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!
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