Letter from Espargal: 31 May 2019

Some weeks run on greased wheels, others grind along on rusty cogs. This week has ground along. As usual, there's no obvious place to start. Maybe last Friday morning when we sought an upholsterer to fix the leather seat-cushion that Jack had refashioned. The first business we visited, on the outskirts of Almancil, declined. The boss wasn't interested in petty repairs.  The second, on the far side of the town, was more accommodating, as long as we weren't in a hurry. They would call us when the cushion was ready.



We returned home to discover that during our absence, Jack had turned his attention to the leather sofa on which the cushion had sat. I don't know what got into him. One of the padded arm-rests was torn to shreds, its interior strewn around the patio. That was a bit of a bugger. The sofa dates from our early days in London. We got it from a second-hand shop who took it off someone who bought it from Harrods.



Saturday, after strimming, Slavic and I hauled the trailer out from its winter shelter under the trees. We swept out the leaves, pumped the tyres, checked the lights and oiled the hinges. Then we took the tractor to fetch the damaged sofa from the house and ferried it out to the trailer where we secured it, pending delivery to the upholsterers.



Sunday we went to Benafim to vote in the European elections. We had been tempted to vote for the Greens until we found them in alliance with the Communists, which would have been a vote too far. Instead we settled on a minor party with a declared interest in animal welfare. The ladies overseeing the entrance to the voting hall gave us a pleasant welcome but they couldn't find our names on the electoral lists. One led us around the corner to the parish office to investigate our vanishment - but in vain. So we thanked them and retreated to the adjacent snack bar for a cup of coffee instead.



Monday Jones found Jack rooting around in the garden beneath a terrace where I'd baited a rat trap and summoned me down. By the time I got there, only the remains of the trap were to be seen. Of its occupant there was no sign. But, shortly afterwards, we found the damp corpse of the captive deposited on the south patio, undoubtedly by Jack.



The dog is much given to expending his excess energy by grabbing his rope playthings and shaking them vigorously from side to side. Ratty probably got the same treatment and wouldn't have survived the first shake. That's Ratty 6 in our tally or, if you count the escapee, Ratty 7. While all this excitement was going on, Ratty 8 was spotted breakfasting on the other bird-feeder. The season clearly isn't yet over.


JACK
As we set out to deliver the sofa to the upholsterers, Russ and Jack started a brawl just inside the fence - or, more accurately, Russ started it. For some time he has been anxious to impress his top-dog rank on our guest who, I fear, would be the victor in any serious contest. In the event, I intervened promptly and noisily, with a great deal of theatrical hat-slapping on my thigh to emphasise my extreme displeasure. With any luck, that's the end of it.


RUSS
Monday afternoon I conducted my penultimate English lesson at the senior university. Next Monday brings the last one before the summer holidays. Given that the class already has to choose between sweltering with the windows shut or being drowned out by passing traffic, the end of term will be welcome.



On the way home we dropped in on the pool shop to purchase a(n AquaChek) meter that measures exactly the chlorine and pH levels of the pool. I've been finding the usual colour-coded device not particularly helpful. The evening walk brought my first tick bite of the season. I plucked the little bugger off my leg and crushed him with the handle of the dog lead. At least there seem to be fewer ticks around this year.



Tuesday: My new meter indicates that my chlorine level is far too high and the pH also needs reducing. Back to the pool shop for the necessary.  I also went to the dentist to sort out a protesting tooth. However sensible it might be to have regular dental check-ups, I speak (not proudly) as one who puts appointments off until they're unavoidable. While I sat back in the dentist's chair, Jones got stuck into her garden. The barrow says it all.



Tuesday evening we found that an extensive area of bush-veld (beneath the electricity supply lines across the hill) had been cleared, presumably as a fire precaution. We wondered how it might have been done, certainly not with a conventional strimmer. Bushes with stems two inches in diameter had been lopped off, leaving jagged ends. Our path had all but vanished beneath the cuttings.



Barbara, who protests each time I break off a stem, was horrified at the extent of the devastation. I presume that it's in a good cause and that in due course the "mato" will spring up anew. Certainly the councils are taking great care to clear the road verges ahead of the fire season. Strimmer men are everywhere to be seen, too often without road signs to alert drivers to their presence just around the corner. Temperatures are already well into the 30s.



Wednesday morning we bumped into the clearing team who were busy with chain saws. They stared in amazement as we trooped past with the dogs in a line. Thursday the bedroom air conditioning unit started playing up - again, and so did my sciatica. I swam a lot and strimmed a little. Jonesy went off to visit one of her old ladies (which is how we think of them, even though they may be younger than we are). We have been sitting down of an evening over a baggy, lemon juice and coke. It's a mixture that brings tears to one's eyes but it's good. Thus has the week nearly passed and May with it.

Letter from Espargal: 24 May 2019

This week has stumbled along with no clear purpose other than to care for fauna and flora. And I've a curious sense of finding myself, after much toil across hill and dale, back where I started.  Strimming is a perfect metaphor for this laborious cycle. Slavic and I spent two hours on Saturday morning cutting back the growth closest to the house (as required), fully aware that next May, like last May, we'd be doing the same thing again as the seeds from this year's weeds spring up anew. 


PHAGNALON RUPESTRE BEFORE THE WIND BLOWS
At least we strimmed in relative comfort. The week has been cool, which was pleasant, but very windy, which was not. Indeed, it was sometimes most unpleasant. Overnight Barri took refuge beside the bed where she feels least threatened by the malevolent forces of nature.



Gusts tore ferociously at the shutters and the trees. While the shutters merely shivered like a ship under strain, the trees shed much of their crop. The ground beneath the lemon tree turned bright yellow while green carob beans lay splattered beneath the branches that bore them. The same thing happened last year. Barbara tried ripening the fallen beans in the sun, to no avail. Our farmer friend advised her to throw them away.


PHAGNALON RUPESTRE AFTER THE WIND BLOWS
Monday, for the second week in a row, My English class grows and with it my opportunities to improve my knowledge of the Portuguese language. Not that I get away with any errors. My pupils return with interest my attempts to improve their language skills. Not that I mind being put in my place. I've long since got used to it.



While Barbara has laboured long at household chores and her garden, I have devoted hours to sorting our property folders, both online and on paper. Depending on how one counts, we are the owners of two houses and eight rural properties, the latter acquired down the years in a bid to consolidate and fence our interests. The properties are grouped in two parcels, divided by a right of way.



Each property comes with (at least) four sets of documents: the deed of sale, proof of registration, proof of taxation and proof of location (via its GPS points). All of these, as well as a certificate indicating a house's thermal qualities, need to be in order for a sale or purchase to proceed. But buyer beware - lest you discover that old ruins you fancy belong to three separate families while the ground around them belongs to a fourth. And that the heirs to the property may be under age, living overseas, dead or gaga in a retirement home. That's when the fun starts.



I should add that the Financas needs to calculate exactly what the tax implications are. And any documents that have expired need to be renewed.  In short, if you can deal with Portuguese property records, you'll find rocket science a doddle.


RATTY GONE
On Monday afternoon we trapped Ratty No.6, a big fellow who made it plain that he didn't fancy his confinement. As we were hurrying to get the dogs walked and fed before setting off to fetch neighbours from the airport, I postponed Ratty's release, leaving the trap inside a large tub pending our return. On our return, we discovered the tub on its side and the trap on the floor minus its captive. Barbara speculated that he might have fallen victim to one of the dogs but subsequent rodent sightings on both bird feeders have not lent weight to her theory.



Jack has taken to sleeping in the living room, especially when it's either unduly hot or cold outside. Although he seems reluctantly to have accepted the presence of the cats (within limits), his eyes follow their movements around the room with an intensity that bodes them no good.  We were woken early one morning by a huge crash downstairs. We stumbled down to find Jack surveying the scene and my heavy back-support chair out of position. We surmise that he had made a grab at Squinty (who wasn't harmed) and collided with the chair instead.



He is also among the suspects for the turmoil that Jones discovered in the departed-dog garden on Wednesday afternoon. Her plants had been crushed and pots knocked flying. We speculated that a dog (or dogs) might have been after some creature, perhaps Ratty 6. As usual, however, nodoggy is talking and we shall never know the truth. The trouble, as I often point out to Jones, is that dogs and gardens don't mix. She has declined my offer to fence sections off.



Tuesday I saw Jodi for a tune up. It was sheer luxury as I've enjoyed a wondrously back-pain-free three weeks. On the other hand, a collapsing back tooth is warning me to make a prompt appointment with the dentist.


Graça, the chef, chatting to her clients
Wednesday we joined local expats to celebrate a friend's birthday at the Hamburgo with a dish of Graça's roast lamb (although I preferred a tuna steak). That's my alcohol-free bottle of Sagres beer on the table. If and when I slim down to 90 kg or achieve other goals, I may return to the real thing. The day is not imminent, which is a pity as I really miss a dram in the evenings. 



Mike Brown, on the left, was the birthday person. This is something that I have long since ceased to be. I signed off on anniversaries when I turned 50, both my own and (most) other people's. However, in one of life's little ironies, my exaggerated state of sobriety has served only to put a premium on my chauffeuring services. As so often, one finds oneself falling victim to the law of unintended consequences.



One night I dreamed that I was back in the monks and had to give an uplifting talk to my fellow monks and schoolboys gathered in the chapel. I carefully chose a spot between the front benches and the altar the better to address my audience. But I uttered not a word for I could make neither head nor tail of the notes I was clutching, which were full of crossings out. This oneiric pickle was interrupted by a dose of cramp in my right thigh that brought me painfully back to reality. Though I left the monks nigh on half a century ago, I have yet to shake them off. They left roots in my soul.



Thursday I juiced lemons fallen from our tree. That's just the first of three tubs full. Their juice filled a 6-litre plastic bottle to the brim. For her part, Jones picked a basket of plums from our trees. It's good to consume the fruits of one's own labours, to bask briefly in the illusion of living off the land.


MICHAEL MACKRILL: POPPIES AMID THE YOUNG OAK TREES IN THE VALLEY

Thursday evening we dined in Loule with our friends, the Mackrills, who have been staying with Idalecio. We returned to find that in our absence the leather-trimmed cushion from the old Harrods couch on the patio had become a plaything of the beasts, more specifically, our guest dog. We shall look for an upholsterer who might be willing to put it together again.


Sufficient unto the week!

Letter from Espargal: 17 May 2019

HAPPY POMEGRANATE TREE
One place to start might be the leak that we discovered under the big pomegranate tree . It was Jones who drew my attention to clumps of borage growing with unusual vigour beside the tree - and to the tree's verdant exuberance. The leak evidently came from the plastic supply pipe swathed in a concrete wrap several inches down. To establish its exact location would have meant tearing up much of the surrounding rockery and the concrete. So we, that's to say Slavic and I, short-circuited the problem by running an interim pipe between valves either side of the problem.


TEMPORARY PIPE
Our hope, once Casa Nada has its papers, is to get the council to put in a completely separate supply. Speaking of which, a date had been set with the notary this coming week for the drawing up of the necessary deed for the old house. In the event, some complication arose and the appointment has been postponed.


A VISITOR TO THE PATIO
One morning we met our lawyer to hand over the documents we have been patiently acquiring for the past year. The documents need to be first translated and then submitted to the authorities for us to proceed with naturalisation. We have been warned that the process takes months.  Fortunately, we are not in a hurry.


80th BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION OF DAVID DAVIES(far right)

Sunday Jones joined friends at a luncheon in a smart restaurant for an 80th birthday celebration. We need no reminding that we are barely five years behind. I could never in my wildest youthful dreams have imagined turning 70, to say nothing of 80. Where did they go? Where have they gone?



Summer arrived at the start of the week and with it the need to rub in a generous covering of sun-protection before venturing outside. For several days temperatures climbed steadily into the 30s. Although it's still relatively cool when we set off with the pack at 7.45, the mornings grow hot and the afternoons are scorchers.  It's not until 19.00 that we dare venture out again with the dogs or they just pant their way around the hills.



On our return they collapse on the cobbles while I plunge into the pool. (Actually, I clamber carefully up one side of the pool ladder and equally carefully down the other.) Jones likes to swim earlier in the day when the sun is still high. The water is delicious - well into the 80s. In fact, unless I use the pump to circulate the water, the surface layer stays luke-warm. While this is very pleasant, dealing with the chillier layers lower down is not.



Midweek a pool-specialist recommended by the suppliers arrived to check out the problematic pump, which has been running with the pressure valve frequently reading into the red.  After spending 15 minutes examining the set-up and carrying out a few tests, he pronounced everything in order. Run the pump for an hour a day, backwash twice a week and keep an eye on the readings, he advised us before going on his way (a little wealthier). I was happy to pay for the reassurance - equally for the advice about the type of pool-floor cleaner that we need for the plastic liner.



An expat neighbour, much younger than ourselves and with a background in serious gardening,  arrived early Monday to assist us with strimming. The sections that needed prompt attention were the grassy areas around the house and the lower park adjacent to a neighbouring cottage. It was hard going, largely because of the numerous rocks (and boulders) that are strewn around the property. By law, an area of 50 metres around houses now has to be kept clear in the summer months.


PARISH STRIMMER
He was followed later in the week by the parish verge-strimmers who buzzed their way into the village, clearing the heavy growth that was colonising the road. Their services were badly needed in some areas where just a narrow asphalt passage remained between encroaching green strips on either side. Bottles of cold water that I presented to the workers were gratefully received.



Jones regretted the demise of the poppies that lined the approach to our house. But they were already past their best and will be back again next year. Note the crack that has appeared down the middle of the road. There's little to support the steep bank. One of these days the section of road to the right of the crack is liable to slide down into the field. It's reassuring to have another exit to fall back on.



The hay-fever season is upon us. Both Barbara and Natasha have been struggling to suppress the irritation brought on by clouds of fine blossom. When the wind blows - and towards the end of the week it began blowing a gale - this blossom literally rains down from the wild olive trees, littering the patios and paths and creating a yellow film on the dogs' water bowls. Sweeping up the blossom helps little as it renews itself as fast as it's removed.



Jack, who has now moved himself in the house with the rest of the dogs, showed a keen interest one morning in the base of the bird feeder where we had laid a rat trap; indeed, as Jones informed me after a peep, visitor number 5 was inside. I'm not sure whether the captive was a mouse or a small rat. Either way I set him free in the fields 100 metres away. I suspect there's more to come.



Thursday was busy; we fetched couriered documents from DHL, took coffee and shared a rice cake at our favourite snack bar, met our bank manager and invested in an electrically-powered creepy crawly appliance (at a painful price) for the pool. We tested it later in the day. It certainly does the job. Sufficient unto the day and the blog.


AFTER A WALK, A TREAT






 

Letter from Espargal: 10 May 2019

As is often the case, this blog lurches into life mid-morning on a Thursday. Unusually for May, it's a cool, dull, cloudy day with enough moisture in the air to dampen the cobbles. By this time we have scanned our email inboxes, absorbed the morning's news, walked the dogs around the hill (45 minutes), fed them (15 minutes)  and contemplated the day over a biscuit and a cup of coffee.



Apart from the usual run-of-the-mill stuff, lawyers, cars and rats have kept us busy.  The picture shows our third captive rat. On Jonesy's insistence, all such captives have been treated strictly in accordance with the Geneva Conventions. Were they being confined (prior to being released) in the shade, she wanted to know, and did they need water. I was able to reassure her on both counts.


MORE PYRAMID ORCHIDS IN THE PARK
Where I failed was in my argument that rats were a pernicious plague and that captives should be treated with a merciful pellet to the head.  So down the road we went in deference to her sensitivities, to a field where I (she declined) set free Ratty 3. I might add that the measures I took to conceal another trap prevented the door from slamming shut on Ratty 4, who got away with his life and the loot. Operation Rattrap continues.


ARCHIVE PICTURE OF CASA NADA
On Monday afternoon after my English lesson, we saw the lawyer to follow up on the document issued to us last week by the council. This document represents the first real step towards registering and legalising the old house on the property. What lies ahead should be relatively straight-forward. The hard work - 15 years of it - has been to persuade the council to recognise our legitimate claim to the old house.  Officially, the dwelling hasn't existed and what matters in this country is what's on record and not what's on the ground.



Tuesday morning early I dropped the car off down the road with the village mechanic for its annual service and inspection. He first changes the oil and checks for any defects before continuing on to an inspection centre. Vehicles undergo rigorous checks four, six and eight years after their initial purchase - and then every year thereafter. Happily, the car - now approaching its 10th birthday - sailed through as usual.



Wednesday we took ourselves to the beach for lunch while Natasha set about the house. Three sparrows, not content with the crumbs that they were begging from tables outside the snack bar, flew inside to plead their case with diners. The boldest of them flapped up and down several times beside a table of French tourists; then, to make a point, perched on the end of the table. Although I draw the line with pestiferous pigeons, I've a soft spot for sparrows and seldom send them away hungry.



At this time of year, when the garden is still benefiting from winter rains and not yet blistered by the sun, vegetation overpowers us. We have to cut back headstrong hedges, invasive vines, colonising creepers and suffocating shrubs just to keep paths and steps open. Some serious strimming lies ahead.


FRONT GARDEN - STARTING TO LOOK GOOD
By law, following terrible fires and loss of life two years ago, the area around dwellings has to be kept clear or, at least, under strict control. We hear that the police have begun issuing stiff fines to property owners in the Faro area who fail to comply.


JUST LOVE ALMONDS
I'm pleased to report that Jack seems to be coming to terms with the cats. Thrice this week I have walked him back down the hill off-leash, past sleeping cats, and persuaded him to ignore them. He now frequently enters the house with the rest of the dogs although he hasn't learned to lie down and relax inside. Even so, we're making steady and satisfactory progress. If only he didn't have quite so much energy! (Late update: Squinty had another narrow squeak. We're not there yet!)



Yes, the the first swim. The water is already well into the 70s and should easily top 80 in the weeks ahead. I'm still chasing the pool man to discover the problem with the pump. He's pledged to try to make it this weekend, as he did last weekend. Fingers crossed!



Friday morning: Ratty 4 was clearly not too terrified to finish the apple, the cat biscuits and most of the nuts that enticed him into the trap overnight - and he evidently doesn't suffer from constipation. I think that we're winning the battle. On our walk yesterday, I spotted the first snake of the year. He spotted us too and shot off as fast as he could wriggle. We've no problem with snakes although we prefer them on the far side of the fence.


THE PARK IS AWASH WITH LARKSPURS