Letter from Espargal: 30 January 2016

JONES SKY: MORE TO FOLLOW

For as long as we've possessed mobile phones we've been clients of Vodafone - generally satisfied clients. We have found their prices reasonable; their sales staff knowledgeable and their help lines helpful. If an operator can't answer your question, s/he either puts you through to someone who can or calls you back.


CLOUD IN THE VALLEY

That is - until recently when Vodafone introduced a menu on their main helpline number. The computer that takes the call spells out a series of options in Portuguese from which the caller has to choose verbally and, when it fails to recognise the choice, like Sisyphus it starts all over again. After two galling attempts to get through, I fired off a gripey email to Vodafone - in English - pointing out the frustrations now faced by their expat clients. That was late on a Saturday night.



On Sunday afternoon, somewhat to my surprise, I received an email reply - also in English. Apart from trying to justify the menus, it advised me that these could be avoided entirely by using alternative numbers that went through directly to operators, numbers that it provided. I was impressed by the response and said so - in my best Portuguese.


THE ORPHANS SHARING A BASKET IN FRONT OF THE FIRE -

Before I leave the subject: a few weeks ago when the battery on my mobile phone started playing up, I took the device into Vodafone for attention. The phone is a sealed unit and the battery cannot be replaced by the user. It seems that Vodafone couldn't replace it either because they exchanged the faulty device for a brand-new phone.


MOON AGAINST THE CLOUDS, JUPITER (TINY DOT) AND LIGHTS OF ALTA FICA

A confession: as a man with a curmudgeonly back, I have found increasing difficulty over the years putting on my socks and cutting my toenails. It's not that I can't; it's just that I'm never sure at what point my back is going to seize up - which makes it unnerving. So I try not to.



However, there's a silver lining to this vertebral cloud. Mary the hairdresser in Benafim is happy to trim toenails as well as hair. And Jodi the physio has introduced me to "sock aids". From a range of such products advertised on Amazon's website, I chose the simplest and cheapest option, an item shaped like a three-fingered glove with two tapes attached.



The "fingers" are thrust into a sock which the dresser then pulls on by tugging on the tapes. The device is remarkably effective. Jonesy, who has been an acting sock-aid, is pleased to be relieved of the duty.


FATBALL HANGING FROM BIRD FEEDER

One of the items that Jones brought back from London - courtesy of Lucia - was a bag of "fatballs", a product much sought after by the parakeets in the Jones back garden. In Espargal, the birds that plunder the seed on the bird feeder have so far shown no interest. We've tried hanging the fatballs in different parts of the garden - thus far to no avail. Maybe we have the wrong varieties of birds.


OLIVE DROPS

The week has continued wet and dry by turns. Rain water from the roof spills via underground pipes into the cisterna while that from the exposed patio tumbles into large plastic bins beneath the spouts. We habitually save water, even when there's an excess. However - and this is the point of the paragraph - so mild has been our winter that mosquito larvae are swimming in the bins. Not an evening passes without a couple of mozzies buzzing around my head in the study. Poor Barri flees downstairs every time I whack one with the swatter.

MEMORIES, MEMORIES!

I have spent long hours scouring through our thousands of digital photographs, a jumbled record of nearly two decades in Portugal. Inevitably, the majority involve the dogs that have passed through our lives during those years, along with our various guests and visitors. About half the photos have landed in the recycle bin. The rest have been sorted and filed on my capacious D Drive. In due course I plan to copy the photos to a digital photo frame.


I LOVE YOU TOO

Thursday I took the car back to Honda for the replacement of a faulty solenoid valve - not a component that I'd heard of until it began playing up. Although I once used to service my cars myself, with a lot of help from my younger brother, these days I can hardly identify the parts in the maze of machinery under the bonnet.



While the valve itself was not expensive, by the time Honda had calculated the diagnostics, dynamic testing, consumables, waste recycling - and added VAT at 23%, the bill would have paid for a number of excellent lunches for two. Still, Maria Paula had the car back with me mid-morning , which I really appreciated and, in truth, it's only the second middling repair in seven years. It's been a great car!



On the way home I stopped at an electrical super-store where I found a replacement for a defunct stair light, the likes of which none of the local suppliers had ever seen. Weeks of searching both online and on the street had come to nothing. So I returned home with a measure of satisfaction, one further improved by a welcoming fire and a cup of coffee.

On the political front, Portugal's outgoing president, Anibal Cavaco Silva, has "vetoed" a bill from the new Socialist government that would have given gay couples equal rights to adopt children. The president expressed the view that the issue required more public debate. The draft legislation returns to the Assembly, where it may be resurrected in due course.



Six years ago, recognising the writing on the wall, Silva reluctantly endorsed gay marriage. One waits to see what attitude may be taken his newly-elected successor, Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa, who takes office in March. Although both men made their mark as centre-right politicians, De Sousa is better known as a television pundit. The country will be watching closely how he gets on with his socialist prime minister.


CAT BURGLAR

Letter from Espargal: 23 January 2016

It is on a Thursday morning after walking the dogs that I usually sit down over a cup of coffee at the computer to consider the week. This Thursday morning dawned wet and misty, so, instead of walks, we contented ourselves with leg-lifters in the park under a fine drizzle. After breakfast - theirs - I lit a fire and the dogs settled themselves down around the stove.



Then, as I was about to sit down at my desk, Jose the tractor man called to check my exact model before ordering the transmission oil and filter that I'd requested from him. I change the engine oil every 100 hours - usually once a year. But this is the first time in 8 years that I've needed to change the transmission oil for which I don't have the specs.



So I nipped into Benafim to have a word with Jose who took the opportunity to show me around his latest range of tractors. He's got some very nice ones and would love to sell me one. I told him years ago that I'd buy another if I won the Euromillions lottery but that's hardly likely, especially as I gave up playing it online when the organisers insisted on yet more bureaucracy in the name of security. Bureaucracy is one commodity that Portugal is never short of.



Then I dropped off a punctured wheelbarrow wheel at the workshop of the man who fixes old mopeds - essential transport in these parts - before stopping off at Quim Quim to order  a delivery of sand and cement.

Friday morning the car has to go into Honda.


THE ENDEARING BABES

On our outings these days we take extra chewies or other dog treats for the stray that has settled down at the turn-off from the main road to Espargal. There are several houses in the area from which it may be getting some food. The beast certainly needs all it can get as its ribs stick out like fence posts. It loved the meaty bone that we provided on Monday afternoon.

Strays are a perpetual Portuguese problem. We came across a banner in Loule begging dog owners to get their animals neutered. One hundred thousand strays a year have to be destroyed, it informed readers, because of the failure to neuter pets. That's apart from the dogs that are simply discarded when they are no longer of any use to their owners.



Returning to Thursday: On the way home from Benafim, between cursing the idiots who loom up in the mist without lights, I dropped by Leonilde's place to pick up the goat cheese and bread that she purchases on our behalf each Wednesday. The cheese comes from a small goat farm just up the road.

Thus Thursday morning, like the rest of the week, swiftly passed.

Natasha, who works an additional half day each month (to recompense us for her share of the social security charge) joined me on the tractor one morning. Like Slavic she rides "side-saddle" down to Joachim Sousa's field a kilometre away to load the box with rocks from the huge piles dotting his carob plantation. The rocks are both to backfill the wall the boys are building and to provide them with a ready supply when they arrive on Saturday.



After returning home with our fourth and final load of the day, we set about dropping the rocks into the void behind the wall. As we were doing so I noticed a prickling in my right leg. Moments later the limb seemed to catch fire. I looked down to find my jeans absolutely covered in an army of biting ants.



With a yelped warning to Natasha and backwards hop that would have qualified me for the ParaOlympics, I whipped the trousers down and fell to brushing the little buggers off. There is a place for decorum in this world but it isn't in the middle of a field in Espargal when one is being torn to shreds by jihadist ants. Natasha had the presence of mind not to laugh at the spectacle of her employer dancing around like a semi-naked dervish while mouthing imprecations. Little wonder the ants were upset; I'd been standing right on top of their nest.



Jones - between her sms messages, emails, food preparation, mending, cleaning and waifs runs - has continued to pick up the last of last season's carobs. I was astonished at the pile she has left drying on the floor in Casa Nada. We shall be pleased to hand them over in due course to the farmer who has been so helpful in grafting our trees. Carobs are the oil of the local economy (possibly not the most appropriate metaphor in the current economic climate).


JONES COLLECTING CAROBS IN CAMOUFLAGE

Midweek we fetched several pizzas from Sergio's travelling pizza kiosk and joined our UK friends, Mike and Lyn, for supper at a rental villa in the village. They are frequent visitors and great walkers, with an enviable knowledge of Portuguese flowers and birds. They were in good form. With just one or two exceptions, the January weather has been kind to them.



Changing tack - on Sunday the people of Portugal go to the polls to elect a new president. Under the Portuguese system of government which lacks an upper house, the president is semi-executive and occupies a role usually performed by a senate. So the election matters. Ten candidates are standing, two of them women.



If the opinion polls are anything to go by, nine have little or no chance of winning. The country's next president is almost sure to be a centre-right candidate, Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa, who will then have to work with the new centre-left government. The only question is whether Mr de Sousa will gain the simple majority required in the first round. Whether the majority of expats will be aware of any of this - or care - is doubtful as most of them live in bubbles of their own media and social circles.

Letter from Espargal: 16 January 2016

As I remarked to Jodi in mid massage on Wednesday, I hoped St Peter was keeping files up to date in his book of good deeds, with appropriate rewards to come - three weeks off purgatory for an act of exceptional good neighbourliness and the like. (I'm assuming that purgatory hasn't joined limbo in the celestial deleted folder).

The trouble, I confided - expanding on my theme as Jodi gripped my left leg - is that one can never be sure whether one's good deeds are going to bear fruit - never mind the ominous corollary! Jodi agreed; there was no knowing. These days, I reflected punnily, St Peter was probably keeping his records in the cloud.


ELDERLY MAN FALLS ASLEEP AFTER SUPPER

What prompted these reflections were our efforts to help an elderly neighbour renew her passport. (I use the word "elderly" with caution, uncertain at exactly what point one falls into the category.) The first hurdle was obtaining a new passport photo - awkward because the photo shop in Loule has recently closed down. Instead I took some pictures with our camera in the hope that I could adjust the printer settings to meet the consulate's 5x5cm photo requirements.

The second hurdle was obtaining the requisite postal order - for €105. When I asked the man in the Loule post office if I could buy one for a neighbour, he said no; the neighbour had to appear in person with passport to facilitate the now automated process.

So we went along. The post office couldn't have been more helplful, even finding a bottle of paper glue to seal our reused envelope before registering the same.



Another task, almost as demanding, has been preventing Pally from going walkabout whenever the mood takes him. He's a restless fellow who takes a dim view of confinement and loves nothing more than to roam the countryside in full yap.

Jones and I checked our several hundred metres of fencing in a bid to discover where he was getting out. Since a foot of fresh vegetation covers much of the fence base, this proved to be a lengthy job. Of a hole in the fence we could discover no sign.


SPARKY - AS SHE USED TO LOOK

Jones came to the conclusion that Pally was squeezing out through the gap beneath the main gates. The dog is somewhat thinner than his sisters who would no doubt have been delighted to follow him had they not plumped up in the year that they've been with us.



SPARKY AS SHE LOOKS NOW

So, having obtained the necessary materials and plugged the drill into the extension cord, I lay down on the cobbles to go about blocking Pally's passage. The dogs took a close interest in proceedings, occasionally sitting on my tummy or my face, the better to see what I was up to.



I left enough room to allow the cats to get through the gap. Although the orphans have become accustomed to the presence of the cats around the house, in the garden they consider the felines fair game. Their joyful whoops give the game away. So the cats, who like to spend time in the fields, often make a beeline from the front door to the gates (and vice versa) in order to avoid the gauntlet.



One afternoon, ahead of promised rain, Jones and I set about scattering fertilizer pellets under our carob trees - an annual task. I don't know how many carob trees we have but it's quite a lot - several dozen. And since we obtained the Inacio plot last year, the number has grown. The more trees we fertilized, the more we became aware of the carobs that still lay beneath them.  Jones has subsequently spent hours picking them up.

I didn't join her. Picking things up - other than bugs - isn't my forte, although I did assist Slavic to fill the tractor box with stones last weekend. We made five tractor trips down to Joachim's carob plantation to raid his rock mountains - the residue from the bulldozer clearance of the plot years earlier.



I kneel down and toss small stones into the box with one hand while supporting myself with the other. Slavic collects the serious rocks, the ones used mainly to face the walls we are building. The small stones go for back-filling.



In my English class we discussed the crime wave afflicting Loule. Half a dozen businesses have been the victims of brazen raids. Although windows are broken in the middle of the night, nobody appears to hear a thing. Traders are up in arms, accusing the council and the police of sitting on their hands. For my part, I'm glad to live in a peaceful village in the hills, far from the tumultuous world without.


THE BROWN HOUSE IS VALAPENA - CASA NADA TO THE RIGHT

Letter from Espargal: 9 January 2016

DAWN ON CHRISTMAS EVE

Hello from Espargal on a drizzly, misty morning - fairly typical of Algarvian mornings for the past week or two. Although the midwinter temperatures seldom emerge from the teens, there's a small fire in the stove, less for warmth than to settle the dogs and to dry the washing that hangs from the rack upstairs. (We don't have a clothes dryer. The sun serves most of the year and the fire for the rest.)



Quite a lot of stuff has happened in our lives since last I blogged. I spent Christmas in Calgary very pleasantly with my Canadian and German families. Barbara celebrated New Year in London with Llewellyn and Lucia, catching up on friends and exhibitions.



Neither of our travels was as straightforward as it might have been. I seemed to set off a lot of security-check alarms (Please raise your arms.....!) and to land in the wrong queues. Jones had to negotiate the closure for repairs of the railway link between Gatwick airport and London, a move that caused huge complications for hordes of travellers. Happily, such irritations were swiftly forgotten in the hospitable bosoms of our welcoming families.



I exploited my Canadian visit to purchase another Pebble smart-watch. I say "another" because the Pebble that I obtained two years ago subsequently froze and couldn't be revived - greatly to my disappointment. I love the watch for the saving it makes on phone retrievals from shirt pockets to discover who is messaging/emailing one and why - especially in the car.


FAMILY IN THE CALGARY LIVING ROOM

Another purchase has been of a new mobile phone. This is a subject that I need to treat with some sensitivity as there is a feeling in some quarters that I acquire rather more mobile phones than is strictly necessary. Thus an explanation of the circumstances might be appropriate. It so happened that I was taking in my HTC mobile phone to Vodafone for repairs; the battery needed replacing and a technician to replace it.


TAP DANCING DISPLAY IN THE CALGARY BASEMENT LOUNGE

From the Vodafone assistant I gathered that I did not have enough points to warrant a serious discount on the latest top-of-the-line HTC-One M9 model. (I've long been an HTC fan!) But it happened that I had just enough points to achieve such a discount on its lesser cousin, the A9. Clearly, this was an opportunity not to be missed - the will of the gods, as they say.


A9 PICTURE SENT TO LLEWELLYN TO THANK HIM FOR GIFT OF MALT WHISKY

So, after just a little hesitation I came away with a new phone - and I have to say that it's a beaut.

Enough of such things!


MOONLIGHT ON THE SOLAR PANELS

My New Year chimed in bed, where I was joined by an additional dog as distant celebrations resounded through the hills. Barri, who was upset by the fireworks, sought comfort by my side - unusual behaviour on her part. To my amusement, she then took strong exception to the arrival of Prickles, a more frequent bed companion, letting him know in no uncertain terms that the bed was already full - which was true - and he should look to spend the night elsewhere.


BARRI

I was pleased to fetch Barbara from Faro airport on Monday evening - and not only because the needs of our many animals (and several of our neighbours') are so time-consuming - or because the occasional dog-sick/dropping no longer cleared itself up in her absence. Her plane was 30 minutes late, having had to deviate westwards around France because the perennially aggrieved French traffic controllers were on strike yet again. (Dante should have had a special circle of hell for striking air traffic controllers.)


BARBARA AND LLEWELLYN AT THE SPECTACULAR SERPENTINE SACKLER GALLERY CAFE

Faro airport, like that in Lisbon - under new management - had giant panels closing off much of the terminal as it undergoes conversion into a shopping mall.

Jones, too, was pleased to be home - the more so because Natasha had left the house gleaming and there was a welcoming fire in the stove.


WITH LUCIA IN THE LONDON KITCHEN

Following the festive period, life is back to normal. Jones rises early. She brings me toast and coffee 7.30ish as it's getting light. Unless it's pouring we go walking with the beasts. I set out with special care as the earth is generally wet and the smooth rocks that dot the path are unforgiving.


YELLOW-FLOWERED ALOE AND SOLAR PANEL IN OUR FIELD

Regrettably, I never seem to miss an opportunity to fall over. One reason may be, as Jones long ago observed, that for my size I have rather small feet (one of which is lazy). Like the dogs, Jones appears to have an internal gyroscope and not to be much troubled by these things.


OUT AND ABOUT IN LONDON

In other matters she retains human frailty. For one thing she has a damaged thumb, the product of a ski accident; it's a disability that sometimes makes it difficult for her to open jars or to grasp things.

Such was the case one night as she removed a large pot of yoghurt from the fridge. The pot slipped from her grasp, scattering its contents throughout the fridge and across the floor as it tumbled down.



It's not often that I hear my wife moaning but she moaned a fair bit as she set about clearing up the mess. (For the record, I should have been more than willing to assist had there been room for more than one person - which fortunately there wasn't.)

Twice, during her stay in London, I noted that one of the orphans, Mello, - a long-haired bitch - had returned from a walk with her head covered in burs.


THE GIRLS ON THE SOUTH PATIO DIVAN

But the next time we set out, she was bur-free. I was puzzled, wondering how she was removing them with her paws, as the wretched things hook in for dear life. In the event, she wasn't. To my great surprise, I saw her sister, Sparky, pulling them out one at a time with her teeth while Mello patiently allowed herself to be tended. The process continued until the last bur had been removed. I have often seen one dog licking another but such grooming - common in apes - was a first.


LUNCHEON IN THE CRYPT, ST-MARTIN-IN-THE-FIELDS

Of an evening we sit down for an hour or two over and after supper to watch TV. There are some excellent documentaries most nights - our favourite viewing. The trouble is that our chairs are comfortable, the fire is warm and the wine is mellowing. Sometimes I glance up to see Jones nodding off. At others I wake to find that she has already retired.



That's life. Or, as they say here, É a vida!