This is a shot of dusk in Espargal masquerading as a dawn, justifying itself on the pretence that a dusk in one part of the world is a dawn in another. It's just a question of one's point of view. This week, as advised by the doc, I've been taking lots of rest and avoiding exertion.
Jones has spent her spare time, as usual, sprucing up her garden and trying to undo the damage that Pally has wrought in the shrubbery. These days she turns the hose on him. Better that he root around in the park, bark-barking as he goes, where he can beat up the undergrowth all he wishes. The weather bureau reports that we have just experienced the hottest, driest spring since 1931. I don't suppose that will much bother Donald.
This blog has few pretensions other than to display some of the pictures that we took during Cathy's visit. Here she is on the couch with Bobby in a mutual adoration session. Bobby is particular about who enters the property and may not make you immediately welcome but once you've won him over, he's your friend for life.
The doves like to size up the territory before they fly down to the bird feeder - really just an excuse for the picture! Midweek we drove to Faro to get a new (Via Verde) transponder. This useful little device - and the contract that goes with it - enables motorists to use Portuguese toll-roads, airport parking and the like without stopping to take tickets or to pay at the exit. One's bank account is billed automatically. So far it's worked like a charm.
On Cathy's last evening, we took sun-downers to the upper patio to watch, well, the sun go down and philosophise on the good old days - whenever they were . Although the solstice is well passed, the orb still hangs around till close to 21.00. With a bottle of vinho verde in support and in the absence of mosquitoes, it's as pleasant a way to pass the time as any.
Jones snapped away with the camera, taking fine shots of Benafim lighting up...
and the distant wind turbines over Messines. I'm a fan of wind turbines, even though they don't do migrating birds any favours. A world with more wind turbines and fewer chimneys would suit me well - that's excluding our own chimney.
The best I could do was to snap the ladies in silhouette as they discussed the finer points of taking memorable photos at dusk. Neither my wife nor my sister was entirely pleased with the pictures I took of them. Nor were they mollified when I informed them that I had only once been pleased myself with a photograph taken of me, and that was a poor likeness.
As you see below, on a glorious summer evening O Paraiso's garden setting is as good as it gets. When the wind drops to a gentle zephyr and the temperature dips down to the mid-twenties, the restaurant offers delightful al fresco country dining. You won't find tenderer turkey steaks or mouthwateringer mushroom sauce - best consumed with a bottle of Casal Garcia!
A shattering crash one afternoon led us to the bathroom where we discovered mysterious shards of glass scattered around the floor. At first I thought that one of the double-glazed windows had lost its inner pane.
But on closer inspection the culprit turned out to be a bathroom cupboard whose hinges (since removed) had decided after 15 years to relieve themselves of their burden. The chip in the bath rim testified to the route taken by the pane to the floor. Cathy and Jonesy cleaned up. I did something else useful although it doesn't immediately come to mind. Probably, it was the ironing. I've been doing a fair bit with one eye on Wimbledon.
The black cats share Casa Nada with the lizards and the spiders. Once they've been fed, they like to take the evening sun.
This succulent took Cathy's eye as she watered the garden. Much to Barbara's irritation, she was unable to recall its new name immediately It used to be known as oliveranthus but has subsequently - as we discovered after a fair bit of googling - been recast as Echeveria harmsii.
This rider and his horse turned up for a little refreshment during the course of our expat Sunday brunch. We were concerned about the horse's pronounced limp. From the restaurateur (an equestrian himself) we learned that the limp resulted from a tendon injury that had already been surgically treated, and that it grew worse rather than better with lack of exercise. Fair enough!
I thought I might wind up with this award-winning picture of the sunset. (Everybody and everything I read about these days is described as "award-winning" although the awards themselves are seldom specified. While working as a journalist in London, I annually attended a vinous ceremony at which a group of South African vintners awarded themselves appropriate prizes. Journalists were, of course, liberally watered for their equally liberal coverage of the event.
But, returning to my theme, I subsequently took this even better photo myself.
Fim!
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