After some thought I have concluded that there's enough rain in this world to go round if only it were more equitably distributed. (Okay, that's true for a lot of other commodities as well!) What prompted this insight was waiting on Monday for the rain (that the weatherman had promised) while watching TV pictures of rescue boats on Houston's flooded highways. The wait was in vain. We had to be satisfied with a scattering of leaden clouds and some distant rumbles of thunder (although heavy rain fell up north, putting a timely end to the wild-fire season).
We fared little better on Tuesday when showers scheduled to arrive over the lunch-hour also failed to materialise. (The weather bureau habitually promises us more rain than we get.) True, some promising clouds gathered in the heavens; they coughed and spluttered, splattering the dusty tractor bonnet like some chesty weather deity clearing its throat. Then, done spattering, they scattered. Jonesy said she could see showers falling in the distance - not that they did us any good. So it's back to watering the garden as usual.
In anticipation of a shower Jones had covered up the figs that have been drying on the front patio table. She needn't have bothered. For the record, the figs - both the black and tan varieties - are delicious, sweet and chewy. Lots of them bear the peck marks of the birds that got to them first. Jones says these ones taste best. I can't say I've noticed the difference.
The figs go well with the medronho and coke sundowners (lots of ice) that we share after a sweaty session of carob or almond harvesting. With the cooler weather that accompanied the clouds, we have started work earlier in the afternoon. The almond crop has excelled itself this year. We reserve a couple of small trees - we have dozens - for ourselves. The rest are picked by grateful neighbours who run a small domestic patisserie business.
Jones gets moral support as she collects - note the handfuls of carobs - from Squinty and Braveheart, the cats that share Casa Nada with spiders, lizards and the occasional guest. The tree on her left leans over a steep bank that makes for challenging collecting. One has to cling on with three limbs like a Himalayan mountaineer while snatching carobs with the fourth.
There's only so much that one can say about bringing in the carob harvest and most of it's been said already. I simply make the point that it continues to take up a lot of our time and will continue to do so at least until the end of September.
RUSSIAN SAGE?
After my frustrating encounter with Portugal's foreign service (The SEF), I wrote a stiff ("Outraged of Tunbridge Wells") letter to the local rag, detailing the time and effort I'd wasted. The editor was sufficiently impressed to place it at the head of the letter column.
JALAPENA - MARVEL OF PERU
Apart from telephones that take forever to answer, the SEF uses computer software that does not permit people to register, can't identify appointment slots (officials have to notify applicants later) and is administered by staff who would all clearly much rather being doing something else.
The rag published a similar letter from another equally-frustrated foreigner who has spent much of her recent life on the phone trying to change the date of an appointment that she couldn't keep. One gathers that the "service" is under-staffed and as almost as frustrated as the foreigners who have to use it. It's hard to know whether bureaucratic jobs attract losers or simply wear workers down.
The antithesis came from Turkish Airlines, on which I've booked Barbara for a flight later in the year. One of the conditions on her ticket was that she should be able to show the reservation credit card at check in. Because the card is mine and I'm not accompanying her, I queried this requirement in an email to the airline. Several days later we received a call from Ankara to assure her that it wouldn't be necessary in her case. This is rare and impressive service.
I'm glad to report considerable success in persuading Barri (so-named because she was born in a "barril") to eat her own meals instead of being hand-fed.
I am not glad to report that Prickles, whose iron-clad bladder was once nominated for the Guinness Book of Records, has started wetting his bed. He has joined Ono on incontinence muti drops twice a day. We don't know Prickles' age as he was already a mature dog when he followed us home from the village square one day. That was over ten years ago, so he's no spring chicken.
This photo, like the one below it, was taken by Jones during her brief evening sojourns beside the talefe (trig marker) at the top of the hill - when she seeks a few moments of peace and quiet and spiritual renewal.
I love her vista pictures, especially when the dying sun bleeds colours all over the horizon. It's not hard to understand why gods traditionally inhabit the heavens and devils the deep.
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