Letter from Espargal: 22 November 2019

Last weekend we went for a long walk - one we recommend to any visitors to the Algarve. It started out at the Quinta do Lago car park and skirted around the golf course in the direction of the airport. (For any who don't know it, Quinta do Lago is an extensive, luxury development overlooking the Rio Formosa estuary on the approach to Faro. Its mega-priced mega-villas cocoon the mega-rich.)



The route passes through a nature reserve, an area popular with both joggers and cyclists. Along its course lie several small lakes that are fed by the tidal estuary. On their waters a host of bird life nests, floats, feeds and breeds.



Further along, the route leaves the development and swings past a series of salt pans that are fed via a network of pipes and valves. Most of the pans now lie idle in the pale winter sun.



This one was the exception. As we paused to take pictures, mountain bikers whizzed past, couples pushing strollers ambled past and curious dogs hurried to establish their fellows' credentials.



Just beyond the pans, a salt mountain awaits distribution. (For any interested, there is also a salt mine that is still being worked in chambers deep under Loule.)



That's a serious pile of salt, intended for water softeners and similar industrial purposes as well as for the table. Note the Portuguese flag planted on top.



Beyond the salt mountains (at Ludo), the route turns sharp right along a causeway, as indicated by the orange line in the map below. It shows the extensive salt pans laid out both horizontally and vertically in this area - a serious business.



The causeway, in turn, links up with the dyke that runs directly from Quinta do Lago to the airport fence. (That's the airport runway lower far-right.) The whole walk comprises a two-hour circuit along a giant triangle with 3km sides.



Above the final leg, beyond the runway, planes thunder full throttle into the skies. The miracle of huge metal creatures soaring skywards never ceases to fascinate me. In the bright sunlight it was hard to get good pictures.



At some point that day Barbara lost a piece of jewellery. We returned to search a spot where she might have dropped it. No luck! These things happen.



On Monday afternoon, Pally went missing. He failed to return after our walk. Pally, I should add, never actually comes walking with us. He shoots out of the gate and goes off deep into the bush to look for only he knows what. We hear him yipping and yapping deep in the valley. Usually, well after the rest of us have returned, he reappears at the gate in time for supper.


O SINNER MAN!
Well, Monday he didn't reappear before dusk - now around 17.45. Every few minutes we'd go to the gate with a torch - and call. Jonesy was convinced that we'd seen the last of him. She finds his absences hard to bear.  At 7.30, as we were about to launch a search party, Pally came hop-skipping three-legged down the path and settled contentedly down to his supper. As I warned Barbara, it wouldn't be for the last time.



Tuesday I invested in not one, but two, bottles of fine malt whisky to celebrate the drawing up of a deed - after a 20-year struggle - to acknowledge our ownership of Casa Nada - the old house on our property. Three neighbours accompanied us to the notary to testify on our behalf.


CASA NADA
Next the deed has to be published in the official journal - before we are able to register the property with the Conservatory of Title Deeds. In short, it then assumes an official existence.



Wednesday the most wonderful rain poured down. We could see the water building up on the patio beyond the bedroom door at dawn as a squall lashed the glass. Then the clouds blew away and the sun came out to add sparkle to the trees. We slithered off on our morning walk, glumping down the steep muddy paths with the greatest of care. I carry a walking stick in either hand. A welcome 17mm registered in the rain gauge on our return. And there's more forecast. We need it so badly.



Thursday dawned dull after light rain overnight. Slavic got in half a day's work before the showers returned. That evening my printer/scanner died. I suspected the worst and had it confirmed by the suppliers on Friday morning. The printer gave me five years of service, which isn't too bad - although Jones thinks it just ridiculous. A new one is to be installed over the weekend. As I write, the skies are greying over again. The valley has vanished in the mist. Rain looks likely at any minute. It's lovely stuff. Let if fall.


STAYING WARM ON THE SOUTH PATIO

Letter from Espargal: 15 November 2019

THERE SHE RISES
After briefly raising my head above the parapet this week - floods in Yorkshire, fires in Australia, riots in Hong Kong, chaos in Catalonia - I lowered it again. Our tranquil little patch has a lot going for it. One way and another, we've been pretty busy, even if that involved lots of attempts to take good pictures of a glorious full moon.


A "FROSTY" OR "BEAVER" MOON
One project that has occupied much of my time has been upgrading my satellite-beamed WiFi system, following the launch of a new programme by my ISP. Step 1 was to acquire the specified high-speed modem. The courier service notified me regularly of the modem's progress from the manufacturer in France to the Algarve. On the day itself it alerted me to the anticipated delivery between 12.30 and 13.30. I was impressed. This is a great deal more precision than we are accustomed to.



Even more impressively, a link in the final email gave me access to a moving picture of the delivery van en route to Espargal. It is the first time I've come across this facility. Noting the speed at which the van was moving, I drove down to the village square to await its arrival. To my surprise and disappointment, instead of following the route indicated on my phone, the van headed off on a new black line in the opposite direction.


A BARBARA DAWN
I watched as it spent the next 20 minutes lurking around Alte. Refreshing the image tended to show it in a different position each time, which prompted doubts in my mind about the accuracy of the software. As I was about to give up and return home, the driver phoned me from Benafim to arrange a hand over. Done!



My ISP had assured me that one had only to plug in the new modem and insert the activation code. Hey bingo, it would function! Ho ho ho! Over several hours, updates and phone calls (please may I have an activation code), I endeavoured, somewhat like Frankenstein, to bring the modem to life. Success eventually followed - and it was worth the frustration. My download (50 Mbps) and upload speeds have trebled, my data allowance is up and my premium is down - not that WiFi by satellite is cheap!



On an outing to the MAR shopping centre, we visited Ikea to look at dining room tables. Jones is considering a rectangular model, such as the one above, to replace our round table, which sits a bit awkwardly with the new kitchen-living room arrangement. We are still thinking about it.



Barbara, on the advice of a friend, made a small investment in cosmetics at the MAC shop. My wife, who is among the thriftiest of women, needed some persuading. Barbara is generally more at home in one of the Chinese shops in Loule. She says that she will keep her acquisitions "for best". I cannot complain about her thrift because our finances might well come under strain if we were both spenders.



With intermittent cloudy skies and light showers, we have lit living room fires early, generally around lunchtime - always conducive to the best siestas. (The whitish blur behind Bobby is his faithful companion, Mello.) We keep the fires small, just enough to engender that comfortable glow and sense of well-being.



One evening we sat down to watch A Star is Born on DVD. Although it's a long movie and definitely not our usual cup of tea, we saw it out. It was only during the closing titles that I learned I'd been watching Lady Gaga in the leading role. As often as her name has cropped up in the media, I wouldn't have known her from Lady Luck.



Wednesday I politely dismissed a Vodafone cold caller but took a look online nevertheless at the new (Red Infinity) tariff  she was promoting. It was interesting enough to pursue later in the day at the Vodafone shop. As it too reduced our premiums and upped our data package, we subscribed. The only downside is that any such change commits us to a new two-year contract. Note that although the small print in the promotion is in Portuguese, Vodafone has given the tariff an attractive English name - not uncommon in these parts - and particularly apt as it puns on the Portuguese word "rede", meaning network.



Thursday dawned cloudy before turning dull, damp and windy. Amidst early showers I called Slavic off. This suited him well as he had other interior work in mind.



Barbara occupied herself stuffing feathers back into a mended cushion and sewing it up again. No doubt the dogs will be only too pleased to have another go at it. I think we now have more stitched up cushions than regular ones.



We restricted the morning dog walk to the park with a pledge (we kept) to take them out during the promised sunshine in the afternoon. Our showers generally amount to just a few mms but they're enough to thoroughly muddy the dogs' paws as well as Natasha's newly-mopped floors. The option is to de-mud their paws on the front patio on our return; however, it's an awkward procedure that finds little favour with the impatient beasts when comfortable couches and a flickering fire await within.



This is Sydney, a spider who took up residence above a picture in the study some weeks ago and who has been expanding his network of interests. I haven't minded. Sydney does good work trapping the annoying buzzers who dash around my computer at night. However, he is a lodger whom my wife has been eyeing with growing misgivings - and she is now keen to move him on. Just thought you might be interested.


BARBARA'S MOON

Letter from Espargal: 8 November 2019

The blog, like the week, meanders along with occasional pauses for activity or reflection.



One morning we took ourselves to the Fonte da Benémola nature reserve - about 20 minutes east of us.  It's a popular venue with both leisurely walkers and serious hikers. The Via Algarviana hiking route passes through the reserve, whose wild flowers - especially orchids - are a treat in season.



My smart watch recorded 5,000 steps in the reserve, giving me a welcome 13,000 total for the day. I aim for 10,000, a target I reach only once or twice a week.



A spring, which rises in the reserve, joins two other water sources to form the Algibre river that flows along the bottom of our valley or, rather, would do if it had any water. For most of the year it's just been an ugly scar across the countryside, a depressing course of sand, pebbles, and weeds.



Benemola's water once supported a thriving farming community. As the families drifted away, the buildings and terraces fell into disrepair but the authorities have lately done much to restore them and to improve the area.



Tuesday we paid our annual visit to the dermatologist. Barbara got away fairly lightly. (Last year she needed minor surgery.) I got my usual cryo peppering, the penalty for rashly mixing a fair skin with a sunny climate in my youth. Before leaving the surgery we made an appointment for a year hence. The consultant is in high demand, with a six-month waiting list.



Thursday Slavic and I completed our latest path. The section provides the final link in the circuit around the park. As generally happens, the newly-laid concrete was inspected by the dogs while we were mixing the next batch.



We have come to think of their prints as the Valapena walk of fame. They will certainly outlive their signatories. In the years to come people may wonder about the dogs who left their mark.



I also tractored a couple of loads up the top gate of the park in order to improve the steps that lead up to it. Some of the the steps were feeling the pressure of feet and the years. We are up and down them twice a day.



Mornings we take the 40 minute southern loop (Barbara does it in 30). She often goes ahead, stopping to pick up carobs from the many untended trees in the wilderness.



Afternoons we take the eastern circuit. Both involve a great deal of up-and-downing narrow stony paths. The dogs run free.



They know the routine and the area well enough. I'm gradually recovering my fitness. For two months I have been mercifully free of the sciatica that racked me after my back op in June.



In spite of the three inflated gym balls that I've inserted under the pool winter cover, the rain - we've had several welcome mms - collects around the edges. A solution is being considered!



On a dull television programming evening, I settle down in my recliner to watch another episode of THE CROWN. It's brilliantly done.



The series is a gift from my sister, who brought it with her from Germany on her last visit. Hence the German script on the DVD (pictured above - although viewers can choose their preferred listening language).



Another evening occupation has been patching the latest cushion covers ripped by the dogs (which object to our evening outings). The cover above is well over a metre in length and required a great deal of sympathetic attention. As it happens, three of the four patches visible in the photo - those with the straight thread - are Barbara's handiwork. The patch top right, with a different thread style is mine. So are half a dozen others that you will have to take on faith.


ENOUGH UNTO THE WEEK

Letter from Espargal: 2 November 2019

DOES SHE FANCY ME, I WONDER!
Our pickings are thin this week and you must forgive me for making the most of the few I have. I was reading an article comparing memorable opening lines in literature (of which this isn't one). My favourite is the introduction to Pride and Prejudice: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." 



The line came to mind as we were chatting with visitors (friends of friends - I'll spare you names) one of whom turned out to be a registrar of marriages in the UK. In the nature of things her duties have required her to officiate at a number of same-sex ceremonies. She was recounting the danger of forgetting (during the "Do you X take Y to be your loving......bit) who was who and the techniques she used to remember.


HE'S NOT MY TYPE
Which I found interesting, although I did wonder what Jane Austen would have made of it. The best line of the week came from a friend in a Whatsapp exchange concerning Conan, the (heroic) Bagdadi raid dog declassified by POTUS. "Speaking of Trump," the friend said, "have you caught any more rats?"  As it happens, we haven't - and we need to, judging by the droppings and almond nut shells that have recently appeared in the shed. (I find it a challenge to keep the blog free of the political tensions that simmer daily inside us.)


WATER BOTTLES STRUNG TO TAUTEN THE COVER
In the meanwhile, with winter looming and swimming a distant prospect, Slavic and I have put the winter cover on the pool. While this isn't a particularly difficult procedure, it requires two people and some dexterity. The brochure that accompanied the cover indicated how a well-positioned gym (yoga, pilates) ball would incline the rain (assuming we get some) to run off the brim rather than drowning the cover in the pool.



As we didn't have a gym ball, we repaired to Decathlon (a vast sports goods store) on the outskirts of Faro to purchase one. At the entrance, guided by an instructor and to a throbbing accompaniment, a mazurka of energetic (mainly) women was bobbing up and down on mini-trampolines.



It was a fascinating and clearly quite a demanding performance, like a human steam engine chugging away. Presumably Decathlon offers the classes as a means of promoting its products. Leaving them to chug on, we entered the store, purchased two gym balls and returned home.



The balls come deflated in boxes along with plastic screw-on nipples for hand or foot operated pumps. I should add immediately that unless one has a couple of hours and a lot of energy to spare, it's much more sensible to use a compressor, which I did - before squeezing the inflated balls under the pool cover.



The idea is that the ball(s) should sit roughly in the centre of the pool. But it becomes immediately apparent that the balls, rather like babies, enter this world with a mind of their own. Prod them into the desired spot and, hey bingo, they immediately return to their preferred position. Eventually, I purchased a third ball and, after much effort, got them roughly centred - as per the photo. Now all we await is the rain.



Another task that Slavic and I have undertaken is the planting of a row of succulents along the fence that separates the park from the cottage below us. The aim is to provide both parties with greater privacy. The first task was to gather a load of rocks from fields in the valley to line the fence. Barbara then selected a variety of succulents from her nursery that we took down on the tractor, along with additional soil and plenty of water to bed them in.



The smaller rocks we used to line the steps down to the fence and the new paths that we have been creating in the park. The rock bed serves to inhibit winter's growth, save on strimming and facilitate the gathering of the carobs that fall from the tree overhead.



When work is done, Slavic and I sit down over a beer and a biscuit and mull over things. Conversation is in Portuguese as he speaks no English and I no Ukrainian. But we get along fine if not fluently. This week Barbara brought out olives to accompany the drinks. They were excellent olives too, almost certainly from our kindly neighbours,  as I explained to Slavic, given that Barbara's home-salted variety could be a bit rough. Bring on humble pie!



In-between times, especially during the long evenings we now face, I have spent hours sorting out and culling photos on the computer. For years I have uploaded my photos to Google Photos and Barbara's to iCloud (she has an early iPhone), from which I retrieve them for the blog. For some reason, iCloud will no longer download hers to my computer (apparently, a common problem and not one I've been able to resolve). I got around it by uploading Barbara's to Google as well. Whatever Google's sins, its products are wonderfully useful.


FLOWERS ON SALE AT ALTE CEMETERY
Today is the 1st of November. It is All Saints Day, a public holiday in Portugal. I have just been to Jodi in Alte to get my toenails cut. Although I can still see my toenails clearly, it has been some time since I've been able to cut them. On All Saints the Portuguese flock to cemeteries to spruce up the graves of their relatives and to put flowers on them. It's a nice tradition.


PICKING UP FEATHERS
The day did not have an auspicious start. Or rather, yesterday ended badly. We returned from dinner with the expats to find that yet another of Barbara's precious cushions had been shredded by the beasts, who had removed it from the south patio to dissect it. The cobbles were liberally strewn with its feathery contents.


UNFORTUNATE CUSHION
We have barely a cushion left that hasn't been patched and sewn. There have been no admissions of guilt nor displays of repentance by the guilty parties. Barbara swears that she'll close the patio when we go out at night in future, even if the dogs have to shiver in the garden - not that there's any sign of winter, nor of the rain we were promised at the start of the week.


FROM BARBARA'S NEPHEW IN CAPE TOWN