Letter from Espargal: 26 May 2017

Saturday: Slavic and I laid another strip of concrete to smooth out the section of roadway between the dirt circuit that approaches the house and concrete driveway. The roadway is steep and the gravel surface can prove treacherous to pedestrians.



I'd rescued some cast-out aluminium shelving struts from a roadside bin to act as reinforcement. My part in the operation was to tractor barrows of fresh concrete 25 metres from the mixer to the site. Slavic's part was to do everything else.



After our walk I managed to take a tick off my neck before it bit into me. I'm still on anti-biotics following the last bite. Barbara was less lucky. The tick she discovered had already latched on to her skull. It's all but impossible to avoid the blighters on our walks at this time of year, no matter how carefully we check ourselves.

FIELD OF CENTAURY & HELICHRYSUM

On the spam email front I can report that the UN Deputy Secretary General and Melania Trump are among the philanthropists who have sought to bestow a fortune on me in exchange for a smidgeon of personal information and a modest deposit - as usual, via their West African offices. Bliksems! They're as bad as the ticks.



You may have come across my recent blog queries about a 1937 German nursing award made to an aunt of my neighbour, Liz Brown, who has been anxious to learn more. Now, from the Museum of Military Medicine in the Netherlands, the Browns have received the following background info:



The German pocket battleship, (Deutschland) that was moored at the Spanish port of Ibiza, was mistakenly bombed (May 1937) by the Spanish Republlcan Air Force during the Spanish Civil War. This attack killed 20 German sailors and seriously wounded 80. (British) medical personnel from RAMC and QAIMNS rendered assistance and some of the wounded were evacuated to and treated at the British Military Hospital in Gibraltar. Out of "appreciation and gratitude to the medical officers for the care of the wounded", Hitler granted the award of the German Red Cross to medical personnel involved. The decoration came in 3 classes with a fourth termed the"Ladies Cross". 23 crosses were awarded to the medical personnel. As to the ethics of wearing the award, there was much debate and it is believed that no recipient wore it.

As the incident was news to me, I turned to Wikipedia:



On May 29, 1937, a pair of Tupolev SB Soviet bombers attached to the Spanish Republican air force raided Nationalist air bases and the port of Ibiza.. The German heavy cruiser Deutschland, which was part of the International Non-Intervention Committee patrol, was anchored off Ibiza and was allegedly misidentified by the bombers' crew as the Nationalist heavy cruiser Canarias. Two Soviet pilots, Captain Anton Progrorin and Lieutenant Vassily Schmidt, dropped their bombs on the Deutschland, causing large fires on the ship, killing 31 sailors and wounding 74.



Sunday: The day dawned thick and mucky with sand from the Sahara. Yuck! Over lunch with friends, I used Google's "find phone" facility to seek the whereabouts of a missing phone belonging to one of our companions. Google regretted that it couldn't trace the device. The owner said maybe that was because the battery was flat. It's also possible that the phone was not configured to reveal its location. (It's still missing!)


On the subject of phones - I've set the Google Maps app in my phone and Barbara's to reveal our locations to each other, as much as an experiment as anything. In subsequent tests I found the software eerily accurate. At least it should simplify any future attempts to trace a missing phone. I don't doubt that the facility is a boon to parents. It was brought to my attention by Llewellyn, who uses it to follow Lucia's journey home from work in order to have dinner piping hot and ready to be served when she arrives.

OUR HOLLYHOCK

In the garden Barbara called my attention to a gurgling sound that was coming from a rockery that housed a tap. Testimony to the leak came from the surrounding plants, which were as happy as Larry. I hurried to shut off the valve. Barbara saw euro signs in the damp earth (like dollar signs, only worse!) The repair is a job for Slavic on Saturday.



Late evening I watched a Western entitled The Homesman - the strangest movie! A battered-looking Tommy Lee Jones (who also directed) assists Hilary Swank to escort three mentally-disturbed women across the plains to a refuge in the east. It's a movie where very little is predictable - rewarding rather than easy viewing. It reminded me of the Coen brothers' productions.

ORIENTAL POPPY, ONE OF THREE GROWN BY BARBARA FROM DONATED PLANTS

Jones slept, or tried to, against the background of occasional distressing howls from the unfortunates. She's not into stressful films.



Monday: My English class talked about the Blue Whale phenomenon. A Portuguese youth living in Ireland has died, apparently after taking up the online "challenge". The Portuguese authorities are warning schools of the dangers and investigating numerous reports of self harm arising among followers of the craze. It was created by a Russian student who felt that it was a good way to rid the earth of inferior individuals. I hope he takes some of his own medicine.

SWALLOWTAIL

I watched a 30 minute TV interview in which an unusually hapless Theresa May was flailed after succumbing to party pressure to reverse an unpopular tenet of the newly-issued Conservative manifesto. As dreadful as the Manchester bombing that evening was, both Jones and I reflected that the prime minister must have been grateful to be out of the headlines. It brings to mind the infamous 2001 Jo Moore episode when the UK Labour government adviser suggested that the government publish its bad news in the wake of the attack on the World Trade Centre. Machiavelli would have approved.



Tuesday: After visiting Olhao, just beyond Faro, we tracked back west along the coast to lunch at the Electrico, a favourite snack bar on Faro beach. Sandwiches and a glass of wine are typical fare. However, there's a group of older men for whom the proprietor sometimes prepares a sumptuous meal - not sure how often.



From their conversation and tastes, we speculate that they are professionals of some kind. Over sandwiches, with the dogs at our feet - too hot to leave them in the car - we watched in fascination as a succession of plates and bottles of wine were delivered to their table.



On the way home we stopped at the newly-opened Ikea store that has risen like a giant box midway between Faro and Loule. The site  looks  more like a township than a shopping centre, reached  off the adjacent highway via a confusing series of traffic circles.

WHERE DOES ONE START?

All around the warehouse-like Ikea building, construction continues apace. Signs inform visitors that more than 100 shops and a multiplex are coming. We didn't explore the store, contenting ourselves with coffees (once staff had shown us how to use the self-service coffee machines).



Wednesday: Carlos the vet arrived at 13.00 to vaccinate the dogs - that's our nine and two of our neighbours'. In preparation we had buried tranquilizer pills in the three orphans' breakfasts and managed to enclose the little dogs in the south patio. Even so, tranquilized they were not. Between us we managed to secure them all long enough to be jabbed, and for Sparky to have her problematic ears treated. (The improvement is encouraging.)



Then we bribed the rest to sit still long enough for Carlos to inject them, having blocked off the door to the kennel to prevent Bobby seeking refuge there. It was done in an hour. Proof of rabies vaccination is required for the renewal of dog licences.

GIANT FENNEL

Thursday: After our walk I got Jones to check my torso and neck for ticks. She found none. Ten minutes later I plucked one off the back of my head. And ten minutes after that I plucked another off my crown. How on earth do they get there? I always wear a hat outside the house. I'm sick of ticks. Jones is sick of hay fever. So is Jodi, who gave me my weekly tune-up today. She says she needs a double daily dose of allergy suppressant in order to function.



I trimmed Russ. At this time of year he needs trimming at least once a fortnight. Russ was never intended by his genes to endure Algarve summers. He was designed for cooler climes. He's the sweetest guy, albeit a bit strange. His den is the spare room. When I come downstairs, he emerges. When I go upstairs, he returns.



Later we went to the Browns  for a joint house-warming cum farewell to our old friends and long-standing Sunday co-brunchers, Sadie and John. The couple has decided, after decades in Portugal, to return to the UK.



Sadie's in her 80s, John in his 90s. For their company and reminiscences, we thank them. We shall miss them. Go well!

SOME OF THE GANG AT THE FAREWELL

Letter from Espargal: 19 May 2017

Friday: After shopping in Loule we stopped at the snack bar in Funchais for  a wine and sandwich lunch. A large local family had gathered around the other tables on the patio, mainly just to drink coffee and chat. They included a young girl and her tearaway small brother.



Accompanying them was a fat little bitch. The dog concluded that any crumbs of comfort were likely to be forthcoming from our table, beside which she settled herself in anticipation. We obliged with lengths of chewy that she consumed appreciatively.



The kids followed the dog cautiously over and, after ascertaining that we could speak Portuguese, confided that the animal's name was "Funny". Funny was evidently about to have puppies; these, the three-year old indicated with a grubby finger, were in her tummy. He seemed to be up to speed on the birds and the bees.



"Will you sell them?" I asked in my innocence."No, we'll kill them!" his sister replied matter of factly. "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings....!" We thought it expedient to change the subject by buying ice-creams all round. When the group left, wandering off down the road, Funny stayed with us. I presume she knew her way home.



Jones, who has devoted her spare hours to weeding, returned to the house late pm to find her phone missing. (Strange expression: "to find something missing"). Blog followers will know that Jones's phones have a habit of taking themselves off (although this is not a phenomenon I mean to dwell on now). When I dialled her number, a ringing sound came from the carport; more specifically, from the weed-filled wheelbarrow. It surrendered the phone none the worse for wear.

LUCIA (left) with newly canonised JACINTA (centre) FRANCISCO (right)

Saturday: at Fatima the Pope declared two young shepherd visionaries, Jacinta and Francisco Marta, to be among the saints in heaven before flying back to Rome - the Pope, that is. I puzzle endlessly over the apparitions and "revelations" at Fatima. I can find no sensible explanation for them. The children, who were at one point taken into custody by a government official, resisted threats of  the severe punishment they faced unless they retracted their claims. The two siblings died shortly afterwards in the 1918 influenza pandemic. Their cousin, Lucia, entered a convent, where she lived to nearly 100.



At Valapena Slavic and I spent the morning burning off numerous piles of cuttings. The conditions were ideal. There was hardly a breath of air and the bombeiros, whose blessing is required, were happy for me to go ahead after last week's rains. (With temps in the high 20s looming, the burning-off season is approaching an end.)



We don't burn any wood that is worth saving. Branches of substance are sawn into logs for next winter's fires. But for the masses of weeds bearing millions of seeds there is really no option but burning. If left, the piles merely become a summer fire hazard and a nursery for next season's weed crop.



In the afternoon we were joined by Fintan and Pauline's visiting Irish relatives, who were staying in the family holiday villa in the village. They wanted to meet the dogs; and young Max, who is obsessed with working vehicles of all descriptions, wanted to inspect the tractor.



The dogs were delighted to be met although Mello, one of the orphans, disgraced herself (not for the first time) by nipping any unwary ankles. (Mello, having been offered refuge herself, now does her best to deter other callers.)



We took the family on a leisurely tour of the park, following my perimeter paths, before four of them clambered aboard the tractor box for a cautious five-minute circuit of the field. It was a steep ride down and a steep ride back up.



My passengers were impressed, as they clung on, by the ability of tractors to traverse such awkward terrain. Indeed, they are marvellous vehicles, suffering only - like their drivers - from a sometimes fatal lack of discretion.



Undressing for a shower afterwards, I found a tick supping on my upper inner left thigh. The creature was promptly flushed down the loo but too late to prevent damage;  I knew the bite would flare up and itch like mad; they always do. The fault was mine. That morning I'd failed to put on the tight gaiters that I habitually wear around my trouser cuffs on our walks to keep ticks at bay.



Sunday: The tick bite flamed up dramatically. Jones suggested that I should see a doctor. I declined. We inevitably get bitten by ticks several times each summer, and apply one or other muti to the bite to mitigate the swelling and the itchy days that follow.



Monday: My English class was delighted by the Portuguese entrant's weekend win at the Eurovision song contest in Kiev. They were familiar with the singer, Salvador Sobral, and the ballad, which was composed by his sister. At the end of the competition, the pair returned to the stage to sing it together. Although it seemed to me to be nothing special, it won by a mile, both the popular vote and the jury's decision. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymFVfzu-2mw )



Sobral's comments afterwards generated some controversy. He described most pop fare as musical fast food, declaring that songs should come from the heart. I can't argue with that. Two saints and a Eurovision victory in one weekend have left the Portuguese a little light-headed. They may well be enjoying a little schadenfreude as well; the Spanish entry came stone last!



Tuesday: While undergoing a medical check-up, I drew the swelling tick bite to the doctor's attention, earning a ticking off for my negligence, a brief lecture on bacterial infections and a course of anti-biotics. (Barbara's nephew, Bevan, who suffered a grave dose of listeriosis after eating contaminated cheese, continues to make a slow recovery in New York with the assistance of his parents.)



Wednesday: The tick bite swelling has diminished and with it the overpowering urge to scratch it. On our morning walk I removed a tick that was busy scaling my trousers and took another off Mini, crushing them between two stones. The season is upon us. We lunched in Alte before I had my weekly session with Jodi. Natasha cleaned the house. She has as much work as she can cope with. On occasion she has to ask a friend to assist her with jobs that she simply can't fit in. Barbara spent much of the afternoon in Casa Nada with friends who were interested in May's remaining clothes. In the evening I took the car down to Vitor, who is to service it tomorrow.



Thursday: A trumpestuous wind is battering the house and ripping the ripening carobs, plums and almonds from the trees. After braving the conditions to walk the dogs (yet another tick!), we have taken refuge inside. There's a mountain of ironing that awaits and it's my turn to do it.

Letter from Espargal: 12 May 2017

VENUS EMERGES FROM THE CLOUDS

Saturday: Dawned overcast. Slavic arrived at eight and set about clearing the heavily overgrown "gorge" that slopes down to Idalecio's cottage at the bottom of the park. After tending to the dogs, I managed one cuttings removal-run on the tractor before drizzle drove us to seek shelter on the front patio. In the interim, I reset Slavic's phone, which had picked up an intrusive advertising bug since undergoing Llewellyn's miracle cure a fortnight earlier. The drizzle persisted. We called it an early day.

THE PARK IS AWASH WITH LARKSPURS

Seur, a Spanish-based courier, emailed me to say they would be delivering two pairs of work trousers ex Amazon on Monday. The delivery address placed us miles away from Espargal and bore only half of our postal code ( presumably because Seur's software doesn't accommodate 7-digit Portuguese system).

AN AZURE-WINGED MAGPIE AT THE BIRD BOWL

Via their website I tried to change the delivery to a pick-up from the depot - as suggested. Waste of time! Then I spent an hour phoning the contact number; this subjects callers to multiple layers of menu, muzak and messages before cheerfully cutting them off. After my third attempt, I gave up. They can keep the bloody trousers.

CENTAURY

In the afternoon, the visiting family of our Irish neighbours came up to inspect some of the fine dresses and other apparel left by May. (Her house is due to be sold shortly.) From their exuberant conversation, I concluded that they were having a great time. Barbara reported that the young ladies concerned were delighted with their finds. May had possessed both excellent taste in clothes and the means to indulge it.



Sunday: At brunch a neighbour, Liz, wondered if my Berlin family could help her obtain more information about a certificate and badge presented to her nursing-sister aunt by the German Red Cross in 1937. (More info in due course, Cathy.) It would seem that she received the award for looking after German soldiers in the Spanish civil war. The certificate, shown above, has since been separated from the accompanying badge (apparently because an inheritor objected to the swastika it bore). I note that these badges are now advertised for sale online at substantial prices.

THIS MAY HAVE BEEN THE BADGE CONCERNED

Monday: My English class, after briefly addressing the French election, focused on an elderly German pensioner who had clambered down a cliff at a remote Algarve beach to rescue a stranded dog. Unfortunately, the old fellow was all but exhausted by his efforts and in no state to save either himself or the dog. As the tide was coming in, the pair were both in danger. Happily a passer-by tipped off the maritime police who jet-skied to the rescue. After check-ups, both pensioner and dog were pronounced none the worse for wear and the dog was returned to its owner. If only more stories ended this way!



Mid-way through the lesson I got a call from the Seur courier, who arrived in Loule shortly afterward with my trousers. I am pleased with them. They cost £20 each, I confided to Jones. I thought them a bargain but she says that's quite expensive (especially for tractoring around in). Although one can obtain trousers more cheaply locally, they inevitably have to be taken up as my legs are shorter than theirs.



I watched a late-night movie entitled Parker, featuring Jason Statham, a hero whose muscular exploits shame softies like Rambo. As much as I enjoyed the film, I found it hard to concentrate as the mosquito season was underway and little blighters loved my expensive new mozzie repellent.

MIST IN THE VALLEY

The following morning I found the water-barrels beneath the upper patio spouts swimming in mosquito larvae. I had no compunction in emptying both barrels into the garden, with a vengeful "eat dirt you little bastards!". Man, but I don't like mozzies. They don't seem to bother Jones. But I can't sleep if there's one buzzing around my head. I have to turn the lights on and zap it.



Monday evening: As we sat around the patio table, our farmer neighbour, Armenio, arrived with a bucket of loquats, enough to feed the village. We have a couple of depitting hours around the dining room table ahead of us.

ARMENIO'S POPPIES

Tuesday: We laboured in the garden, trimming, strimming and and tractoring off loads of cuttings. The forecast is for rain on the morrow, lots of it.



Over supper I put on another (Amazon) movie, Hell or High Water, winner of numerous accolades. That to say, I watched it and Jones kept half an eye/ear on it. She prefers films with happy endings as she gets too involved in heist movies for her own comfort. I was impressed. It's a heist movie with a soul.



Wednesday: Pally's unrelenting barking suggested to us (correctly) that he had come across another hedgehog in the park. Pally is an incorrigible, unapologetic hunter. By the time we arrived he had done his three-legged utmost to dislodge the little animal which, predictably, had simply curled itself into a spiky ball.



With bucket and gloves - and some care - we transferred the hedgehog to a more congenial location. It would be lovely to have hedgehogs in the park. Sadly, they're not compatible with Pally.

PHOTOGRAPHING THE POPPIES IN ARMENIO'S YARD

Late morning I took the car in to Loule to have new tyres fitted. While the tyre man set to work, Jones and I wandered down the road with Prickles & Ono to a snack bar for time-passing refreshments.

OUR TRAVELLING COMPANION, ONO - 17 & STILL GOING STRONG(ISH)

On my return I found the job done. However the boss said he couldn't check the steering alignment until I had renewed the rotula (patella) on the front, right wheel suspension. I've done my best to learn common Portuguese car parts but rotulas were new to me.



We paused at Vitor's workshop on the way home to learn more. Vitor pointed out the rubber bearing concerned. It will be replaced next week when the car goes in for its annual service. That's the first time in eight years that I've had to replace any part other than light bulbs.

PROMPT SERVICE FROM VITOR AND FERNANDO

The promised rain arrived mid-afternoon, first by way of drizzle, followed by a downpour and occasional showers. The garden loved it. The weeds were exultant. And to be sure, the country needs more rain before summer. Neighbours expecting family from the UK were not as thrilled. We are promised more intermittent showers for the next two days.



The country-wide deluge coincides with the much-anticipated arrival in Portugal of the Pope for the 100th anniversary celebrations of the apparitions at Fatima; Papa is to mark the occasion by canonising two of the shepherd children visionaries. Motorists planning to attend are being warned to park with care as the temporary dirt car parks created for the occasion might morph into a merciless morass of miry, mucky mud.



The main story on the evening Portuguese news is the breakdown at Lisbon airport of the pumping system that supplies fuel to aircraft.  The arrivals hall is a turbulent sea of confusion and misery. Twenty seven flights have been cancelled and scores delayed. There are days when I'm ever so glad to be sitting at home rather than revelling in the romance of travel.

THE MADEIRA FLOWER FESTIVAL from DAVID & DAGMAR in FUNCHAL

Thursday: Sunshine and showers! Up to Benafim for fuel, coffees, recycling and a parcel from the post office. The parcel contains two jars of aloe vera face cream for Barbara. There are days when she peers in the mirror and sighs. For myself, I don't need to peer in the mirror. I never saw anything in it that much pleased me. Time to work on the blog!

FLOWER MAIDENS AT THE FESTIVAL