Eight-thirtiesh each morning we set out on our morning walk through the hills. Most days we are two humans and seven dogs although we now encourage (3-legged) Pally to join us - he's growing fat and needs the exercise - and Prickles occasionally comes too, at least as far as the top gate. Prickles fails to see the point of exercise.
Midway we pause for a tick-check and to take in the view to the coast. We give the horizon a mark out of ten for clarity. This one is about a seven. In Madeira, the horizon is generally a pencil-sharp 10. We hope to be back there in October.
If the wind is from the east, the airliners on approach to Faro drift in low over our heads. From the winglets one can tell Airbuses from Boeings. We stop to stare up at them. In my dreams I'm a pilot and have been for as long as I can remember. I made my first flight at the age of 10 in a Dakota DC3, a noisy, twin-prop stalwart of regional air travel, now found mainly in books. Although the turbulent flight over the Drakensburg had my fellow passengers groping for sick bags, it inspired me to fly. For better or worse, the Air Force Gymnasium failed to recognise my potential.
On Friday, after a couple of hours of UK election result-racked sleep, we went to fetch the welded plough arm from Arsenio at Cerca Velha. En route we stopped for coffee at a new pastelaria in Alte. Inside we found Marisa, a feisty, heavily-tattooed young woman who had worked at the Hamburgo last summer. The new enterprise was the brainchild of herself and her partner. They had barely served us coffee and nut cake when three women walked in.
One of them was evidently in the process of having her hair done. It glittered with mysterious metal thingies that were presumably an important part of the process. I confess to an occasional habit of addressing strangers in coffee bars. Leaning across, I asked her politely in my best Portuguese if she could reveal from which planet she came, a question that caused herself and her companions some surprise and considerable mirth.
She had to look ugly now, the tin lady responded, in order to look beautiful later. Not ugly, I assured her, just different, which seemed to cheer her up. (I sometimes reflect on our relentless pursuit of beauty, an elusive target at the best of times, although not a theme for the present blog.)
Having wished the lady and her companions good day, and Marisa every success with the pastelaria, we headed back to the car 50 metres away on the pavement. If the pastelaria has a drawback, it's the lack of easy parking. Moreover, right beside it is another newish enterprise, the bicycle cafe, whose customers face the same problem.
They join half a dozen similar businesses that cater for the town's many tourists as well as locals. There should be visitors enough to keep them all busy, in the summer months at least. From Alte it's 20 minutes to Cerca Velha. There, Arsenio showed me the preparatory work he had done on the scarifier arm (that should have been ready the previous evening). But he hadn't got around to welding it. He could do it straight away, he told me, but it would be too hot to remove until the afternoon. We said we'd come back another day.
STRIMMED & RAKEDSaturday: Andre strimmed and Slavic raked the strimmings. He must have collected 20 barrels full. The tractor took load after load to the cuttings heaps in the park. I called the bombeiros in Loule to ask if we could still burn the remains. In principle, yes - the fireman told me - BUT not today; the fire risk was too high. With no rain in sight and temps already climbing well into the 30s, I doubt that further opportunities will arise.
Although the park is much improved by the strimming, it hardly compares with the pitch-perfect surface that our neighbours, David and Sarah, have produced 100 metres away. They did it with the assistance of two donkeys belonging to Ivan, a German expat who is setting up a donkey outings business near Paderne. He had walked the beasts an impressive two hours up the river to Espargal to graze them. David further obliged by delivering a trailerful of grass strimmings to Ivan's donkey base.
WHERE'D IT GET TO?Sunday: Pally, as though in revenge for the ills inflicted on him by society, has set about methodically destroying Barbara's garden. He gives excited little barks as he roots out low-growing plants in a frantic search for his holy grail. Daily, Jones comes to me with a distraught tale of yet another devastated rockery. I have offered to erect a low fence around the garden. She says it's not a fence she wants but sympathy. Hmmm! Sympathy is unlikely to deter Pally.
GOTTA BE HERE SOMEWHEREMonday brought my last English lesson of the term, on the plague of wild boar rooting up the Alentejo. There, farmlands deserted by younger folk seeking an easier life are reverting to nature, and in many areas the pigs now rule - echoes of Animal Farm. (My hunter pupil) Ignacio said he'd shot 14 before the season closed in February and he wasn't permitted to shoot any more until it opened again in August.
HAND-FEEDING BARRIBefore the lesson we stopped at Lidl where I like to eye the specials while Jones gets the groceries. Idly, I gave myself a couple of squirts with a perfume tester as I often do in airport (so-called) duty-free shops. It was an error of reeking proportions. The suffocating stench of cheap scent followed me down the aisle. I would have been shown the door of a budget brothel by any self-respecting madam. Jones wrinkled her nose in disgust and ordered me to the bathroom.
Tuesday we treated our electronics guru, Peter Kenyon, to lunch at the Funchais snack bar after he helped us to diagnose a problem with our TV reception - arising, it emerged, from a faulty DVD player. Peter is a fan of two-wheeled transport. He has just added an American battery-powered motorbike to his conventionally-powered Honda, one that looks something like this model from Zero in California:
Such battery-powered bikes are silent and boast phenomenal acceleration although their range is limited. However, it wasn't his motorbikes that accounted for the broken wrist visible in the previous picture. That came came from a nasty tumble when he lost control of his battery-assisted bicycle on a gravelly corner a fortnight ago. Until it's healed he won't be riding anything.
NEARLY HOMEWednesday dawned grey and cool (ahead of torrid weather forecast for the rest of the week). I'd just emerged from a Jodi back tune-up in Alte when I had a call from a courier who wanted to hand over the workshop creeper I'd ordered from Amazon to thank Vitor the mechanic for his many services.
The timing was great. We met up with the courier in Benafim a few minutes later. Thence to Cerca Velha to fetch my welded plough arm and finally to FNAC in Guia to get a new CD player. I dropped the creeper and the welded arm off at Vitor's workshop on the way home, snatched 30 winks and installed the new CD player. That's what I call a productive and satisfying day.
30 WINKS WITH SAUSAGENatasha, whom we found still hard at work on our return home, had reason to be proud of her son's recent gymnastic performance. With the first of two leaps in the Portuguese national gymnastic championships, Alex had led his age group. But he'd landed badly in his second and final attempt, blowing his chances of the title. This was taken by his close friend and main rival instead. The pair of them dominate the junior sport.
Thursday is as hot and oppressive as forecast. We returned bathed in perspiration from our morning walk. Mello refreshed herself in her newly rejuvenated (plastic bowl) pool.
Now I am at work on the blog. A gentle waft of cool air washes across me from the air conditioner above. I have offered to do the ironing and anything else that doesn't involve leaving the study or, at least, not for more than a few minutes.
One task will be to gather up all our old movie videos - the new CD player doesn't take videos - and find a home for them, possibly the retirement home at Monte Palhagueira. Jones is concerned, as ever, about her garden and is plunging into it regardless of the weather. With luck it will be a nice, quiet day.
VALAPENA SUNSET
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