Letter from Espargal: 31 August 2918

MISTY SUNRISE
On this welcome final week of August I am going to do my best to talk about subjects other than Prickles. That my intentions are futile is neither here nor there. Even so, I am going to try. And there's no better place to start in the high carob-picking season than with picking high carobs.



Here you see Jones picking up carobs that I have just knocked down from the tree. Jones is a highly accomplished carob picker-upperer. If she is wearing her Tilley hat rather than her usual peak, it's to ward off falling carobs. From 20 metres up, they hurt. Note how she crouches down. This pose is greatly facilitated by the exercise of joints in places where evolution has missed me out.



So when Braveheart (camouflaged, left of the bucket) and I pick up carobs, I have to kneel rather than crouch. From time to time, I arch my back, toss my kneeling pad forward slightly and collapse on to it once again in order to access more carobs. (Given the rocky ground, the kneeling pad is a saving grace. And given the pressure on whichever hand is supporting me, the gloves are much appreciated.)



So although I'm a qualified carob picker-upperer too, I am not in as much demand as Jones. Still, between us, we have already collected several brimming tubs that we exchange with our farmer friend for fruit and veggies.



As pictured, his latest delivery comprised three boxes of aubergines, one of tomatoes and one of peppers. The only downside to his generosity is that it far exceeds the limits of our consumption. So we feel compelled to go hawking our wares around the neighbours rather than throwing the excess on to the compost heap - a small price to pay for a free supermarket.


COUPLE RETURNING FROM CAROB PICKING
On these missions we take the tractor. I drive slowly and carefully. Jones perches on the side plate, which is not the customary mode of spousal tractor travel in these parts. The usual practice is for hubby to drive and wife to make herself comfortable on the sacks of carobs in the box. Jones does not find this an attractive mode of travel (possibly because we collect our carobs in tubs rather than sacks).



One evening we joined the expats at the home of Helen and Rob, half an hour away in the hills of Cortelha. It is an oasis to which they plan to retire as soon as the Isle of Wight fire service can do without Rob's services and Helen can leave her pupils behind. Beside our partially obscured Dutch neighbours (left), that's Rob's visiting daughter, Kayleigh, at the end of the table and granddaughter, Sophia, teaching me cyber skills.



Sophia took a particular fancy to Jonesy who rather fancied Earnest, the dog. Helen looks on. A few days earlier the family joined us for brunch at the Hamburgo.



For the record, clockwise, there's Junior, (his mother) Kayleigh, Rob and Helen. Just a few years ago, Kayleigh and her brother, Robbie, were both proving themselves adept carob-picking teenagers. These days both are parents. So the times move on and the moon goes round (really just an excuse to show you this fine shot of Jones's!)



At this point I have to bow to the inevitable and address the subject of Prickles, who shows no imminent signs of expiring in spite of the stomach tumour that was recently diagnosed. Having said which, he's given us a few anxious moments.



This blog is being conceived on a Wednesday afternoon as Jones sets out to feed her waifs and Natasha finishes up downstairs. A penetrating yelp from Prickles tells us that he is very much alive and in want of attention. (Prickles has a penetrating, high-pitched bark that is impossible to ignore, a bit like a smoke alarm toot funnelled through a rock concert amp.)



And he has continued to occupy much of our attention most days. We no longer feed him solid food as he simply vomits it up again. Instead Jones has invested in a growing variety of ever more extravagant patês with which she tries to finger-feed him throughout the day. 


FINGER-LICKING GOOD
Prickles is a very fussy eater and, unless he's starving, as likely as not to turn up his nose. The rest of the pack, who are nothing like as discriminating, crowd around, hoping for a share. Handouts have to be made with caution. While the majority are happy just to suck the patê off one's finger, Bobby tends to regard the finger as part of the treat.



I would not wish to give the impression that we have become slaves to domesticity and completely retired to the back woods - although you could be forgiven for thinking so. We have been out and about, as much as anything to give Prickles the daily ride that he insists on as essential to his well being.



On one on of these excursions we acquired the necessary with which to rub down the rust that was appearing in the rim of the microwave and to repaint the rut - a task that I have since accomplished. It looks a great deal better after my efforts.



On another we visited the adega to top up our depleted baggy supplies. Having given up, in the interests of losing weight, the (rather more expensive) whiskies to which I was prone, I have been driven to sharing a baggy with Jones in the evening. Rounded off with coke, ice and lemon, I have found that it goes down quite pleasantly at the end of the day. Sometimes, just to be sure,  I have another.


STILL LIFE: Jones, Prickles patê, baggy glass and plums

This is the best part of the day, one that we always look forward to, before we walk the dogs and water the garden. Lest you wonder, the green object hovering over my wife's head is not a Martian spaceship.



But rather a wasp trap that I have been driven to erect by the plague of yellow jackets that drives the dogs to distraction at meal  time. The insects are not easily deterred and just as likely to gatecrash our sundowner sitdowner; I keep a swatter handy. So while I would join St Francis in living and letting-live, the philosophy ends where wasps, flies and mosquitoes begin.



I don't like to end on a negative note. Far better a tranquil exit in the company of NotRobbie (above) and Braveheart (below) as we consider all the blessings for which we have to be grateful, especially the good fortune of retiring to this blessed spot. Now back to our Portuguese grammar books!

Letter from Espargal: 24 August 2018

This is not an easy week about which to say anything pertinent nor to post pictures featuring fewer than four legs  - not for the first time I hear you mutter. One could begin by saying that it's been a hot week, a very hot week, which is not unusual for mid-August. Like the dogs (when not scratching my orbiting heat bumps) I spend a lot of time in air-conditioned horizontal contemplation, waiting for autumn.



If truth be told, what we've done mostly over the past several days is to care for little Prickles. For some time he has been ultra-fussy about his food and liable to throw up anything that upsets him. (Fortunately, Jones is a good cleaner-upperer.) This month he began throwing up just about everything he ate which we found most disconcerting. The washing machine has worked overtime. So off to the vet he went, much against his inclination.



An x-ray showed the cause to be a stomach tumour. We decided against an operation as he's at least 13 or 14 years old, never mind that he hates entering the  surgery. Instead he has been prescribed cortisone and Jones has put him on a diet of liquids and patés that he seems to cope with - most of the time. We don't know whether the tumour is malignant and it's impossible to know how long the little dog may survive.  At the weekend Slavic and I completed the grave we've been preparing for him, fully expecting that he would shortly be occupying it.



In the meanwhile we've continued to take him with us in the car (as usual) - which he loves - and sat with him at night, or part of it at least. So far, somewhat to our surprise, on his limited diet, there has been no obvious deterioration in his condition. Most of the day he spends in his basket or sprawled on the couch. In the mornings he accompanies Barbara out of the front door for a brief leg-lifter while the rest of the pack set out with me on a trek around the hills.



I make my way clockwise around our circuit, Barbara travels anti-clockwise. We confer briefly midway and meet at the gates on our return. At that stage the dogs are awarded treats (very important: it encourages the stragglers to come in promptly); Mello dives into her bath, I prepare doggy breakfasts, Jones makes coffee and we get on with the day.



Pally inevitably comes back last. He remains by nature a loner. When he isn't zonked out in the heat, he noses off around the garden or park until he finds something of interest. Then he barks. He barks a lot. His persistent barks in her garden one afternoon drove an exasperated Jones to investigate.



The cause turned out to be a large snake that Pally was confronting. So she yelled for me to come back from the park. (I have my uses). By the time I'd arrived on the scene, snake gripper in hand, the serpent had slithered off into the undergrowth, where we left it. Except on open ground, they're all but invisible. What's more it was a big snake. I don't believe in fighting above my weight.



This week we started collecting carobs. At last they've started dropping from the trees - at least a month late. This season's beans are smaller and drier than usual so it takes a lot more work to fill a bucket. Since they're sold by weight, small and dry is bad news for farmers and good news for the merchants.



As Armenio pointed out to me, it's the seeds lined up within the pod that are valued by the food industry. The pods themselves are essentially fodder. With dry beans the merchants get more seeds for their money. For the most part our carobs are still tinged with green and unwilling to part with the branches. Unless whacked down, they'll take their time to fall over the next several months.



By evening the temperatures slip back to the mid-20s, ideal for dining outside. A mozzie candle serves to keep the little blighters at bay. Jones kindly prepares dinner. I keep the dogs in order, keep an eye on the garden, observe the alignment of the planets, look out for any aliens and watch out for the lizard that hunts for his supper around the patio lights (busy man!).



The little fellow lurks in the shadows until he spots a likely meal, generally a moth. Then he sneaks up, gathers his energies and zap!, a flick of the tongue and they're gone. There was a real glut of moths a few weeks back. Now they're much thinner on the ground - or rather, around the lights on the wall. (What there isn't a shortage of is wasps, yellow-jackets that pester the dogs each time I put down their dishes.)


MARIE'S LIZARD
I often reflect how useful it would be to run effortlessly around a vertical wall Spiderman style and to grow new body parts to replace those that get lost or damaged. It really appeals. Evolution has failed us. On the other hand I don't much fancy a diet of moths, as much as this might promote my weight-loss programme (down 5kgs in two months and counting).


FROM JONES'S NEPHEW IN CAPE TOWN
We have also been watching local TV and learning lots of Portuguese grammar for exams due in October. Portugal's male-leaning language doesn't seem to arouse the same gender controversies as upset (some!) English speakers. I note that the Guardian, to which I subscribe online, has become gender sensitive. In a questionnaire the newspaper inquired whether I identified as male, female or other - the first time I have faced such question.  I responded in the "other" block that I identified as a retired European expat in Portugal. Seems adequate to me.


ROLL ON AUTUMN!

Letter from Espargal: 17 August 2018

SUNSET OVER MONCHIQUE MOUNTAIN~
As you can see, last week's smoke-choked air has cleared.



The raging fires that fanned out from Monchique have finally been extinguished, leaving vast acreages of skeletal black trees amid the ashes of people's homes and lives.



The effort now is to render assistance to the bewildered victims. Appeals have gone out for donations to emergency funds while teams of volunteers distribute food and clothing.



No longer focused on the western horizon, we have resumed our normal lives. As we set out on our walk last Saturday morning, the dogs sniffed suspiciously at a creature coiled just inside the gate. The serpentine visitor, for such it was, distrustful of the beasts, immediately slithered into the undergrowth beside the woodshed. There we left it as we went on our way.



On our return I equipped Slavic with our snake-gripper while I turned the hose on the undergrowth. As he was assuring me that the snake had already moved on, it shot out, heading for Casa Nada. Slavic, equally quick, managed to grab it by the tail. The snake, understandably upset at being thus grasped, made no attempt to hide its feelings. You can't explain to a snake that you mean it no harm and are merely intent on relocating it which, photographs taken, was exactly what we did. Dogs and snakes don't mix.



The day's big job was relaying the cobbles that we had removed two weeks earlier to replace the cracked t-joint on the water main. We reckoned that we'd given the foundations time enough to settle again. Slavic tapped the stones back into position before filling the cracks between them with a weak concrete mixture. Finally he are then tamped the surface down. Job done.



Twice during the week we have visited a small holiday apartment-and- restaurant complex on the fringes of Loule, once to dine with friends and once just to relax with Pricks over a glass of wine and a toasted sandwich while Natasha was busy in the house. (Age and disability have not reduced the little dog's insistence on a daily ride in the car!)



Light refreshments are available from the kiosk beside the pool. Pricks just loves the lawn, not a luxury that we can offer him at home. I confess that I rather like it myself. (That's my foot poking out bottom right.)



One can relax over a sandwich on the grass verge or settle down at tables on a dais under the trees, away from the hustle and bustle of the adjoining restaurant. The pool and its environs, which are intended primarily for vacationers staying at the holiday apartments, are little used and serve to provide a most pleasant setting.



Of an evening we have also dined out on our own front patio when the temperature has dropped from pant to bearable. Jonesy generally makes a large mixed salad. She arms herself with a baggie or we share a glass of wine, I light the anti-mozzie candles, the dogs gather around, Jones points out whatever planet has hoved into celestial view and we dine to the song of the cicadas or the magical call of the owl in the valley.


SECTION OF THE ELECTRICITY SWITCHBOARD
A long overdue task now accomplished is the interpretation of the scribble left on the main switchboard by the Portuguese electrician who installed it. This board (there's a small one upstairs and a third in Casa Nada) has three rows of switches, each with scrawled clues to their use. By dint of both guessing and testing, I have identified the purpose of all except three. Next time we see the electrician, I hope to pin those down as well.


TWO MERGED BLACKS CATS
On Wednesday, the feast of the Assumption of Mary into Heaven, the people of Portugal enjoyed a public holiday.  Back in the days of yore when I was a good Marist brother it was an extra-special occasion when rules were relaxed - one we looked forward to during our years of training.



The belief that Mary's body was "assumed" into heaven remains an article of faith of the Catholic Church, one over which I have reflected a great deal (somewhat disbelievingly) down the years. Sadly, what makes news is not the church's beliefs but rather its abuses and the hierarchy that hid them for shame. I shudder at the revelations.



Jones, as ever, has been spending long hours in her garden.  (Please take a moment to admire her Asclepia Curassavica.) From time to time she asks me whether I've noticed how she's cut this or that back and I promise to look carefully next time I pass. For what it's worth, for my part I join her in  watering the garden daily as well as cutting back, mainly in the evening when I wander around the park, clippers in hand, with the dogs. They chivvy me on, impatient to reach the top where they get a treat.



Thursday dawned cloudy and much cooler, a welcome change from mid-30s temps. My orbiting body bumps heaved a (temporary) sigh of relief - the heat is due back at the weekend. We celebrated by picking more plums from our trees and sharing them, along with the veggies that Armenio brought us last night. Our carobs are now ripening and will soon be ready for picking in turn - when we shall be able to repay some of his generosity.


DAWN THURSDAY
Sufficient unto the week!