DOWNTOWN ESPARGAL
Hello from Espargal. This is another reverse blog. It starts on Thursday and staggers back towards the beginning of the week. Thursday is my busiest day. Slavic arrives at 8.30 and we get down to work. A few weeks ago, as we were labouring in the park, I offered him €10 euros if he succeeded in flattening a rock that protruded awkwardly near the base of the tractor ramps leading to an upper terrace.
On Thursday Slavic took up the challenge with a large hammer. When he set to work, he discovered that the rock was independent rather than part of a slab as we'd thought. So he sought to prise it out instead. The first job was to clear the surrounding soil. Then I reversed the tractor up against the rock to raise it bit by bit while Slavic tossed in smaller rocks to underpin it.
Eventually we managed to manoeuvre the rock on to the tractor box and went hunting for a spot to unload it. I'm trying not to make this sound any easier than it proved. The only way to get rid of the rock was to drive the tractor up a steep bank and then lever it off again with assistance from gravity. Unloading it proved almost as hard as loading had. It was - it is - a very substantial rock.
With much effort (on the part Slavic and the tractor) it was done. After our walk I took Jones down to the terrace to demonstrate the magnitude of our achievement. She was duly impressed. And, of course, I paid Slavic the additional €10 euros I'd promised him. It will be a pleasure to use the ramp without having to dodge around or bounce over the rock (which liked to conceal itself amidst the greenery).
Most of the work day went into the continuing task of clearing the area within 50 metres of the house as a fire precaution. We use the path leading to the upper gate as the dividing line. The (now petal-free) asphodel stalks and leafy alexanders still inhabit the right hand side in their thousands. Summer lurks just around the corner.
Wednesday we went shopping for groceries. Before leaving the car we check the length of the queues outside the supermarkets. Then we take cloths dampened from a bottle of Dettol disinfectant, to carefully wipe shopping cart handles and anything else that offers, as well as our hands, at frequent intervals. These are scary times and we confess to being scared.
After a spell of rain, our days have been sunny and cloudy by turns, often with a cold wind and generally just cool enough to warrant a fire at night. Most days I jump (well, "clamber" if you insist) into the jacuzzi after our walks. Jones joins me in the evenings. As we lie back, the world recedes.
The village dogs provide an intermittent chorus, with a descant from the birds. Beyond the patio railings, the tops of the trees rustle in the breeze like touselled hair. It's very restful. So is watching the clouds performing a slow-motion ballet overhead. One afternoon they formed a remarkably accurate outline of Europe, and another of north America, as though mirroring the continents below.
After the recent rain, we drove down to the Algibre to watch the river flowing once again. We are promised more rain again next week. Let it fall, ye weather gods, let it fall! Climate change is doing us no favours. We need every drop we can get. We have just topped 400 mm for the season with barely a hopeful rain month to go.
Once or twice a week we head to Alte for a back tune-up from Jodi. That's me rather than Jones. The village has gone into hibernation. The snack bar and restaurant doors are firmly shut. Hardly a soul stirs. A sign at the village entrance bans the tourist jeeps that used to stop over there with their lightly-clad, sunburned occupants for coffee and cake. (Our maid at the Quinta, Maria, used to call them "the salmons" because of their ominously deep pink hue.)
For the rest, we have gradually adopted a (semi) self-isolating pattern of behaviour. The morning walk is followed by coffee and a biscuit - in my case more often consumed with encouragement from Mini. Afterwards, I generally settle down at the computer. Jones does her thing in the garden. After lunch, a siesta, an hour in the garden, another walk, a baggy and supper. If nothing offers on TV, we fall back on Netflix. And so it goes.
Now is Friday afternoon. Time to go to press. Jones is rescuing a moth. (If it's not a moth, it's a spider.) The British royal family is proving as vulnerable to Covid-19 as the country's leaders. The dogs are looking hopeful. Guess I'd better get going.
