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.
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