Letter from Espargal: 28 December 2018

THURSDAY MORNING MIST IN THE VALLEY
As I go to cyberspace there are several significant photos I lack. One is of Barbara waiting at Loule station early on Wednesday for a train to Lisbon that didn't come (strikes!);


LLEWELLYN, LUCIA & DOGS

another of her sitting in the Aljustrel sunshine outside the cafe (where I had left her) waiting for Llewellyn to fetch her.  (Aljustrel is a little town off the motorway, about a third of the way to Lisbon.)

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As I write, she is safely in the bosom of her family or, at least, exploring Estoril and Cascais in their company and that of their dogs . She returns on Saturday evening - hopefully this time by rail.



Estoril and neighbouring Cascais are attractive resort towns on the peninsula that juts out west of Lisbon along the mouth of the Tagus. It's there that Llewellyn and Lucia have rented a house while they look around for a permanent residence in the Lisbon area. They are both beach people and love the nearby beaches as much as their dogs do.

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This blog will be brief as there isn't much to say. I shall leave the pictures to do most of the talking.



We "celebrated" Christmas quietly. Jones prepared a delightful bobotie (that has since served me well) and I opened a special bottle of wine.



We also visited our friend Armenio's little museum to admire his latest acquisitions and to share a dram. Here he holds a fossilized rock that he found locally - apparently an ancient coral.



Back at the ranch, in Jones's absence, life revolves around dog walks, animal meals, flower pot waterings (ours and a neighbour's - no rain in sight) -


JONES WATERING A NEIGHBOUR'S POTS

- along with chores, swatting the occasional mosquito (where do they come from in December) and last, but not least, considering one or two useful purchases.



I find that I can concentrate best on such "investments" when Jones isn't around. It can take a while for her to spot the purchases on her return, by which time I can remark: "That old thing! We've had it for ages."



Thursday night. There's not a sound to be heard as I write. Mini and I watched James Bond rid the world of yet another dastardly villain. I wish! Downstairs there's a fire glimmering in the stove.



The dogs have settled down for the night and it's time for me to do the same. Friday is nearly upon us.



On Saturday Slavic, Andre and I will finish cementing the goatfold floor that we laid last weekend in preparation for our intended pool.



We did a good job, first laying a bed of gravel and a light metal grid to give us a solid foundation.



On Monday night we will raise glasses of something appropriate to family and friends around the globe in the fervent hope that 2019 may be kind to us all.

Letter from Espargal: 21 December 2018

WINDOW-SILL PRESEPIO IN ALTE
Yes, it's that time of year!



Although I have been doing my level best to carry on as though Christmas wasn’t bearing down on us, I haven’t been having much success.  Signs of its imminent approach are everywhere and ignoring them is about as helpful as looking the other way as a tsunami thunders in towards one’s beach hut.

DELIGHTFUL POP-UP CHRISTMAS CARD
I do not mean to sound churlish; and I am certainly grateful to those good people who have taken the time and trouble to send us Christmas cards. (Please don't write us off.) But in my heart I feel that Christmas is a bit like an impending wedding to a girl to whom one foolishly proposed one bibulous evening and whose romantic appeal and suitability are now in doubt. For her part, Jones, bless her, has been very good in attending to such festive chores as are appreciated in polite society.

WORK IN PROGRESS
For my part, I have lugged back for several hundred metres a young fir that we found lying among trees felled in a field.  At present it stands forlornly in a bucket, hopefully awaiting Yuletide baubles and an angel; fortunately, there are still several decorating days to Christmas. Bowing to the inevitability of the season, I have also allowed myself an additional dram at dinner.

Then there's the small matter of gifts. Cast your doubts aside. I have not neglected my yuletide obligations. As well as special treats for the dogs, marshmallows for the lar and chocolates for the nurses, I have invested in festive wines to mark the season. As you may have noticed, the winter solstice is already upon us - all too soon.


JONES MOON
Neither have I forgotten my spouse. As a gesture of goodwill I shall offer to hang out the washing and assist with other household chores on Christmas Day. I'm a firm believer that one has to do one’s bit. You can't accuse me of being a Neanderthal.



One's bit included a visit to Alte to enjoy coffee and cake in Marisa's cafe as well as a brief walking tour of the presepios that townspeople traditionally build in their windows. Numerous signs guide visitors along the nativity scene route.



And whatever one's doubts about the wisdom of the three kings in launching their Christmas IPO, I did like the creative efforts of the people of Alte. Their message, unlike those from our banks and utility companies, does not come with a list of suggested Christmas bargains.

THE GOATFOLD
Christmas or no Christmas, Slavic, Andre and I settled down last Saturday to a hard morning’s work. Our task was to clear the (sloping) old goatfold of Barbara’s plants (all carefully moved) and then to set about leveling it with a view to "erecting" a small pool. It's the only conceivable part of the garden that's suitable.

COLLECTING STONES
The first task was to collect several tractor loads of stones from our fields to dump at the base of the slope and then to scrape away the soil-rock conglomerate from the upper end. If I make this sound like a simple or easy task I do myself no favours.  It was hard manual work.

Midweek, Cesar arrived with a huge load of gravel, followed by sacks of cement, bricks and a light iron grid (known here as malha-sol) that is used to underpin concrete floors. This coming weekend we’ll spread the gravel across the surface prior to covering it with with concrete.

The pool we have in mind is the type in which the water rests in a thick plastic lining supported by a ring of metal panels, secured with legs.  Two of our neighbours have already set up such pools in their gardens. They are relatively inexpensive and seem to require only a minimum of treatment - unlike the demanding tree-lined guest-pool we built at the Quinta.

The goatfold area is roughly circular, which more or less rules out a rectangular unit. The question is whether to go for an easy-fit model (3.5m) or to cram in a bigger one (4.6m).  I shall wait till the surface is prepared and take advice before deciding. Either way I hope to indulge in the kind of immersive exercises this coming summer as Jodi assures me should benefit my recalcitrant back. In the meanwhile I remain grateful for her services.

Although we have long since brought in our own carob crop, Jones continues to gather a plastic bag-full most days from the long-abandoned trees in the mato. It was after a collecting session around the large tree pictured above that she wondered one morning whether I'd seen her specs. I hadn't. (I might add that they are rimless and easily mislaid.)

Nor could they be found anywhere in the house. So back to the tree we went for what proved to be an awkward search in view of the thick undergrowth. I eventually left her to it and went off walking with the impatient dogs. I'm pleased to report that she recovered them - just as she was about to give up the search.

Another success has been the long overdue repair of our landline. I ought to say immediately that we generally have our mobile phones with us and that we gave up answering the landline years ago when it became apparent that virtually all the calls were coming from sales people - or rather, computers that simply dialed around until somebody answered. So we haven't really missed it. Nevertheless, the line has been repaired and we have replaced the broken phone attached to it with a working unit.

JONES PHOTO
One of Jones's duties (while I am preparing the dogs' breakfasts) is to put out seeds for the birds at our two bird tables. As much as we welcome the birds, we'd love to see a wider variety. The regular visitors are only azure-winged magpies, sparrows and doves. It's notable that while the former two species arrive and feed in groups, the doves constantly chase one another from the bowl. It's only the cock-a-hoop that feeds at any one time. The Christmas spirit does not extend to doves.

Our days are warm and our nights cool. The bees busy themselves in the lavender. The succulents swell and overflow our paths. For a few days we will endeavour to forget the madness of Brexit and Potus and to immerse ourselves in the simple delights of Espargal.


HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

It's to family and friends that we will raise a glass on the 25th.

Letter from Espargal: 14 December 2018

The sun rises on another week. Jones is up early as is her habit to ensure that the orb is prompt. These days the camera sits securely on a tripod.



Cut to a Saturday scene. This Moses effect arises, not from any heavenly apparition, but from low-drifting smoke lazying up through the trees in the park. Slavic and I were burning off cuttings. It's that time of year.



We were not the only ones. In the valley below, farmers were following suit. That's Benafim smudged across the far hill.



The big job was laying a second strip down the gravel slope on the driveway approach to the house. Deliveries of sand, stone and cement were in place. Beneath the concrete we buried various bits of chicken wire and metal grids, both to get rid of them and to secure the strip. The concrete's had the rest of the week to cure.



The park itself is now a foot high in winter greenery, encouraged by late rains, not that we've had any winter to speak of. Temperatures dip into single figures overnight before climbing back into the teens by day. When the sun's up and wind's down, the days are glorious. It's not only we who enjoy them; the bugs love them too. I killed two mosquitoes in the bathroom one night, wondering where on earth they'd come from in mid December.


BURGEONING LEMON TREE
Speaking of killing things - on our walks I came across a scorpion as I was clearing small rocks from a new path. Well aware of the peril that scorpions present, I was wearing gloves and taking care. And although I was in no danger, I instinctively crushed the little stinger (who was pretty upset at losing his house). I've been reflecting since on the ethics. Flies, ticks and mosquitoes are sworn enemies, liable to instant capital punishment. But I'm not sure what rights scorpions should enjoy on their own turf.



After our morning walk, once the dogs are fed, unless we're going to town, we sit down at the table to coffee and a biscuit. Braveheart the cat, bottom left, likes to occupy my seat.



Such scenes of domestic harmony invite a snap. Jones objected on the grounds that her morning face was not suitable for public viewing. Hence the obscuring flowers. (I might add that I've seen the face just about every morning for 40 years and come to no harm.)



Definitely suitable for public viewing at all hours is the wild rose at the bottom of the garden. It asks only to be dead-headed and for the occasional drink although, as I write, it's being battered by the wind - as are we all after an overnight storm.



One evening we were guests of our Swedish neighbours, Lennert and Annchen, who have done impressive things with their home (not without a great deal of effort) since arriving here a couple of years ago. Annchen puts their gleaming new kitchen to delightful use.



As her contribution to the yuletide ambience of the evening, Jones had prepared a succulent tray - tiny plants that ought to take root and thrive. The bark seen resting on the central candle was intended - when I took the picture mid-morning - to prevent the winter sun streaming through the patio window from melting the wax.



To our regret, the Hamburgo is about to close for several weeks. In truth, the staff deserve a break. I took the opportunity to thank Daniela for the many meals she's served us throughout the year.



One way and another, it's been a social week. We lunched midweek at the Alte hotel with friends, the Grahams. Brexit dominated the conversation.  I need hardly say that the continuing circus in Westminster has flummoxed and depressed us in equal measure.


THE FIRE'S WARM AND WE'VE HAD A LONG DAY
Another day we popped up to the community centre with bags of marshmallows and other Christmas treats for residents of the retirement home. Marshmallows are particularly welcome among residents who lack good teeth. The home is a happy place, full of lightness (if that's possible). The staff go to great efforts with festive decorations.

Sufficient unto the week.



(PS: Dearheart makes herself at home on Jones's newly-ironed slacks.)

Letter from Espargal: 7 December 2018

REPAIRED WALL
My week began (or ended, depending on how you look at it) last Saturday morning with a wall repair at the top of our field. The section of wall above the marker-post had collapsed, spilling stones across the drive. The old walls are dry-stone constructions that bulge in time and and start giving way, generally after rain. In this part of the world, walls traditionally belong to the owner of the upper property, who is responsible for repairing them. That's the theory, anyhow. In practice, it's he who cares that mends the wall.



In the afternoon we made a point of attending Benafim's monthly street market, a modest affair that involves rather more conversation than commerce. Popular music blares through the loudspeaker attached to the tree on the left. Home-grown produce, home baking and nick knacks are the order of the day.  A euro suffices for a kilo of quinces or similar. (Quinces, by the way, are known in Portuguese as marmelos, the derivation of marmalade.)



Whatever the market's limitations, it's easy to spend 20 or 30 euros, especially if one comes away with a bottle or two of home-distilled liquor or home-pressed olive oil. We confined ourselves to veggies, a couple of cakes and the Christmas flower - one euro please - pictured. I always take pity on the flower vendor, who would go hungry if he depended on sales.



In spite of my futile resistance to the commercialization of Christmas, when I consider anew the attractions of a hermitic existence, a flavour of the times is not out of place. I loved the presepio (nativity scene) prepared by residents of the Benafim retirement home and set up in the parish office.



Portugal does these presepios in great style, ranging from the simplest to the most elaborate. You find them in every town and village. They capture for me a little of the lost magic of the season. Even so, it was to the brash Mar shopping mall just beyond Loule that we took ourselves to acquire a few seasonal necessities. I wandered around the electronics displays (but resisted temptation) while Jones did her thing. (She says it doesn't work if I trail around after her.)


A VISITOR TO THE BIRD FEEDER
Whatever the case, she didn't have much luck. We came away with chocolates and marshmallows for the retirement-home. Monday and Wednesday brought visits to Loule hospital for a change of dressing on Barbara's arm. The stitches come out this weekend. The pair of us are looking somewhat shot-up right now, with red patches on exposed skin where the dermatologist zapped us a couple of weeks ago.



We've been doing our best to stay in the shade as these zapped areas are particularly sensitive to sunlight. And we've certainly been getting our fair share of December sunlight. The 50-strength sun block is back in use.



In some ways, the weather has been perfect, warm enough for t-shirts by day, just cool enough to justify a fire (to drift off in front of) in the evenings. Jones is ruthless about taking these snaps when I can't look my best. Please note that at least I still clasp my iPad securely.



Vitor, my motor mechanic neighbour, has visited us twice this week, once to take stock of my dying tractor battery and once to replace it. If I had any advice for a prospective expat moving to Portugal, I would advise the person concerned to seek a village with a resident motor mechanic. This is a blessing beyond measure.



After carrying out minor repairs in the lower garden one morning, I looked up at the scene you see above and paused. There wasn't a breath of wind. The dogs reclined as still and contented as the plants and trees surrounding them. The sun filtered lazily down through the branches, creating dappled displays on beds and steps. It was, I reflected, about as good as the Garden of Eden gets.



Enjoying their own Garden of Eden have been the piggies, the wild boar who inhabit the mato by night. On all sides their handiwork is evident, great patches of earth that have been turned over for roots, bulbs or whatever the animals feed upon. Some weeks ago, returning from the Hamburgo, we saw a whole family of boar crossing the road ahead of us. It was VERY special.



We've been pausing on our walks, gazing across the hills to the sea and reflecting on the pall of vehicle-exhaust pollution that hangs over the coastal strip in winter. I wonder whether the climate scientists meeting in Katowice will convince the politicians of the need to do something about it.



Somehow, I doubt it, not while their voters are clamouring for electricity. (Electricity black-outs are the bane of my South African family's lives!) It's nearly midwinter and we're still using the AC in the car. I don't look forward to summer. Jones shrugs and concentrates on her skies. There's not much point in worrying your head about stuff you can do nothing about.