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!
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