Letter from Espargal: 30 July 2016

This blog begins/began early one morning (space-time is being stretched). It doesn't much matter which morning as this is a mood musical reflection. Like those preceding and following, it's a hot morning - too hot! Lethargy fills the air, along with the monotonous screeching of the cicadas. Jones is preparing coffee and toast in the study. Ono snoozes beside me. Like me, he's not an early riser. My phone tinkles with "orange" advisories from the weather bureau, warning of prolonged high temperatures in the Portuguese interior.



Jones is less bothered by the heat than I am and more sensitive to the cold. Our differential of comfort is around 5 degrees. She is forever opening windows and blinds that I am forever shutting. My wife likes a lot of light; I don't mind a little gloom. She was anything but enthusiastic about my suggestion that we might consider - just "consider" - installing another air conditioner. We have one only in the bedroom. Jones is more into "hotties" than air conditioners. (Sorry about all the dog pictures: we have a lot of dogs!)


WAITING TO WALK AT THE BOTTOM GATE

We cut short our walk as the dogs were panting heavily and pausing in the shade. As usual I dripped like a leaky tap. At one point Mini disappeared and Barbara went back to look for her. I am not a good shepherd, not when we are on our familiar paths. Leave them alone and they'll come home, I tell my wife. But she can't bear the tension of their absence, envisioning pets lost and lonely or pinned in a trap.


PALLY IS OFF

Pally is the exception. Pally takes himself off twice a day. He has a constitutional need to rush around the wilderness, barking his head off. We can hear him half a mile away. His barks go up a pitch when he comes across a rabbit or other unfortunate to chase - not that he catches much other than burrs.


PALLY IS BACK

When his noisy tour is done, he arrives back exhausted at the gate, ready to crash out on the cobbles.



After breakfast the dogs stretch out in the coolest spots they can find. There they'll stay dormant unless they catch wind of a passer-by or arriving vehicle.



Then they charge outside, spurring one another on and hullabalooing like a Norse raiding party. It's an impressive display of dubious ferocity, a veritable canine haka! The visitor, either seen off or welcomed (as required) the dogs return to the house wagging their tails and congratulating themselves on a job well done.



We have been busy with little things. As per Jones instructions I destalked the plums that we picked from Armenio's little-visited orchard and put them on the stove to simmer. Armenio's orchard hides in a grove of trees on the hillside beyond the village. It's not the sort of place you're likely to stumble across.


IRRIGATING OUR NEW VINES

The steep, tilting approach hides under shoulder-high vegetation. Sensible tractors feel their way forward in low gear with 4-wheel drive engaged. The driver has to duck under low branches that discourage casual intrusion. The the trees are weighed down with a variety of summer fruits, many destined to feed the birds before crashing down to reinvigorate mother earth. We picked a bucketful.


MINI LIKES TO BE SERVED FIRST

On our return home, we found Mini gone - as usual. Whenever we leave the house, Mini also leaves, trotting down to the post-boxes where the locals gather or taking herself to Bernardo's house (the son of the village mechanic). In the hope of cramping her style, I spent an hour refitting the boards that prevent the small dogs from crawling out under the gates - to no avail. We're still trying to discover where she's getting out. When we find her she's happy to come home with us again.



The little dog is making an impression in inverse proportion to her size. She is bold, tucking into Dear Heart's (cat) biscuits and Jones baked sunflower seeds with nary a do-you-mind. We are trying to teach her the house etiquette, such as it is. Mini is sensitive to criticism and learns fast. Her favourite resting place is on the dining room bench cushions where I normally sit myself for meals.


STOCK PICS OF SALIR MEDIEVAL FESTIVAL

Last weekend we joined friends for supper in the village of Salir which was celebrating its medieval festival. The village occupies a hill some 15 minutes distant, the summit of which is crowned with the remains of an Arab castle. The festival takes place in the narrow streets below, with travelling players, jugglers and other entertainers to fascinate visitors - both tourists and Portuguese. Arabic music comes droning through the speakers; camels sprawl on straw bedding to add colour.



The streets are lined with hopeful stalls displaying cheap jewellery, liquors, cakes, basket work and other country crafts. A teenage girl, eager to promote her family's products, approached me in hesitant English; when I responded "boa noite senhorita bonita", she fled in giggles to the security of the family bosom. Tourist types are not expected to speak Portuguese.


BLOODY TICKS

Pause there to put some more muti on to a tick bite. Jones came across the creature supping on my back as I sat half naked at the desk. I had no sense of its presence. It's only in the days thereafter that the bite flames up and itches wickedly. There are probably places devoid of ticks, fleas, mosquitoes, spiders and the like; but then one would be bound to find other irritations in their place.

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MAY'S HOUSE

There is a phone call from May's house - soon to be put on the market by her nephew. The house stands empty apart from occasional visits. The maid says the pool is overflowing (again) and the cisterna is dry (again). Somebody is opening the terrace tap that fills the pool. The pool man denies responsibility. The situation is worrying. As the house is not on mains water, arrangements have to be made for the water-man to deliver several loads.


MICHELLE WOOS THEM

We are watching the Democrats convene - almost as bumpy a ride as the Republicans enjoyed. Edward Snowden says that choosing between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton is like choosing between cholera and gonorrhoea. Ouch! Poor Hillary. I'd vote for her if I had the chance, as strident as she is. But there's something off-putting about her that may provoke a lot of Democrats to hold their noses as they make their crosses. I don't care what they hold - as long as they vote for her.