawn brings.

Friday: 09.00: Ono appears much improved. He joined us on a short walk. Still slow and dopey but not staggering any longer. We'll see!

Letter from Espargal: 21 August 2015

Something pretty special happened this week. After months of keeping her distance, Sparky allowed us to stroke her.

That she's full of affection is obvious as she gambols around our ankles, wriggling and squiggling to show her pleasure in our company.

But that's as far as she will go. Caution has always got the better of her.

Although she will happily take treats from our fingers, her instinctive rule has been "don’t touch".

Until Monday, that is, when she allowed Barbara a lengthy gentle fondle and back-scratch. And as if to prove that it wasn't a once off, a few minutes later she allowed me the same.

Of the three orphans she has by far the most personality; she's the leader of the pack, strange-looking creature that she is.

For some weeks Paleface has been happy to be stroked and fondled. In fact he daily seeks out affection. It's only the ever-suspicious Mello - in the background - who still keeps her distance. Maybe one day! Who knows? I hope so if only because we have yet to get collars on the three.

STEEPER THAN IT LOOKS

Saturday morning the boys were back to lay a concrete strip down the steepest part of the Roman road into the park. Like most of the track, it's covered with gravel and it's wickedly slippery. Jones and I have both taken tumbles. So the new strip will give pedestrians a sure-footed route in and out of the park.

It will also serve the left-hand wheels of the tractor (entering) and the right-hand wheels (leaving), cambering it in the right direction - not that the vehicle has run into problems, even when heavily loaded. If necessary we'll lay a second strip; it's not a big job.

The boys' other task was to cement the gap in the line of tiles towards the top of the roof - and later to paint it with a rubberised paint. ("Boys" is not the best description; the fellow on the right is a grandfather.)

Saturday also brought news that May's cat, Ginger, who'd been adopted by friends of hers the previous day, hadn't taken to his new home. He'd walked out the same day. We were distressed to hear it and hoped that he'd make his way back home as we've known other cats do.

Monday we stopped at the house to see if he was back. No luck. We resolved to keep checking.

We also visited May in the nursing home. She wasn't a happy lady following a fall the previous week - when, without warning, on some impulse, she'd tried to stand up at table. She hasn't been able to walk without assistance for some time.

We found her in bed, uncomfortable and unhappy. I reflect often on how one finds meaning in such a situation, with deteriorating body and mind and little hope of improvement.

May's nephew, Kenneth, is due down from Edinburgh this weekend to see her and talk over her future.

Tuesday we took Bobby to the vet. He has an ugly growth on a paw. Bobby is a bad patient, a very bad patient and he doesn't like vets, as he makes abundantly clear.

He refused point-blank to enter the surgery and wasn't at all happy about having his paw examined by the vet outside on the pavement. The bottom line is that the growth needs to be excised.

The vet will visit the house tomorrow to carry out the surgery. On the way home we checked again for Ginger - no sign!

Wednesday: Carlos the vet turned up on time. Bobby, hardly tranquillised by the pills we'd given him as instructed, growled a "keep your distance". With much effort and persuasion we got the dog up on to the patio table where Carlos further sedated him and set about cutting out the growth.

It took the better part of an hour to carry out the surgery, stitch the wound and bind the paw. Bobby came around slowly, having been doubly sedated. By afternoon his spirits had returned. Marie has lent us a large plastic collar that he may have to wear if he starts tugging at the stitches. For his sake and ours I hope not.

As I remarked to Jones, you can't explain to a dog why you're doing things that hurt him or why he shouldn't do things that come naturally - which makes it hard for both parties.

After lunch we dropped in at May's - still no sign of Ginger.

At supper on the patio that evening Jones broke a tooth. Thursday morning I rang the dentist's surgery. His receptionist said he would be away until September 10. So we fell back on a dentist in Loule recommended by neighbours instead.

PICKING GRAPES AT SARAH & DAVID'S HOUSE

First we visited the monthly street market in Alte to see if Jones could find suitable small gifts for the planned get-together of old NBC colleagues in London next month. She wasn't inspired.

P.M.: A pleasant young dentist put in a temporary repair. He thinks it should hold until our regular guy gets back next month as long as Jones sticks to soft foods.

TEXAN SAGE

Fans of Freecell - if any - should be advised not to attempt game number 617. I had gone along pretty merrily through the numbers until then, struggling with a few games but not unduly, and managing to complete them all. Game 617 was an exception. It was just bloody impossible. I looked it online to see if it was one of the several irresolvable games. It wasn't - just exceptionally complex.

I had to follow an online guide move by move to complete it. If resolving game 617 was a condition for entering heaven, heaven would be a pretty lonely place.

I got another email from the Financas, this time to say that my tax return - resubmitted by the accountants - was now regarded as satisfactory.

From what I can glean the trouble arose because some interest payment had been listed in the wrong section. What a fuss!

Whatever the case, I'm pleased to have it all behind me. I don't like squabbles with the taxman; it's not a level playing field.

Friday morning it's back to the dermatologist to have the stitches in my neck out. One way and another it's been a rather medical week.

Letter from Espargal: 14 August 2015

This week has twirled around a few times, like a dog preparing to lie down or a plane uncertain whether to land. It began for blog purposes last Friday evening when we joined Marie and Olly with a view to visiting a snackbar newly opened by an old acquaintance in a village further into the hills.

When we found it closed for holidays - a common August occurrence - we repaired instead to the Cantinho in Alte where Filipe, the high-tech waiter, took this picture on his top-of-the-range smart-phone.

Saturday morning the boys were back to continue with our regular weekend tasks. The main job was to lay a concrete floor in the dusty nook occupied by the cement mixer in the pups' pen.

Also to create a low stone curb around the flower beds in which the pups like to rest, scattering earth and bulbs in all directions as they make themselves comfortable.

Jones had reached the point where she refused to clean the mess up, knowing that it would reappear the following day. For Jones, this is an extreme point indeed.

CURB AROUND THE FLOWER BED

Monday got off to a bad start and continued bad for much of the day. It would seem that after our morning walk Mello sneaked into the house, snitched Jones's phone off the table and went off to the pen to reconfigure it. We found the phone by ringing it. But ringing was all that it would do. The touch-screen was shattered and the phone useless. Jones was upset. It's the third or fourth such device to meet a similar fate.

En route to May's house, I got a message from Kevin, the swimming pool man, to say that there was no electricity in the pump room and he had been unable to clean the pool.

UNREPENTANT THIEF

We checked the fuses in the house and poolroom - nothing amiss - and then sought an electrician to look further. It was unpleasantly warm, as it has been for weeks. Poor Ginger was pleased to see us. He had obviously been in the wars again.

After visiting May, we continued to Vodafone in the Algarve Forum to find Jones a new phone. She insisted that she wanted the most basic of Nokias but I persuaded her to take the most basic of smart-phones instead, a model that cost little more but offered a much greater range of options. I got the phone at half price on our points with Vodafone.

Tuesday morning Horacio the builder called around at my request. A row of tiles towards the top of the roof has slipped, opening a small gap between it and the row above. The question was what to do about it.

Horacio said the only permanent solution was to take up all the tiles and relay them. This was a prospect that I didn't fancy. It would be a huge job that also entailed disconnecting and removing the solar water heater.

As an alternative he suggested that we fill in the gaps with a flexible fibre-cement that might offer a temporary solution.

That afternoon Jones appeared at the study window armed with a mop and bucket.

Twice in recent days we have had mini showers, barely enough to wet the cobbles but sufficient to stain windows and shutters with a million spatters of Sahara dust, fresh (like the week's migrants) across the sea from north Africa.

The car looked as though it had undergone some kind of hippy rebranding. I was about to take a couple of pictures of Jones at work when I was distracted. But she took this selfie instead - clever thing.

Tuesday evening we stopped at the postbox en route to supper with neighbours at the Hamburgo. To my astonishment Jones found that our annual income tax demand had arrived from the Financas. I thought that the tax department was still in dispute with me over the completion of my tax return. Their last communication had given me 15 days to furnish them with missing information - they didn't say what it was and I haven't a clue.

I woke in the early hours of Wednesday morning, as I sometimes do, and spent some time listening to the radio. After falling sleep again around dawn, I was drawn into the most graphic dream. In my subconscious mind I found myself in a brothel. Two women conducted preliminary negotiations and then led me to a room where clients were served.

We were just about to get down to business when a voice intruded on our tete a tete. It was that of Jones, informing me with exquisite timing that she had brought my toast and coffee - as indeed she had. So I had to be satisfied with breakfast in bed.

Dogs walked and fed, we went to town to look for the cement-filler for the roof and other items. From a Chinese store (there are half a dozen in Loule) we got different-coloured rolls of tape to mark the almond trees as either sweet or bitter. The crop is just about ready to pick. You can tell the nuts are ripe when the soft green outer shells burst open to reveal the hard brown inner shells.

We have numerous almond trees, most of which are picked - at our request - by the family of Ana, the cake baker, at the bottom of the village. The arrangement suits us both well.

It's a sin just to let the crop fall to the ground. The dogs love the almonds and work the shells around in their teeth until they find a susceptible sweet spot. Like our ancestors before us, we generally place the nuts on large rocks and bash them with small rocks to get at the prize within.

The bitter nuts are useful for making liqueurs but little else. Many of our bitter trees have since been grafted with a variety of fruits at our request by a kindly farmer neighbour. I water them each week. The grafted trees are doing splendidly and should offer us a crop of peaches and plums next year.

We have also begun collecting carobs, a crop that we exchange with the neighbour in return for fruit, veggies and favours.

I limit myself to an hour or so a day for fear of upsetting my back, either kneeling down to collect the carobs or using Marie's plastic grabber. The latter is particularly useful when it comes to retrieving carobs from thorny patches. Espargal gets its name from the hardy and thorny wild asparagus that grows everywhere.

Jones puts in what time she can. Most days we collect a tub each.

SUNRISE OVER ESPARGAL

Thursday dawned with the first hint of autumn in the air - and very welcome it was.

I was quite concerned when I came to do my regular weekly computer scan to find no trace of my Kaspersky security programme. Somehow it had been swallowed up by the conversion from Windows 7 to Windows 10. A quick search online revealed that this was a common phenomenon and that one had to redownload the security suite. This I did - and I was grateful.

For - as careful as I am about scam emails - I was fooled by a Portuguese email apparently from the post office express delivery service. It said that it had been unable to deliver a parcel to me because the address was incomplete, gave me a reference and a link to follow it up. In short, it was a scam - as I confirmed with the post office, but not before I had clicked on the link. I twice ran a full scan on the computer, one immediately and another after rebooting. Kaspersky assures me that all is well. I hope that it's telling the truth.

Thursday evening: I got an urgent appointment with our dermatologist, who excised a nasty growth from my neck. Between us, Jones and I have had half a dozen such pending carcinomas removed down the years. Praise be for modern medicine and means to pay for it.

Letter from Espargal: 7 August 2015

One of my more profound insights is that you have to create your own paradise and that it's hard work. For those lucky or enterprising enough to contemplate such a possibility, paradise doesn't come naturally. It takes a lot of effort. Relax for a moment and the second law of thermodynamics leaps into action. Entropy has a field day.

Other people's paradises are all very well but enjoy them as you may, you're just a visitor. To call a paradise your own you have to sweat - and we do. (These are mundane conclusions that don't necessarily apply to matters celestial.)

DRAWING STRAWS FOR A PLACE ON THE BED

This is an insight that I share with Barbara, generally after she returns "glowing" and dusty from repairs to a dog-demolished flower bed.

When we sit down at sunset on the north patio and take in our vista, glass in hand (fizzy water please), with the temperature dropping to comfortable, Valapena really does seem pretty close to paradise.

I guess the paradox is that we wouldn't really appreciate it if we hadn't laboured to create it.

Enough of such profundity. Last Friday early Paula (from the bottom of the village) arrived at the gates with the picture-clock that Barbara had engaged her to make after seeing her display at Loule fair. We were both very pleased with it and lost no time in affixing it to the hall wall. It has also impressed neighbours who have expressed an interest in getting her to do the same for them.

Paula has a word for her art-form which I didn't catch; it is a variety of pyrography - burning designs on to wood. However she goes about it, the end result is delicate and the images taken from photographs are remarkably accurate.

GINGER VAGUELY VISIBLE THROUGH THE LEAVES

We now visit May's house two or three times a week (depending) to renew Ginger's food; from there last Friday we continued to Loule to consult Mr Irani, the optician. For once, we found him without a client. Mr Irani is an Iranian who trained in Germany. We communicate in gesture-rich Portuguese, which serves well enough.

We were both in need of his services. Barbara had scratches on her lenses. My dark glasses required a new frame. Mr Irani was unable to remove the scratches, which was actually a good thing as my wife really needed a new prescription.

COURTESY OF MIKE AND LIZ BROWN

She hovered between two suitable frames, favouring the lighter-coloured one but dubiously accepting our joint advice that the darker one suited her better.

My intention had been to employ Slavic and Andrei Saturday morning to lay a concrete floor in the nook where I keep the concrete mixer. Since I'd forgotten to order gravel, I had to make other plans. Not that it was difficult. There's never a shortage of jobs to be done.

In the end we accomplished a lot. While Andrei spent the morning strimming in the park, Slavic and I set about more cobble paving and the retouching of damp-damaged bedroom walls.

In spite of the trouble that the builder took to render the roof damp-proof, there's a spot somewhere that the water creeps in after a heavy downpour. I cured a leaky roof problem in Casa Nada by applying a rubberised paint product, recommended by the local builder. I shall attempt the same on the tiles at the top of the roof.

Sunday evening we joined neighbours at Benafim's festa in the grounds of the community centre at the top of the town. It's a family-oriented get-together with folk music, dancing, and chicken bbqs. Everybody goes. One lines up at the cashiers to buy tickets for whatever one wants from the menu pinned to the wall. This is simple but adequate.

Although beer and wine flow freely, there's no unruly behaviour. An accordionist or guitarist entertains the crowd with nostalgic ballads. Anyone familiar with braaivleis, "stywe pap" and "boere musiek" would feel instantly at home.

BARBARA AND HER ROCK

Some weeks ago on our morning walk Barbara spotted a rock that she fancied lying in the veld - the "mato" as they call it here. So she started lugging it home 20 metres at a time.

It was (is) quite a big rock, somewhat resistant to being picked up, as I can attest; my offers to assist her with it were declined in the light of my curmudgeonly back.

When the rock eventually reached the park fence I took the tractor up to fetch it. Jones has since arranged it beside a pot outside Casa Nada.

BACK FROM THE MORNING WALK

I have my eye on a similarly artistic rock that the scarifier has unearthed in the park. I could probably stagger back to the house with it up the Roman road (our name for the gravel track leading from the garden to the park).

But the chances are that I'd slip on the gravel or put my back out again. So it awaits the tractor's next visit to the park. If you're into rocks, you can't do better than look around Espargal. The village squats not on rocky soil but on thinly earthed rock.

Barbara has spent much of her week cleaning the bases of the spiky yucccas and the aloes that we have growing all over the property. This involves cutting off the lower leaves of the yuccas and crushing the dead growth that dangles like a bushy beard from the aloes' upper regions. It involves a lot of bending, crouching and other gymnastics that I don't go in for although I do remove the more dangerous leaves, the ones that poke out over the paths at eye level.

I have also, together with my wife, begun picking up carobs. Although this year's crop is thin as a result of the dry winter, we have several dozen trees to pick at an optimistic rate of a tree a day - and that's before we start on the almonds.

During my idle moments I have been working my way slowly through the Freecell games on my iPad, starting at number 1. I'm past 500 and counting, with only another million or so to go.

They are games of strategy rather than luck. I tell myself that they will stave off dementia for a year or two. The easiest can be completed in under two minutes. Three to five minutes is more common. The more difficult can easily take an hour.

According to experts online a number of the games are completely insoluble. I haven't yet come across one of those.

Thursday: I am receiving repeated email warnings from the weather bureau that Friday and Saturday are going to be wickedly hot.

I am hoping nonetheless to get some concreting done on Saturday morning with the lads.

I shall suggest an early start.