My English classes started up again on Monday following the Christmas break. Events dictated the choice of subject, although in the Trumpian and Brexit clamour that thunders around our media, I doubt that you noticed. It was the death of the ailing father of Portuguese democracy, Mario Soares - former Socialist Party leader, prime minister and president. For some years he had been withdrawing from notice under the burden of age and infirmity.
Portuguese youth would know of his role in the overthrow of the dictatorship mainly through their history books. But for the "senior" pupils in my English class, who grew up under Salazar and were witness to the 1974 Carnation Revolution, Soares is part of their life story, as pivotal to Portuguese history as Walesa to Poland's or Mandela to South Africa's.
Tuesday aside - when a tempest raged around us - it's been another sunny week of a kind that ice-bound eastern Europe and stormy Britain can only dream about. We don't go walking until after 09.00, when the sun is up and the dew-glistening paths are drying out. The temperature is busy climbing from mid-singles overnight to the upper teens so that the jackets we wear on departure are often slung over our shoulders on our return.
After doggy breakfast, when we sit back to enjoy a cup of coffee in the glass-enclosed sun-flooded south patio - dogs on the divan, doves at the bird-feeder and the garden glorious - you might well think us one stop short of heaven.
Wednesday brought the return from holiday in Russia of Natasha, who was recovering from the previous day's coach trips and flights. She said she had spent most of her vacation eating and sleeping. Temperatures down to C*-33 did little to tempt her out. Young Alex, who has grown up in Portugal's mild climate found the frigid conditions daunting.
With Natasha came Slavic for the day. He normally works weekdays at a quinta in the hills but found himself stranded when his car broke down. So he spent the day here instead. He and I laboured away in the park, cutting back the almond trees, clearing under the carobs and burning off.
The dogs love it when we busy ourselves in the park. They nose about the bushes or plant themselves in sunny spots the better to idle away the hours. They have a knack of disappearing into the scenery so that you almost fall over them before you see them.
Poor Pally has been nursing a sore paw all week. But as his need to go tearing around the countryside, yapping his head off, is hardwired into his circuitry, he speed-hobbles into the distance on three legs.
An hour or two later he reappears to seek admittance at the gate, sore paw held miserably aloft. It's hard to know just what the problem is. As with the other two orphans, he will not allow close examination. They don't mind being stroked on occasion but they freak at any attempt at restraint.
EIGHT DOGS AND IJones, I regret to say, inherited my cold, hacking, coughing and spluttering for several days as I have continued to do myself. Whatever may or may not be true about "man colds" she was certainly less affected (and infected) than her spouse - and recovered far more swiftly. Whether that's a gender thing or a gene thing it's hard to know.
MOON BALANCED ON A CHIMNEY
Before retiring most nights, I listen to the "Book of the Week" on BBC Radio 4. (http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/programmes/schedules#on-now) This week's readings have been from Diarmaid MacCulloch's work, The Reformation - a tome that I have downloaded and am about to read. He is professor of the History of the Church at Oxford.
We came across him as the presenter of television documentaries on aspects of Christianity - and found him deeply impressive. Interestingly, while he went as far as being ordained a deacon in the Church of England, he declined ordination to the priesthood because of the Church's attitude to (his) homosexuality.
ALMOND BLOSSOM
Unlike the UK, which ends its tax year in April, Portugal sticks to the calendar year. That means that I have to sit down early in the new year to prepare our accounts. These are complicated by exchange rate fluctuations and annuities foreign to the Portuguese taxman. My part is to list in-comings and outgoings carefully and to hand the details over to our accountants.
SEVERELY PRUNED ALMOND PLANTATION NEXT DOOR
As you may imagine, like a couple of million other expats, we are less than thrilled with the continuing slide of sterling. I find it as hard to restrain myself over Brexiteers proclaiming a brave new world as over the tweeting Donaldo's ravings.
We have been listening to yet another fascinating radio series on the BBC, about the new "post truth" world and how social media are serving to reinforce people in bubbles of their own prejudice. Fifty per cent of Americans are said to get their news from social media. Can you credit it?
Let us be grateful for such sensible souls as thee and me.
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