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!
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