Letter from Espargal: 8/9 June 2017

It was Slavic last Saturday morning who pointed out to me that my scarifier had lost a limb. Indeed, the heavy metal arm had broken midway along its length, leaving the blade somewhere in the field. The jutting stub brought to mind a man chopped off at the knee (if you can imagine a 7-legged metal plough-man).

FROM THE ARCHIVE

It took us the best part of 30 minutes, after Slavic had finished strimming in the park, to find the missing piece in the tumbled earth, a task we supported with cold beers. There are occasions, especially on hot and weary afternoons, when beer serves to improve one's vision. Saturday was one such. If proof were required, Slavic had taken only a few sips before he spotted the missing piece right in the corner of the plot.



The following day I took the scarifier down to Vitor, who had offered to help. He pointed out that the metal had fractured along the line of a previous weld. To be sure, the implement was well into middle age by the time I acquired it at a discount from the tractor dealer in Benafim. Vitor said the best course of action was to replace the whole arm, a task he undertook on my behalf.

INTRICATE SPIDER'S WEB, ATTACHED TO SEVERAL GARDEN PLANTS

In this he had no luck; the manufacturers informed him that the model had long since been discontinued. Instead, Vitor directed me to a specialist welding firm at Cerca Velha, high in the hills between Paderne and Benafim, to which we wound our way with instructions to talk to Arsenio.  We found Arsenio and his mate hard at work amidst a welter of dismantled machinery. Evidently, their services are in high demand. Arsenio took a disapproving look at the previous welder's effort. Come back Friday, he said with the authority of a man who can do things. We will.



Still on the mending front, a road repair team has been busy replacing worn sections of asphalt on the main road into town. We had watched curiously as a couple of yellow- vested workers carrying long GPS-readers first marked the road in anticipation. Then a convoy of heavy vehicles shambled and clanked into action: vehicles to tear up the old surface, vehicles to carrying away the detritus, vehicles to spew out new asphalt, vehicles to pack it down - and more vehicles for whatever. The team was efficient, directing traffic around the areas under repair and resurfacing several hundred metres a day. They were nearly finished the job when somebody else's road called and they clanked off again.



In spite of our best efforts it's been a tough week on the tick front. Sprays, belts and gaiters proved equally ineffective against a tick that somehow concealed itself in my underpants one morning before Jones pronounced the rest of me a tick-free zone. Of its presence I knew nothing although I was aware of an itchy bump that grew itchier and bumpier as the day progressed, right on the crack of my butt.  The moment came, out with the dogs in the park, when the intensity of the itch drove me to investigate. There was no option but to drop my pants and feel around. There I found the little bugger, still guzzling away. Horrors! I was being eaten alive. It was his first meal and his last!



As if to add insult to injury, as I was about to step into the shower the following evening I saw yet another tick emerge from my undies on the floor. The wretches are impossible. It's time for action. I'm going to hack back the bushes along our walk, a desecration of nature that will inevitably upset my wife. Sorry, but I've had ticks up to eyebrows, literally.



In my English class, we talked about living wills. The subject didn't go down well, as though somehow seeming to hasten our final hours. One woman refused point blank to participate. As we arrived back in Espargal afterwards, we were waved down by Portuguese neighbours who passed over two large, light cardboard boxes delivered by a courier in our absence. The neighbours were as curious as we were as to their contents. So we opened one, extracting a gripper that could barely have occupied 1% of the volume.



Talk about a mountain giving birth to a mouse. We were astonished at the wasteful scale of packaging (although it will certainly be recycled). The parcels had come from Spain - ordered from Germany by my sister, who said that she'd been charged only 6 euros for their dispatch, a bargain!. Thank you, sister.



I received a call from Ana at the parish office, who was renewing the dog licences. She said several of the dogs' passports were incomplete. They required the features of each animal had to be filled in - breed, colour, type of coat and the like. This is normally done by the vet who issues the passport when the dog is first vaccinated. The details were lacking for the three orphans who'd had an unconventional introduction to domesticity. So I took up photos of the threesome to show Ana, who helpfully filled in the necessary.

PRICKS, SETTLED DOWN FOR THE NIGHT

One night we watched Jackie, the story of Jacqueline Kennedy's struggle to come to terms with the death of her husband and the events that followed. The movie received rave reviews. Yet, as so often, we were both disappointed, especially by the audio. Not even our new speaker system served to make the dialogue clear. Jones decided half way that bed was more appealing and left it to me to recount any highlights the following day.

SCABIUS & LARKSPUR

The blog is coming to you early. This Thursday the people of the United Kingdom are going to the polls. I don't expect to get much sleep tonight, at least not until the result is clear. Although we've been following the campaign closely, we are little the wiser. The outcome, apart from the political implications for the country and the fearsome Brexit negotiations to come, will mightily affect the pound and the income of many thousands of expats with sterling pensions. As the man said: the times, they are a-changing!