The season is upon us. If one were to judge by the shops, it began early in November. Although it's not my favourite time of year, there are bits to relish, especially the gleeful anticipation of the children...
and the simple nativity scenes (known here as presepios) that one finds on the approach to villages. Visitors to Alte (where I continue to submit myself to Jodi's healing hands) can follow the presepio route that takes them past houses whose occupants have created elaborate nativity scenes on their thresholds.
Speaking of Alte, it is our custom (prior to seeing Jodi) to take a coffee and share a rice-cake at Rosa's cafe. I thought it was time that Rosa and hubby were elevated to the blog and they kindly allowed me to take their picture.
As it happens, I have long been irked by a misleading sign on Rosa's loo door reading "CUSTOMER'S". Please note the apostrophe in my text. Until this week, there was a similar apostrophe after the "R" on the door. On our last visit I grasped the nettle and used a thumbnail to erase it. Rosa was quite happy for me to do so, commenting only that a Brit had written the sign in the first place. You may be aware that controversies rage in certain circles over the role of the apostrophe in English, especially in name signs.
Returning to my seasonal theme, Loule has a tradition of erecting Christmas lights that drew admiring crowds until austerity dimmed their appeal some years ago. This year the council has gone somewhat overboard with a low-flying biplane. It's certainly an eye-catcher although such a presence might have come as a great surprise to the three kings.
Over the weekend my neighbour, Joaquim, asked me if I had sown fava beans this year. I confessed that I hadn't. Well, he said, he would sow them for me. And before I could protest, he arrived at my gate on his tractor with disc-plough attached. Joaquim, I should say, has abandoned the traditional method of sowing favas, which is to drill the seeds uniformly with a scattering of fertiliser pellets.
Instead he turns over the soil with the discs, throws handfuls of seeds about the field and then ploughs them in. He swears that they grow just as well. Time will tell. Fava beans are picked in early summer. The reason I hadn't sown any myself is that we are so generously provided for by our neighbours, who are better farmers than I am.
Barbara, turning to matters domestic, is an enthusiastic texter. Whatsapp could fairly claim to be her favourite means of communication. The reason I mention this is that, like most of us, she is subject to the whims of predictive text. "I wrote a strange message to X," she confided one morning, "Not even I could work out what I was trying to say." Far be it from me to comment.
I have had my own run-ins with predictive text as the message one sends is often different from that intended. We have all of us had to fire off rapid corrections.
NOT NECESSARILY WHAT YOU THINK
It was only after Whatsapping a cigarette-smoking neighbour that I saw that the message had addressed itself to "Dear Nicotine." I hope the recipient saw the funny side.
BJ'S WAIFS, FEEDING UNDER THE ROADSIDE BIN
Apropos of nothing, there are occasions when I enjoy a Portuguese chit-chat. While topping up my (impressive) monthly pill prescription at the pharmacy in Almancil, I wondered how the attractive young lady behind the counter could be a pharmacist as she looked no older than 15. She replied reflectively that she would be 32 on her next birthday. I was astonished. I don't think she was displeased. She certainly wouldn't have gotten a drink in the US without her ID.
Thursday morning Slavic and I set about the garden, especially the succulents, which were overpowering the paths. The equally energetic ivy has to be cut back from the roof of Casa Nada at least twice a year. And, unless savagely curbed, the morning glory creeper colonises its neighbours with a ruthlessly attractive zeal.
Russ and Mini declare themselves the willing servants of anyone who might just have a treat in their pockets.
Monday afternoon Natasha returned. Her news was not good. Alex was in bed with a virus, having fallen ill in Tokyo; consequently, he had been unable to impress in the international gymnastics competition. She had rushed him to the health centre on his return to Portugal. His training partner, meanwhile, had taken the gold medal .
Now is Thursday night. There's a cold wind blowing. Barbara has made a wondrous fire that is warming the whole house. The dogs are laid out like drunks around the living room. Although my fingers are on the keyboard, my thoughts are on the result of the UK election, which should shortly become clear!
MOON OVER ESPARGAL
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