Jones has gone to London for four days. She flew off early on Thursday morning - up at 03.00 - leaving me in sole charge of the ranch. After walking and feeding the beasts I sat down in the living room to watch her plane approaching Heathrow - on Flight Radar. I had almost as much information as the pilot. Amazing programme!
SEA SQUILL - AUTUMN'S HARBINGER
Jones's absence leaves my blog unchecked; it may be a little rambly as there's nothing really to say - not that any blogger should ever admit it.
Later today I shall return to the airport to fetch Cathy, who is flying in from Berlin. She will be very welcome. I have drawn up a little list of diversions to keep her amused, with watering the garden at the top.
FROM THIS
Before departing, in one of those conversations that married couples have, Jones reproached me for muttering. I had to acknowledge that she had a point. It's not that I mutter for nothing; it's that I get so provoked, mainly by people on radio and TV, especially those who find everybody "incredible" and everything "incredibly" hard or whatever. I tend to respond: "Amazingly, astonishingly unbelievable". ("Fantastic" is on the wane; "very" is almost archaic.)
TO THIS. NOW THAT'S INCREDIBLE
Since this happens on average about twice a minute, Jones has been finding my muttered curses just as annoying as I find the provocations. I have resolved to curse and mutter only in my head although I am not giving any guarantees.
I also muttered when the BBC's underwhelming new political editor, Laura Kuenssberg delivered her maiden package on the nightly news. Spare us from token appointments!
No, it's not chauvinism! I've muttered at guys who even less impressive, including the idiot prancing around on the BBC World Service economic slot. (Yes, I know, this is typical of geriatric decline. It's just that they are so bloody irritating!)
While on appointments - we have followed with much fascination the whole palava around the election of the new leader of the Labour Party in the UK. The (seemingly inevitable) choice of Jeremy Corbyn will be confirmed before this blog has even fledged. The implications for the party are incredible (here we go again). Fascinating times ahead.
Portugal too is facing elections. The people go to the polls early next month. The chances are that the centre-right coalition - responsible for a deeply unpopular austerity programme - will be replaced by a centre-left coalition. Given that the new government will face exactly the same economic challenges, more faces than policies may be expected to change. Whatever the case, I can't see that it will affect our lives much except perhaps with higher taxes.
Saturday my workers returned to continue repainting the weathered exterior walls. There is an irony here in that I frequently insist on their taking more safety measures than they think strictly necessary. It so happened that I assisted them to clear up at the end of the morning by carrying the double extension ladder they had been using from the house to the gate. I then tipped it over the gate to make it more accessible from their side.
As I did this, the upper section of the ladder slipped downwards, trapping the end of my middle finger between two rungs. It was extremely - dare I say "incredibly" - ouch. The modest bandage that I've been sporting all week hardly does credit to my feelings.
THREE BAGS FULL - SEE BELOW
Pause there to rescue a sparrow that had flown on to the enclosed south patio and couldn't find the way out again. I got to it just before Russ did. I fear he didn't intend well. No harm done. The birds have well and truly discovered the seed that I put out for them daily. Doves and sparrows are regular visitors. Every now and then a blackbird will make an appearance. They're very shy. Even more cautious are the beautiful azure-winged magpies. They spend ages sitting on a branch checking out the surroundings before landing briefly on the bird feeder.
We had an ironic moment earlier in the week when, towards the end of our morning walk, we ran into a couple of carob pickers on the far side of the hill, two villagers we know well. One of them, a huge, obese fellow, beheld Russ with some surprise. "What a fat dog!" said he. We had to agree that Russ was somewhat overweight, leaving unsaid the obvious response. He didn't seem to appreciate the richness of his comments.
Barely a fortnight after Jones returns we shall be off to Madeira on holiday. I have booked us on two "moderate" levada walks (along extensive narrow canals bringing water down from the hills), each of them lasting several hours. Although Rolf might regard such excursions as mere after-tea strolls, I might have to shape up a little beforehand in order not to embarrass the family. In my head, Russ, and I are already shedding pounds, doing brisk afternoon circuits of the Espargalian hinterland.
Sunday Vitor and extended family descended on our fields - at our invitation - to pick almonds. There must have been about a dozen pickers. They laid nets under the trees before whacking down the nuts. They then raised the edges of the nets to pour the accumulated nuts - like fish - into the mouths of the sacks - a much bigger job than you might think. They had filled easily a dozen sacks by the end of the morning when they called a halt.
Some of the nuts Vitor's wife, Ana, will use in the cakes and tarts that she supplies to villagers and restaurants. (Almonds are a key ingredient of Algarve desserts.) Others they may well sell. Portuguese neighbours whom Jones encounters on her waifs and strays run have been sitting in their open garage for days shelling great heaps of nuts for market. (I was hearing on a BBC account of the Californian drought that almonds are doing extremely well there. The trees are both hardy and drought resistant.)
Monday we called in on May. She wasn't a happy lady, admitting that she was suffering unpleasant delusions and miserably aware that she was losing her grasp on reality. Jones spent some time consoling her. Her medication may be partially to blame. It seems that she has good days and bad ones.
When not working in her garden, Jones has been collecting figs and plums around the neighbourhood. Some varieties of fig dry in the sun and then last for ages. They're chewy and delicious, often found stuffed with almonds.
Maria on the village square invited Barbara to come and collect plums from a tree of hers. She was pleased to do so. I drove down on the tractor to fetch her and the plums. The latter went straight into the stew pot. She doesn't add any sugar; they don't need it. We consume them with yogurt for lunch. The balance has gone into the freezer for future consumption. Along with the melons and grapes donated by other neighbours, we are overflowing with good things. All we lack now is a little rain. Everything is so dry! Please....send rain!
BARBARA IN LONDON WITH EDGAR AND HAZEL
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