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.
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