ESPARGAL STANDING STONES
It would not come as a great surprise to anyone familiar with the household that animals have been at the forefront of our lives this past week. (For that matter, at the mid-front and the rear-front as well.)
For instance, there's Jack, who interrupted a phone conversation with my brother, to give chase to Squinty, who was approaching the house. As I said to Barbara afterwards, Squinty's ok but he's a lucky cat. His survival may owe itself to the half-empty can of (alcohol-free) beer that I hurled at Jack, putting the dog off his stride. In the event, neither animal suffered any harm.
I should add that apart from his cat-fancying proclivities, Jack is proving to be a sweet-natured, unagressive soul who fits in easily with the rest of the gang. If only he were not quite so big, strong, vigorous and demanding. When the rest of us flop down after a walk through the hills, Jack makes it clear that he still wants to play. Barbara spends half an hour throwing things for him to fetch and I take him for a bespoke evening circuit of the block. But neither of us has yet succeeded in tiring him.
Jack is not the only visitor who's been demanding our attention. Ratty now makes flagrantly impudent visits to the bird feeder as soon as breakfast arrives, lingering over his meal. He's obese, having doubled in size these past few weeks. (Jones says this is an exaggeration!) At first he would flee the scene when she clapped her hands at the patio door. These days he continues feeding until she's within spitting distance of the bird feeder. At that point he leaps down into the garden or merely ducks underneath the platform until she returns to the house.
Jones has tried her best, without success, to interest Pally in rat-hunting. The rest of the pack hardly look up when the rodent arrives. They seem to regard him as part of the household which, to all intents and purposes, he is. What he doesn't know is that his rotund figure may shortly present an easy target. (Although I refer to ratty as "he", he may well be a she; no offence is intended to gender-sensitive souls.)
STOCK PHOTO: MARITIME MUSEUM
Speaking of which, we hear that the Scottish Maritime Museum in Irvine is to stop referring to ships as "she" because its signs are being defaced. In future, all the museum's ships will become gender-neutral "its" to overcome the objections of the overalls-clad militia who feel that the use of female pronouns for vessels objectifies women. Her Maj will be able to launch a fine ship with a bottle of champers, proclaiming I name it Elizabeth...... Sad!
YVES, CORRALLING HIS DOGS
Back to the beasts! Another diversion, loudly heralded by our dogs, was the arrival of this pair at our gate. The visitors were both young dogs that were recently adopted by Yves, a neighbour. He'd been out walking with them when they decided to go awol, a phenomenon that we know well. With plentiful inducements and a little assistance from us, Yves managed to entice the pair back into his van.
MINI (the) MOUTH
Still on beastly news, we got back one evening from the Hamburgo (where we had supped with Llewellyn and Lucia, staying with Idalecio over Easter) to find an Easter egg wrapping on the floor. Of its contents there was no sign. Although Mini, whom we'd foolishly left inside the house, didn't actually confess to the crime, she vomited up chocolate for much of the night - fortunately, because chocolate is poisonous to dogs. It's the second such incident. On the last occasion she consumed an entire box of chocolates. Mini's a food obsessive.
From the beasts to the birds. What you see is a nest that was created between the broom visible in the picture and the outside wall against which the broom rested. Of its existence we were completely unaware until I took the broom down to sweep the cobbles. The hole you see was blocked by the wall.
The entrance to/exit from the nest was from the side. We have no idea who occupied it or when but it must have been fairly recently as the broom is in regular use. (Around here, as you may have noticed, we anthropomorphise nature's companions without apology.) Jonesy suggested that I put the broom back on the rack against the wall but I don't doubt that its resident has flown.
NO MORE PICTURES!
Wednesday evening we sat down to shell fava beans, gifts from two Portuguese neighbours. I love fava beans, whether served hot or cold. And since we neglected to sow any ourselves, we're all the more grateful for those we've been given. (Yes, there are rather a lot of photos featuring my wife this week. Sometimes, that's just the way the cookie crumbles.)
Thursday morning: Jones and ratty arrived simultaneously at the bird feeder. It's hard to know who got the bigger surprise. Jones hurried back to the house, grabbed the unfortunate Squinty and thrust him under the bird feeder with instructions to do his duty. In fairness to the cat, he did have a sniff around before he declared himself a vegetarian pacifist and returned to his chair in the living room.
CELESTE CAEIRO
Today, Thursday April 25, is a public holiday, the most important of the year. It commemorates the 1974 Carnation Revolution that ended half a century of authoritarian rule in Portugal. It also heralded Portugal's withdrawal from its African colonies. The name derives from the carnations that a pacifist restaurant worker, Celeste Caeiro, handed out to soldiers lining the street. The peaceful revolution marked the (somewhat shaky) start of democratic government in the country. Every Portuguese city and town has a street named April 25.
Midday brought a welcome phone call from easyJet - in response to my letter to the CEO - confirming that the company will recompense Natasha for the cost of a hostel room for the night. A pleasant young man, having satisfied himself that my letter was genuine, asked me kindly to forward her bank details and promised to do the rest. Hats off to easyJet.
Thursday afternoon: The local painter arrived to take a look at a side wall of the house where the paint is blistering and bubbling. The wall also has several cracks that need attention. He reckons the problem arises from a rubber paint that was put on years ago before the wall was repainted with an emulsion. The solution - in due course - involves high pressure hosing, followed by a primer and a new coat.
I write at the end of a pleasantly damp week. It's not that we actually enjoy the rain or muddy walks, it's just that Portugal, especially the Algarve, is suffering a severe drought. Summer looms and with it the annual wildfire nightmare. Weeds are now sprouting from the stony bed of the Algibre and my oak trees are dying. We need rain, every drop we can get.
Sufficient unto the day.
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