Saturday we had to choose between the Christmas fairs in Alte and Loule. We preferred the former. In truth it was a modest affair although the vendors did their best to spice it up with seasonal hats and festive fare.
At least the coffee that Dona Rosa served at her cafe on the corner was hot and strong. Dona Rosa has been running her snack bar for as long as anyone can remember. She attends to customers while hubby scrutinises the paper at a table beside the window - although he responds swiftly enough when needed. Back on the main drag we acquired several bottles of Tor wine and an alien succulent that took my fancy. The vendor didn't know its name; nor did I although it appears from similar pictures to be a variety of Haworthia.
Tor is an inconsequential village midway between us and Loule. The relatively new eponymous vineyards are lined up in regiments across the hillside above. Although the Algarve is not known for its wines, the vintners at Tor produce a most acceptable range at a typical €5 a bottle. Their syrah, with an exceptionally heavy 17% alcohol content, is acclaimed and hard to find.
Sunday we waited for the promised rain. It was due to arrive after lunch but, as usual, it was late. All afternoon I received emailed bad-weather warnings from weather bureau. We were fast asleep in bed at 03.00 on Monday morning the bad weather itself arrived.
WIND-BLOWN WATER TUB AND SCATTERED OLIVES
And what a storm it was! Hurricane strength gusts of wind (accompanied by horizontal streams of rain) knocked over the pots, hurled water tubs into the garden, tossed chairs across the patio, terrified the animals - several of them in bed with us - and generally made merry.
The following morning we found the roads paved with fallen olives. They click clack under the car's wheels and are treacherous to walk on - like oiled ball bearings. For our own safety, we've swept up most around the house.
ALOES IN FLOWER IN OUR GARDEN
Monday brought my last English lesson of the year. My class includes three smart women and one fellow who struggles to stay up. The ladies, who like to sit together, enjoy discussing and translating the text of the day - and don't waste any time doing it. But their male companion struggles - and while he flounders, they start gossiping in Portuguese. They're worse than kids. The whole thing becomes more of a circus than a lesson. T'was ever thus.
WAITING BESIDE THE CHURCH
Tuesday we attended the funeral of a neighbour who had died of cancer. Maria Coelho was a woman of much our own age who for years had leaned heavily on a crutch. The workshop of her son, Vitor, is located just below her house and I would chat to her when I took my tractor down to be serviced or when we stopped at the post-boxes nearby.
As is customary at funerals, the great majority of (male) mourners waited outside the church while the family (and most womenfolk) attended the service within. Then all fell in behind the hearse as it made its slow way down the cobbled lanes to the cemetery, led by the priest and an alter server bearing a cross to proclaim a Christian funeral.
The cortege fills the road for the deceased's final journey. Traffic comes to a stop and shops close their doors in respect as the procession passes. I'm not much into funerals but, as they go, there's a lot to be said for the way they're conducted here.
In the afternoon Natasha and I visited the accountant in Benafim. From next year our employee officially becomes an independent worker although in practice very little will change.
RIVER OF MIST BELOW BENAFIM
Wednesday dawned sunny and crisp (and with most welcome news of the Alabama election result). Our nights are cool now, well down in single figures, prompting us to light the wood-burning stove early. Our sunny days reach into the upper teens. It's lovely weather - my kind of weather - and we've a few thankful months of it to come before the next torrid summer.
DOWN THE VALLEY THE MISTY RIVER FLOWS
The paths we follow through the hills are still damp following the downpour, with treacherous greasy stretches awaiting the unwary. I make my way cautiously, with unapologetic walking sticks in either hand, the better to keep gravity at bay.
Jones feared (unnecessarily) after dropping a mini-toothbrush (an interdent brush if you insist) down the basin plug hole that she might have gummed up the works. We could see it lurking low in the pipe, too deep to be seized by pliers or scissors.
Ronald rode to the rescue with a drop of superglue at the end of a stick. Clever fellow! Another beneficiary of the superglue ("Dear Beneficiary": that's how my West African scammers address me) was this ceramic bowl.
The storm had hurled it to the floor on the patio, shattering it into more than a dozen pieces. It's restoration wasn't exactly up to British Museum standards but Jones is not complaining. Nor is the flower occupying it.
Thursday pm. On the way back from a back tune-up with Jodi I was intercepted by a courier with an item I'd ordered from Amazon. It's the second time this week that he and I have met fruitfully on the road. Now, there's a coincidence to reflect on.
JONES DAWN
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