WINDOW-SILL PRESEPIO IN ALTEYes, 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.
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