Letter from Espargal: 28 July 2017

This dozy Jones dawn with wafting will-o-the-wisp skeins of cloud is for real. For what's it's worth, I don't photoshop our pictures. The only photo software I have is Google's (now retired) free Picasa app. What we get is what you see, occasionally with a smidgen more light.



Sunday evening we joined neighbours at Salir's Medieval Fair. For this three-day event staged under billowing canopies in the narrow streets of the old town, Salir imports a range of appropriate exotica, including camels, birds of prey, fire-eaters, jugglers, Arab (-looking) musicians and (not terribly seductive) belly dancers. Scores of stall holders ply their trade on the side-lines, offering foods and familiar nick-knacks. Diners line up at kiosks for tickets entitling them to drinks and victuals. Benches (if available) and bales of straw provide seating.



These are Mike and Liz Brown, Espargalians who recently sold their cottage in the village and moved into Benafim - (pronounced BENNA-FING). Mike is distinguished from me in public only by his predilection for colourful waistcoats, a detail generally lost on the locals. Our similar stature combined with identical tastes in dark-rimmed specs, wide-brimmed hats and grizzly grey beards means that sins of one may be visited upon the other.



Tuesday dawned to the frightening stink of burning timber. A thin cloud of smoke loitered in the valley, masking Benafim. We scanned the internet for news of fires. It would seem that the smoke came from an overnight blaze in a neighbouring council. Conflagrations have been raging in the north of Portugal and, as you might be aware, along the French Riviera, where thousands were evacuated. South European summers grow ever hotter and drier, so dry this year that Rome is going thirsty and the Vatican has shut down its fountains. Holy water takes on a new meaning.



From our mid-walk viewpoint, we paused to survey the scene. The view is normally across a succession of fuzzy green hills to the towns on the coast. In the smoky murk we could see only as far as the electricity pylon further down the hill. We were able to assure neighbours that the village was not in any danger. The lingering smoke was liable to blow away as soon as the wind got up.



Our grey-white cat, Dearheart, likes to refresh herself at the bucket into which we run the warming shower-water. From time to time she leans too heavily upon the rim, spilling the contents across the floor. Dutifully, I draw Jones's attention to the mess that her cat has caused.



Except when she's bashing Squinty (her nervous cousin), bringing terrified tailless lizards into the house or squabbling with Ono & Mini over bed-occupancy rights, butter wouldn't melt in Dearheart's mouth. Apart from occasional minor disputes, she and her fellow felines live amicably enough with us and the dogs. I suspect that given the choice, Jones would be a cat person. At heart I'm a dog person.



For some weeks I've been receiving junk emails that purport to come from women (with names like Sheryl, Tracy and Tammy) and  who accuse me (falsely) of stalking them, hassling them, sending them personal photos and the like. I note that the emails are sourced mainly in domains associated with mass marketing. I can only think that they are phishing for responses - with a view to building up their spam lists.



The picture shows two ants working together to haul a cat biscuit up the wall and on to the patio. I am fascinated by this degree of instinctive joint action among creatures endowed with so little individual intelligence. In so far as they were aware of anything, they must have been aware of each other's presence and efforts. I wonder what the lesson is for us.



This stick insect appeared early in the week on the front wall of the house where it has settled in beneath a lamp. After several days acclimatizing, it has now started attaching little red dots - eggs, I take it - to the wall. We come across lots of little stick insects in the park. They are quite invisible until they move. But I've not seen one this big before.



Speaking of little red dots, Jones and I are both still sporting more than an Andy Warhol poster. Such eruptions afflict me every summer, the moment the temperature hits C30*. This year Jones too has produced an outcrop, as though in sympathy. We are not sure of the cause. She strips the bed and washes the linen two or three times a week. Fearful that bed bugs might be adding to our woes, we have sprayed the mattress (and a good deal else) with Biokill. So far the itchy bumps don't seem to have noticed.

FREEDOM IS.....

Seven o'clock, after walking the dogs and watering the garden, we sit down on the front patio to enjoy a glass of wine and rice biscuits smeared with goats' cheese. The dogs sprawl on the cobbles around us, ever alert for a snack. There are generally messages to catch up on, with Mini's assistance.



One message (plus photo, below), complaining (justifiably) of the heat, came from Lisa, during a stop over at Faro airport. Lisa, the daughter of commuting Irish parents,  unwinds at their home in the village when she can.



She gets around, generally up front.



And while I'm name-dropping, let me mention our other visitors, Anita and Chloe, the daughter and granddaughter of neighbours, Fintan & Pauline. If you look carefully at the poor picture below, you will see a beaming Chloe (squid kebab please) bottom left and beyond the blue chair, her Aunt Anita (who was not hiding from the camera, but demonstrating a dance move called the Dab - don't ask me). The supper venue was O Paraiso, a popular country restaurant, especially on warm summer evenings. Regrettably, most of our company were disappointed with their meal.



Friday morning: the smoke has cleared. The horizon is a clear distant line separating the sea and the sky. It's hot. Ono staggers around our morning walk.  Time to pause for a picture.



Thus do we pass our days. The smoke-scented air has made for vivid sunsets. Jones hurried upstairs to to capture these from the patio. I love the colours, warm enough to embrace. If I could paint, such scenes as these I would render.



The long good night.
In a free and fair election, the lemmings have voted for an end to EU lemmigration.



Going!
What's to be decided now is where to soar into a bright, new future.



Going!
Follow me to the cliffs!



Gone!
One giant leap for lemmingkind!

If this is Christmas, I'm a turkey!

Letter from Espargal: 23 July 2017

The sun looms large on another week. Jones rises at 05.00 to meditate on the skies and to take such pictures as these. I remain in bed in order not to disturb the dogs.



There's a lot of skies in this week's blog. These two Jones photos were taken from our hilltop towards the end of the day. I think the upper one is brilliant. If it were in an art gallery, learned critics would write impressively turgid analyses and authoritative guides would explain the symbolism to hushed groups of earnest students.



Independence Day. Martian airships gather for the final assault on earthlings. I heard a knowledgeable fellow on the radio speculating that humans wouldn't last another thousand years. And that, he said, might be no bad thing for the planet. I guess we'll never know.



Back at ground level, life has continued more mundanely. I spent two sweaty hours hacking back the heavy bush that has been squeezing our paths. The hard work lies in hand-to-hand combat with the network of tough, thorny creeper that has infested much of the shrubbery. It fights to the finish.



No, Jones is not cleaning the kennel or checking for spider webs. She's hand-feeding Barri, who has made herself comfortable inside. Moral support comes from Mini. We sometimes wonder how hungry Barri would have to get before she would be driven to feed herself but we're not brave enough to find out.



We had neighbours around to watch the Wimbledon men's finals. One of them suffers from ophidiophobia (also known as ophiophobia or more generally as herpetophobia). [I hope you're impressed!] Midway through the match, Jones called me outside because an unusually large snake was eyeballing Mini on our front patio. I tried to secure it with my grippers but it gave me the finger and vanished in a trice into a thick carpet of vines. I have since ordered snake-tongs from Amazon.



I tried to upload some impressive video (ex a nephew in RSA) of farmers in a tug-of-war with a python that had taken up station in the rear suspension of their bakkie. They had it by the tail. After much heaving, they managed to haul the reluctant reptile out and drag it away from the vehicle. Happily, no pythons in Portugal! (Wordpress says I have to upgrade to their premium package if I want to upload video.)



Slavic and I have been building more walls at the bottom of the garden - in truth, more Slavic than I.



They are really just minor terraces, enclosing trees rooted in the steep banks that tumble down to the lower fence. As well as looking good, the walls serve to retain water in the newly-levelled soil.



Here's a picture I took later when the light was kinder. There's something creative about building walls. I wouldn't ever want a grave stone but I would be happy with a few walls to say: he passed this way. Note how the rocks (along the base) go grey after a few years in the sun.



This is another Jones competition winner, snapped outside the snack bar in Funchais where we lunched when our wall-building was over. One of the great advantages of the venue (apart from its wondrous sandwiches and excellent wines) is that it serves mainly the labouring classes so that patched knees and paint-flecked jeans are the norm. In fact, it's a bit embarrassing to arrive there in anything else.



Our garden is a thing of joy. Who would believe that a world containing flowers as lovely as this could be in such a mess?



Sorry, just can't get away from skies this week. But with skies like these, who would want to? Any critical appreciation should go to Jones.

Letter from Espargal: 14 July 2017

JONES SUNRISE ON ANOTHER TORRID DAY

This has been both an unusually hot and sociable week. Daily, Jones and I compare heat bumps and dab each other's more inaccessible eruptions - if you get my drift. (At least, we think they're heat bumps and not favours from our furry friends.



No such problems for Mello, who dives into her private pool after our morning walk.

MIDWAY VIEWPOINT ON THE MORNING WALK

This week's blog is an unashamed photo-fest. Any snippets of news are accidental.



Friday: We were pleased to be able to return a little hospitality to our neighbours, Idalecio and Natalya. The pair have moved into a delightful cottage, just below our property, adjacent to the accommodation that Idalecio rents to holiday makers. He has spent the last two years restoring his new home from its former ruined and roofless state. Natalia, who works for an estate agency, is as happy to converse in Portuguese or English as in her native Russian.



Saturday: Slavic got on with several jobs including the building of this minor rockery to house Barbara's overflowing succulents on the fringes of the car port. Note the motion-triggered solar lamps that light our way back to the house at night.



Sunday: We sponsored a visit to Zoomarine - a great local attraction - by Slavic, his brother Roslan (centre), and Roslan's visiting family from the Ukraine. Roslan followed Slavic to Portugal to seek a living a few years back (The work Ukrainians previously found in Russia has long since dried up). The visits to Portugal of Roslan's wife and children have been greatly facilitated by the recent removal of EU visitors' visa requirements for Ukrainians.



Monday: We had an evening visit from Lisa (left, daughter of commuting Irish neighbours) and her friend, Arlene. I leave you to work out which of the ladies is an airline pilot and which a scientist with a special interest in "Liquid Phase Exfoliation of Two Dimensional Crystals". (Private Eye readers should turn to Page 94 for an explanation of this process.)

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On such occasions guests are taken on a brief guided tour of the property along the pedestrian circuit through the park, in the company of the hounds. Treats at the top.



Refreshments followed.  With them our visitors had brought a splendiferous cake to celebrate Barbara's birthday (the following day). Jonesy had several attempts at lighting the candles before we opted just to eat it.



As always, the dogs gave our guests a clamorous welcome. Mini, who likes "up close and personal" made herself at home on Lisa's lap -



with the same easy nonchalance as she shared Arlene's.



Afterwards, I was pleased to entertain the ladies to a demonstration of advanced dog training techniques. At last, a chance to display a little natural male authority. (Unless you little buggers sit down, you won't get a chewie!)



For the first time we are reaping an abundant harvest of fruits from the many almond trees that our kindly neighbour, Armenio, has grafted. (Almond stock is hardy and drought resistant, ideal as a platform for grafting fruit). Some trees bear both early- and late-fruiting varieties. There is something special about eating one's very own peaches and plums.



Those we can't consume fresh, Jones stews gently for future consumption. I find they go down best mixed with Lidl's low-fat yoghurt and muesli, along with a sprinkling of linseeds and a sliced banana. I should happily consume such a lunch every day. Jones prefers her home-made yoghurt.



Behold the steps that I have constructed at Jones's bidding to assist the ingress and egress of our regular car travellers, Ono and Prickles. For years Ono has leapt directly on to the back seat. But for some months he has required my supporting hand under his butt or he falls back.

COME ON!

Now into his 18th year, the old fellow is growing understandably stiffer and deafer as well as vaguer (a description that might be applied in other quarters). Even so, he still enjoys his walks and an excellent appetite, as well as a prime position on the bed at night. In truth the two dogs are taking a while to get used to the steps. Both regard them with the greatest suspicion and do their best to jump over them.



Tuesday: This is the official birthday picture (you know, like the queen issues of herself and her brood).  We marked the occasion by joining neighbours for a sandwich and wine lunch at the Primeiro de Maio snack bar in Funchais (which makes the best sandwiches in the world).



And in the evening we took ourselves to dinner at Monte de Eira - a special occasions venue in the hills above Loule. Well, it's not every day that one of us turns....what was it now?



On the way home we stopped at the Hamburgo in Benafim, where Lisa, Arlene and their aviator companions had been dining under the stars. The group had earlier mooted walking back to Espargal (an hour's trek along a narrow, unlit agricultural road) and we thought they might need rescuing, especially as the moon had not yet risen and the valley was pitch dark. (The orb was glorious when it did rise, glimmering huge and gold just above the trees!) In the event, no rescue proved necessary.



Mid afternoon. A truck arrived with two tons of firewood, intended to warm the house next winter - assuming that global warming doesn't do it for us. We provided the crew with cold water (and later beers) as they laboured for two hours in 33 degrees of heat to unload and  stack the consignment in the shed. Our supplier likes to deliver to his regulars in the summer and to reserve pricier winter deliveries for those customers who fail to make early provision.

THE FIGS ARE RIPENING FAST - AND SO ARE THE CAROBS

Wednesday: The car thermometer read C*40 on the way home from my workout with Jodi. It's the first time I've seen it climb into the 40s, and I'd be happy if it were the last. Helicopters are clattering ominously overhead. The next two days look just as evil. Roll on autumn! I can't wait.



Thursday: It's been another stinker. I've dripped and drizzled from every pore. We kept our walk short and sharp. The bigger dogs, panting their discomfort, kept pausing to rest in the shade. I took the clippers to Russ and Barri on our return to give them a little relief. Thank heaven for the air conditioner we installed in the study.



Time to let the sun go down on a scorching week.