Letter from Espargal: 27 November 2015

SHARING ALMONDS WITH THE DOGS

If my entry to heaven were to depend on this week's achievements I should hedge my bets. I would have to persuade the apostle that virtue lay as much in fidelity to a domestic routine as in prayers and penance. I'm not sure that he would buy it. (Martyrdom is a bit out of fashion, having been monopolised by the jihadists!)



When I was younger, I knew exactly what God expected of me, as drummed into me by the holy nuns and later the Marist brothers. But with age came doubts about clerical strictures. The latest revelations of Vatican scandals by journalists, Gianluigi Nuzzi and Emiliano Fittipaldi, have done nothing to restore my faith.



What did surprise me was to learn that the Vatican (an independent "state") is now prosecuting the two authors along with three inside "document leakers" - a classic case of shoot the messenger. The trial will serve to draw universal attention to the clerics' misdeeds while prompting the curious to purchase the books. Indeed, I have already downloaded Nuzzi's "Merchants in the Temple".



The book that has preoccupied me this past week has been R W Johnson's "How Long Will South Africa Survive?", a tome that I have just finished. It's been a bit like reading a judge's long and detailed summing up of a complex case, knowing all the while that it will conclude with a death sentence. I found it truly scary stuff!



In-between such readings and reflections we've been quite busy. The boys arrived promptly last Saturday morning to continue our labours on the new field. While Slavic and I went off to (a neighbour) Joachim's carob plantation to plunder his rock piles, Andrei set about constructing a low wall along the boundary.



Working together, the pair of them managed to heave a couple of large rocks lying in the corner of the field on to the tractor box but a boulder proved to be beyond their powers.



However, and I do not mean to make this sound easy, I was able to shunt the boulder into position with the tractor, impressing myself and my workers (if not necessarily St Peter) with my skills.


BARRI AT EASE - SHE HAS PRINCESS DI EYES

Midweek Jones and I went off Faro beach for toasted sandwiches. The day was hot. We had to put up shades in the car windows to keep the sun's rays off the dogs. Across the estuary the airport lay dormant in the sunshine. The tourists don't know what they're missing.



Having last week restored our patio tables, I turned my attentions to my bruised and dented tractor box - an item that I acquired second-hand when I bought my first (of three) tractor(s) more than ten years ago. This sturdy implement patiently endures every kind of punishment, most especially as Slavic heaves rocks into it, intended for our various walls and surfaces. Its original coat of red paint had all but vanished under years of battering. Following my efforts, the box gleams once again. Next in line for refurbishment is the scarifier.



Thursday we ordered sand and cement from Quim Quim - delivered the same hour - and a host of supplies from Gilde a little further up the road, to be delivered Friday evening. I'll cement fencing posts into the new wall while we're building it. The boys should be back to carry on this weekend.



Although the days remain warm and dry, they grow ever shorter. Most afternoons we walk at about 16.00 - a 40-minute amble along rocky paths around the hillside while the dogs run free.


PICTURE FROM SARAH & DAVID

Jones then goes off to feed her waifs before heading up to the summit with a baggy to behold the sunset. Jones is a sky person. In ancient times she would have worshipped the sun, moon and stars.



By 5.30 the light is fading and it's pitch dark well before 18.00. That is unless the moon rises as it has these last few nights. Most of the photos will speak for themselves. The picture above shows the moon shining through the bedroom window, reflected in the mirror, around seven in the morning. At first I thought that Jones had left a light on, so bright was it.



These days we sup around 19.00 - rather than 22.00, which is often the case in summer. And then sit down around the fire, animals scattered about like cushions, often to enjoy another episode of Foyle's War. Thank you again Llewellyn. Prickles snores rhythmically in his basket. His companions are equally lights out if not as noisy. It is not unusual for one of us to catch the other drifting off.



IN MEMORY OF DOGS DEPARTED

Portugal is to have a new government, a left-wing coalition led by the Socialist Party under Antonio Costa. It embraces the communists, the Left Bloc and the Greens. Before giving Costa the go-ahead, the state president wrung various pledges from him regarding EU commitments, Nato membership and the like. None the less, life could become quite politically and economically interesting in the months ahead.

Letter from Espargal: 20 November 2015

My tech challenge this week was to discover why my smart-phone was suddenly blocking reception of the codes the bank sends me to authorise transfers. This blockage came as an unpleasant surprise, bringing my online banking operations to a sharp halt last Friday evening.


MELLO AFTER A MUD BATH

The bank helpline assured me that the codes were still being sent out and advised me to talk to my network provider. Vodafone, who now subject callers to an horrendous helpline menu - in Portuguese - before allowing one near an operator, said the problem lay with my phone. They sent me a mysterious code that was meant to cure it. No luck!


PENSIVE DOG

Vodafone's technical adviser later dismissed the code as useless - intended for older models. The problem, he advised me, lay with a software filter and, as a precaution, he turned off the message filter on my security suite. It did the trick. The bank is talking to me once again.


EXPLORING A NEW GARDEN

I had the same problem some years ago with Barclays offshore. I tried all the bank's suggestions for resolving it before eventually being driven to close the account. Although it's possible to bank by phone, it's a pain!


SQUINTY ARRIVES

Monday's and Thursday's English classes discussed the rise to prominence of several women in Portugal's Left Bloc, a far left party that took 10% of the vote in the national elections and of the seats in the Assembly. Although Portuguese women are well represented in the professions and in government, party leaders have traditionally been male. So the spotlight has been on the women's performance as the Portuguese wait to hear who is to form their next government. The state president, whose call it is, is still consulting.



Still on politics - R W Johnson's book, How Long Will South Africa Survive, is gripping my attention. Although we have long followed the country's politics from afar, it's really only such events as the Pistorius trial and the Marikana massacre that get treated in any depth. Johnson's analysis of the parlous state of the governing party and its allies - that's as far as I have read - is as meticulously annotated as it is depressing. I don't suppose that this will come as news to most South Africans. But it certainly puts my Witbank brother's explosive rants over graft and incompetence into perspective. What a sorry state of affairs!



Tuesday we stayed at home. Jones gardened. I painted our two exterior tables. Both are metal and prone to rust. They looked pretty good for my efforts, if I say so myself. The only hitch was that scores of the tiny mosaic tiles came loose when I upended one table and I've spent some time gluing them back and grouting them in. As luck would have it, I'm one tile short and head-scratching over how best to disguise its absence.



I wasn't fussed about a few spots of paint on the cobbles but Jones thought the cobbles had looked much better without them and I had to go down on my knees to make amends.



Another paint job was to spray my initials on to the marker stones at the boundaries of our new plot of land - half a dozen of them. I had already over-painted the vendor's initials. To replace them with mine, I knelt beside the stones, elbowing aside the weeds, while I gripped a stencil with one hand and a can of spray paint with the other. Not an elegant pose!



The plot is looking a lot better after a second round of ploughing and the burning off of great heaps of off-cuts last Saturday. At last we can see the layout and drive the tractor from one end to the other.



Wednesday, after physio, we drove 30 minutes east to the mountain village of Cortelha where our neighbours, David and Sarah, were working on the house that belongs to their absent daughter and son-in-law.



In particular, they were painting a plastered wall on an upstairs patio with a water-repellent coating to block the moisture that was staining the interior walls. The product they were using is particularly effective. The local hardware store demonstrates this by displaying a treated cardboard box filled with water.


DAVID COATS THE WALL WITH A WATER REPELLENT

From the house we proceeded five minutes down the road to the village restaurant - a popular establishment - where we lunched outside on bread, cheese and ham. It was hot and grew hotter as the November sun edged around the protective garden brolly, prompting us to move indoors.



If the days are still fit for sunbathers, evenings are growing much cooler. Temps are set to fall into single figures overnight this coming week - don't gasp Canadians. So far our evening fires have been more of a luxury than a necessity. Once again the land grows dry and we pray for rain.



Thursday, after my English lesson, we went up to the Goldra dog sanctuary to see how Marisa and Ana were getting along. The answer was with more dogs than ever. Marisa also has a dozen or more dogs at home, animals that need special attention. She said that her English neighbour, whose property was on the market, was complaining about the noise they make. And since the two women didn't have a language in common, it was proving really hard to communicate. I could only sympathise.



The visit was our first in months. I stopped taking up food supplies when I ran into back problems earlier in the year although we have continued to support the project.



 

Letter from Espargal: 13 November 2015

This week has been quite busy and several times I have had to bend my rule of planning only one thing a day. Let me skip over the usual stuff, the boys painting the house on Saturday, brunch on Sunday, May visit and English classes on Monday - and come to Tuesday.

On Tuesday morning we had a session with our lawyer. Part of it was to complete the paperwork for the recent complicated purchase of a plot of land, complicated mainly because the vendor lacked the necessary papers.



The other part was to discuss the future of Casa Nada (the Nothing House), the old cottage on the property that we have restored and divided into a workshop (me) and mini-apartment (she). Our several attempts down the years to register it have come to nothing.



After the meeting I dropped in on the old cobbler with my Ecco shoes, remodelled by Mello after I'd carelessly left them on the front patio. The cobbler's a taciturn fellow. "Dog again?" he grunted. I nodded. "Come back tomorrow," he said. I did; he did a great job and charged me accordingly.


NEW STYLE IN HATS, A LA MELLO

Mello also got hold of my Ecco boots, the little bitch. So far my gaffer-tape repairs are holding.


SUPPER TIME

Tuesday afternoon brought the anticipated fall of Portugal's minority right-of-centre coalition government, just 11 days after its installation. The country's three disparate left-of-centre groups have meanwhile reached agreement on forming a leftist administration around policies that reject austerity.


PRIME MINISTER PEDRO PASSOS COELHO (ROCK CURRANTS RABBIT)

Whether the state president will invite them to form a government or whether he will stick with the lame duck incumbent pending new elections next June, we wait to hear. It is hard to know which option bodes worse for the country. (I do not write as a fan of austerity; I simply don't see any viable option.)


ONE OF SEVERAL HUGE ROCKPILES AT THE FOIA LOOK-OUT

Moving on....Wednesday, after my physio session with Jodi, we drove an hour west to Foia. This is the name given to a convex mountain top, just over 900 metres high, which gazes down on the nearby town of Monchique and, more distantly, on both the southern and western coasts. It's the highest point in the Algarve. On a clear day, which we lacked, one can see ships steaming around the corner of Portugal.


STRANGE ROCK MOUNDS BESIDE THE ROAD

The hill is festooned with every kind of communication mast and dish. Barbara's interest, however, was in the views along with the craft centre beside the snack bar at the popular viewpoint. This is less a point than several acres of parking and facilities. The craft shops proved to be well worth the visit.



While Barbara was inside I went out to meet a couple escorting two donkeys who were lingering on the sidelines. The introduced themselves as Robert and partner, a German couple who hoped to set up a(nother) donkey sanctuary in the Algarve. I made a small contribution to the project and wished them well.



Most days I have spent around an hour on the tractor cleaning up our fields following last month's rains. Intermittently I hop down from the seat to cut back overhanging branches that either block my path or snatch my hat off as I pass. I've two or three hours' work still ahead. The big job is to burn off the abundant heaps of cuttings that dot the place.

One morning I called on Vitor the mechanic for assistance when a tractor warning light came on. It turned out that the key wasn't returning fully to the correct position after starting because of moisture in the mechanism. A healthy squirt of WD-40 cured the problem. For her part, Jones is still bringing in the last of the carobs.



Twice, as we were about to go walking, the dogs have barked vigorously at a figure on the far side of the fence. One proved to be a tourist staying locally, a Dutchman called Tom, who said he would be here for a month. Barbara met him again on her waifs run.

On another occasion it was Tiago (James), the young son of Portuguese neighbours. Tiago, who speaks passable English - he says he learns it in school - couldn't credit the number of dogs that insisted on coming up to smell him. "Oh my God!" he called out time and again as each new beast rushed up to check him out. Tiago was pleased to join us on the walk. When I asked whether we ought not to consult his parents, he waved the question aside, informing us that he was now 11.



Speaking of God, West Africa's spammers now call upon His name in the email invitations they send me daily to claim the millions of dollars that await me if only I will furnish them with my details and a modest deposit. Those beginning: "My dear, how are you?" have given way to others that start: "IN THE NAME OF GOD THE FATHER...."

It is a matter of regret to Jones and me that the divinity doesn't strike down these thieves who take His name so flagrantly in vain. Come to think of it, there are a great many other suitable candidates for being stricken. On the other hand, once the divinity began zapping sinners it's hard to know where He (She? It?) might stop.



I note, Canadians, that Mr Trudeau has appointed equal numbers of men and women to his cabinet - one that "looks like Canada". Although I'm slightly suspicious of appointment by gender (ethnicity, nepotism or whatever) I'm impressed by what I read of his first moves. I hope that you are too. He certainly seems a lot keener on open government than his predecessor.



Still on a vaguely political theme, I have downloaded R W Johnson's book: How Long will South Africa Survive? Since I'm still on the early chapters I don't yet know the answer. I'm not sure that I want to.

I'm more concerned with how long Portugal will survive as its young people emigrate and its old ones proliferate. I hope that it's for at least the next 20 years. By that time I reckon I won't have any more worries - at least not earthly ones.

Letter from Espargal: 6 November 2015

The week has been wet. It began with intermittent drizzle last Saturday, light enough to permit Slavic, Andrei and me to do some serious clearing of the heavily overgrown plot that we have just acquired. We uprooted giant clumps of prickly wild asparagus, cut back bushes, trimmed trees and generally thinned out the jungle.


ONE OF SEVERAL GREAT PILES OF CUTTINGS - CENTRE STAGE

At 03.00 on Sunday, the heavens opened and didn't close again for 12 hours. The deluge came in horizontally on the back of a gale. Everything on the covered front patio was utterly soaked. For the first time in months we missed our morning walk. It was all we could do to persuade the dogs to go outside to relieve themselves.



Much of the valley floor disappeared under a shallow brown lake. We were grateful to live high on a hill. To our great surprise, our electricity supply - generally the first casualty of such storms - held up throughout. Twice I had to empty the overflowing rain gauge. By the end of the day I had measured just over 100mms - a record for us.



The authorities had issued a red alert for the Algarve - another first - and had emergency teams stationed around the region. In the event they were hard pressed. The holiday town of Albufeira took a real hammering as a torrent over a metre deep swirled through the streets, inundating buildings and snatching vehicles in its path.


NEARBY ALGIBRE RIVER IN FLOOD

More showers followed the next few days. By the end of the week the skies had cleared and some truly welcome sunshine had returned. In the valley, the lake has given way to a rich green carpet.


DRAGONFLY THAT LANDED ON A BRANCH IN FRONT OF ME

On Monday my English class discussed university fees. They explained that students typically pay €1,000 a year towards their tuition while the government picks up the balance. On Thursday we tackled the thorny topic of taxes. As ever my struggle is to get them to speak English - the whole purpose of the exercise. The moment there's any disagreement, fierce Portuguese arguments break out across the room.


SQUINTY ON A ROCK, UP WITH JONES ON THE TELEF AT SUNSET

By the end of the hour I'm in need of a generous whisky. However, and here's the rub, I'm on the straight and narrow for a few weeks - mainly. This story really begins with a neighbour who for some years has given up alcohol for a month each year, generally in the autumn. Other neighbours are following suit.


ON THE APARTMENT PATIO IN MILFONTES LAST MONTH

Impressed by his self-discipline, I thought I might test my own resolve. I got as far as lunch on November the 1st when we enjoyed a meal with friends at the Hamburgo. The restaurateur, well aware of my tastes but unaware of my good intentions, poured me a glass of fine red wine; it would have been crass to reject it or not to help the others finish the bottle. Before you mock my efforts, I should add that for nine of the past 11 days I've stuck to my resolution.



Tuesday I took the car into Honda. Twice in the past few weeks I've had dashboard warnings of an engine problem requiring workshop attention. The warnings persist for a day or two before disappearing again. After dropping the car, I took Honda's shuttle into the Algarve Forum to pass the morning while the mechanics checked things out.


JONES IN SINES ART GALLERY

When I messaged Jones to ask if she wanted anything from the shops, she replied "a necklace from Swarovski" before hastening to say "just joking". In the event, Swarovski didn't have any necklaces that appealed to me. But I did find a rather nice one elsewhere.


RAIN CLOUDS OVER THE VALLEY

Honda told me on my return that the warnings were prompted by the valve controlling exhaust emissions. The engineers had serviced it but if it continued to play up, it would need replacing. I can't complain. In six years - oil and tyres excepted - I've had to replace only windscreen wipers, switches and couple of light bulbs. The car has just topped 100,000 kms.


THE NEW HONDA HRV

I was interested to inspect Honda's new HRV - baby brother of the CRV - on the showroom floor. It's the first I've seen. Unlike the sqarish discontinued model, the car now looks similar to the CRV - not that I was tempted.


SODDEN CUTTINGS PILE AWAITING BURNING IN OUR FIELD

Wednesday morning brought a haircut and toenail trim from Mary in Benafim and a massage from Jodi five minutes further along the road in Alte. I then fetched Jones and we took ourselves to lunch at Faro beach under lowering skies while Natasha set about the house.



Jones, who doesn't have the best of relationships with her mobile phone, has recently changed the ring on her incoming Whatsapp messages because she was missing so many of them - generally because her phone was some distance away or in her bag. To remedy the situation she has selected chimes reminiscent of Big Ben striking the hour. She shouldn't miss any more. Like her, I find Whatsapp a most useful bit of software.



Of an evening when there's not much to watch on TV (being allergic to soaps) we have been putting on episodes of a series called Foyle's War. Llewellyn gave us a 12-disk pack some time ago, recommending the production highly. We endorse his judgement. They provide welcome entertainment on long autumn evenings.



The photo shows a box of Brekkies dental chews for dogs, alongside the contents. It's the first time we've bought this particular brand - and the last. You can see why. We got them only because our usual supplier, Aldi, was out of stock. The dogs go wild for the chews, which provide just about the only means to tempt the orphans back inside the gate after our walks.


THE GIRLS BACK TO BACK - PALLY SNOOZING IN FRONT

The orphans continue to make inroads into the house. One morning Jones found the two girls asleep on the lounge sofas. In principle we've no objection, having long since reconciled ourselves to sharing the furniture with our pets on the firm understanding that they don't damage it. The problem is that Mello chews anything she can get hold of while Pally pisses on every available chair leg - and of course the regulars hasten to assert their territorial rights. The little guy has to be snipped asap.