Letter from Espargal: 23 July 2016

DAWN

Good day from Espargal on a blue-sky day with a welcome wind ruffling the branches of the trees in the garden below. Another scorching week is approaching its end. (I heard an interview with a resident of Baghdad who laughed out loud at the suggestion that 35* was hot. "Come and try it here," he responded. Well, everything's relative. Nearly everything!)


ALL IN A HOT AND COPPER SKY

It would be fair to say that Mini has been the focus of our week. Our attempts to find a home for her somewhere other than at Valapena have not met with early success. After three days' post-op confinement in the orphans' former enclosure, Mini let us know that enough was enough.



Twice she managed to wriggle out through the narrowest of gaps. Each time we enticed her back in. (She's happy to follow a food bowl!) Our concern was that she would take herself off and miss her daily anti-biotic pill - with potentially fatal consequences.


ARTY CAT

On the other hand we were confronted with her growing unhappiness and ever more frequent yaps of protest at her detention. A compromise was called for. We decided to leave the enclosure gate open for her to come and go, expecting that she would return for the meals that she'd been consuming with such gusto.


THE CATS DON'T SEEM TO MIND MINI EITHER

We also encouraged the other dogs to meet her through the fence - with generally benign results. For a while the day release policy seemed to work. Mini wandered off after breakfast to catch up with her acquaintances but would report back for meals - all she could get.


DINNER TIME

Then one morning, as we set out on our walk, we found her waiting on the far side of the top gate. It was the first time that she met the gang without a separating fence. With very little ado, other than some convivial bottom sniffing and tail wagging, she joined us on the walk as though it were her established daily practice.



The boys find her attractive - possibly a bit too attractive - and the girls don't seem to mind her company. I have to say that she is a clever and captivating little creature and that it's only our possession of so many other animals that has so far dissuaded us from adopting her officially ourselves. She has also attached herself to Jones although my wife says it's just cupboard love.


GARDEN SCENE

Changing tack: my Saturday morning workers laid two new sections of paving - yet to be grouted - which have met with Jones approval. As usual, this involved much ferrying by tractor of rocks and barrows of concrete from the mixer to the site under development. On Sunday I woke with a stiff back that by the evening was giving me a hard time. It was going unpredictably into spasm, leading me to grunt in a manner that Jones found most unappealing.



Jodi, who was able to fit me in the next morning, surmised that the problem might have arising from my peering over my shoulder as I reversed the tractor up steep inclines - not that this has bothered me before. (Travelling forwards uphill might endanger the load, often of large rocks, a cascade of which down the drive in the direction of Idalecio's fence would be the stuff of nightmares.)



Although the stiffness eased over the next few days, I was grateful for a second session of physio. As I passed through Benafim on my return, I was buzzed by a water-bag bearing helicopter that whizzed low overhead. A fire-engine was maneuvering outside the supermarket and a police car was hurrying to the scene. Something was afoot. Locals were congregated on the pavements. All that was missing was the fire. There must have been one for a second helicopter came clattering low overhead, spilling water.


DUNNO WHAT HAPPENED TO THE WATER BAG

At the petrol station I gathered from the attendant that the cause of the excitement was a blaze that had broken out in a large field between the church and supermarket. After filling up I drove to the top of the hill overlooking the town, hoping to get some decent shots for the blog but - like the angler whose big fish got away - I found little to illustrate my story. The upper part of the field was a sodden black; the fire was out, the crowds were drifting away and the firemen were packing away their gear. They must have been pleased to get the job done swiftly. I can barely imagine what it must be like fighting fires in heavy protective suits in 35* of heat.



Fires and Mini apart, the week has borne a close resemblance to those it has followed. In the morning we've been out shopping, banking, returning Mini's carrier, getting physio and annual check-ups. In the afternoons I've snoozed or worked at my desk, Jones has trotted off to visit Portuguese neighbours who are delighted to have her company once or twice a month. We don't walk until after seven when the day has cooled down; then come dog dinners and more garden watering so that it's nine-thirty before we sit down to a salad supper, generally in front of the news.



We have followed Boris's first week in office, Theresa's European travels and - Lord help us - the Donald Trump circus playing out in Cleveland, finding it hard to credit that millions of Americans are actually going to vote for him to lead the free world. We shake our heads in disbelief. Brexit was scary. The upheaval in Turkey is alarming. But the prospect of a Trump presidency is utterly terrifying.



So, let me end where the blog began, on Mini's arrival. The fact is that she's moved in. Somehow it seems that she's destined to stay. She has certainly made herself at home with startling rapidity. The rest of the gang appear content to have her. It takes only a couple of minutes to prepare yet another doggy meal twice a day. There are times when one just has to shrug in the face of destiny and accept that this is the way things are meant to be.

Letter from Espargal: 16 July 2016

THE CONQUERING HEROES RETURN

Of all the events in our frame this week, none compares with the surge of pride and joy that swelled the nation's hearts after Eder's foot launched the thunderbolt late goal that secured the Euro 2016 championship. The all-conquering heroes flew back to Lisbon the following day to a welcome by vast and adoring crowds including the State President, who was waiting to bestow suitable honours on them.



The squad's indifferent progress through the championship was forgotten; indeed, a slate of mortal of sins would have been forgiven them without so much as a penitent Hail Mary. And we were happy for them. Portugal needs all the uplifting it can get. You will not mind that I have borrowed a few pictures of the occasion.



We had hoisted the Portuguese flag on our upper patio before the game (at my sister, Cathy's insistence; following Germany's demise, she rallied to Ronaldo's cause). Here it is, fluttering high above the village.



While Jones was pleased for Portugal, she disapproved of the competition because, she said, so many teams had to lose in order that one might win. She pitied especially tearful France as French fans saw the anticipated crown slipping from their grasp. In Jones's world, creatures would co-operate rather than compete, even in sport.



As for Jones herself, she got a little older. This aging event was not noticeable in itself, only in the kindness of friends and a celebration dinner for two that we enjoyed at the Hamburgo. Pauline and Fintan presented Jones with an after-shower wrap-around of the kind that ladies find useful in preserving their modesty. She will have to wait until October to receive the gift that I have planned for her - in Madeira.


THE WRAP

One blessing of these events was that they helped to distract us from Brexit, whose unexpected consequences have continued unabated. It was with a sigh of relief that we beheld wannabee Andrea Leadsom leave the contenders' stage and a sigh of regret that we witnessed David Cameron's exit from Downing Street. What a pity that he made a rod to beat his own back. Sometimes that's the way it is.



These past two days we have followed the new cabinet appointments as Theresa sets up her stall. We confess to a little schadenfreude as sneaky Gove got his just desserts (note the pun!) and to much surprise at shoot-from-the-hip Boris's elevation to the Foreign Office. To be honest, we don't much care who's appointed to do what as long as the economy prospers and the pound recovers.


HOT DOGS

In-between these things there has been much running around - to our accountants in Guia, to the shops, to the dog sanctuary in Goldra and to the vet in Loule. The last of these was to neuter a small bitch that recently made an appearance in the village. Although she roams the streets during the day, she visits a local family in the evenings to romp with their son, who is very fond of her. He says they call her Mini.


MINI RECOVERING FAST!

Between them on Wednesday, at my request, they were able to coax Mini into a borrowed dog-carrier. I took her into the vet the same evening and fetched her again 24 hours later.



The poor little mite will have to spend a little time in our former orphans' enclosure so that she can receive her daily anti-biotics. Jones sighs. She really doesn't want another dog, as winsome as she is. Pally has clearly taken a fancy to Mini; he somehow hopped the fence after his morning walk to join her in the pen where he is plighting his troth.



For the rest, life continues along the usual paths. We still walk the dogs - early and late. Nelson comes one or two days a week to clear the interminable overgrown verges. My Ukrainians still lay stone floors on Saturday mornings. At present we're working at the bottom of the garden on a project both to block next winter's weeds and to improve the appearance. We still have to do the grouting.



The days roll by under a simmering grey sky that conjures beads of sweat the instant one steps outside. Inside the house we - more I than she - cower in front of fans during the heat of the day. Just a few more weeks before the land cools down and we can breathe easily once again.

Letter from Espargal: 8 July 2016

Mostly what I have done this week is to perspire. {Jones is a minimalist perspirer(?) perspirant (?) sweater!} However, I have not perspired as much this week as I expect to do next week when temperatures are due to rise to the upper 30s. Fret not! I am aware that few people - if any - will be interested in how hot we are in the Algarve or how profusely I am perspiring. But perhaps, during the next ice age, some curious researcher will come across the blog and be astonished to learn that where glaciers hold stead, cicadas once serenaded the scorching hills. (They are shrieking to high heaven as I write!)



In the interests of medicine I could post a picture of the multiple itchy heat bumps embracing my midriff but in the interests of good taste I shall stick up one of Jones's flower photos instead.


ROTATING VESTS AND SHIRTS

Mild surprise has been expressed about the quantity of beer that I confessed to consuming during the height of the Algarve summer. It occurred to me that I might have given a wrong impression, ("taken out of context, M'lud!") .



The beers concerned were of modest size - 33cl cans - and consumed by the half dozen only on the hottest days and over the course of several hours. I never had the least sense of intoxication although I did enjoy some good siestas. As I pointed out to my correspondent, any serious beer drinker would regard such modest consumption as bordering on abstemious. Anyhow, that's all history; it's Lidl's alcohol-free beers to which I now have recourse.



This month's Kaspersky internet security bulletin gives details of the latest ingenious scams and fiendish ransom-ware traps that threaten the well-being of computer users, often masquerading as emails from one's bank or the likes. Although all my documents are automatically backed up to Dropbox, pundits give warning that "the cloud" offers no protection against computer kidnappers; one has to use an independent back-up drive to be certain of protecting personal information.



Taking the warning to heart, I had a chat to Inforomba about the best back-up devices and opted for a capacious high-speed USB stick. On to this stick I have now copied all my text, picture and music files - many thousands of them. I'm in two minds about whether to back up my gmail files - that's after much reading about the various options.



Whether I shall be sufficiently disciplined to make regular back-ups in future is another matter. Since these files contain details of all our dealings, as well as personal stuff, their loss would wretchedly complicate our lives.


NOTHING LIKE A DIP AFTER A HOT WALK

Still on matters computorial, we were anxious after hearing of the Istanbul airport bomb to ensure that our nephew, Bevan, had not been a victim as he is a frequent business visitor to the city. So I sent him a WhatsApp message - to which I received no reply; not for several days that is. When a response did come, it was from someone who said I had the wrong Bevan. A peek at the accompanying WhatsApp picture confirmed this.



I was mightily puzzled as WhatsApp is meant to obtain links only from one's phone-list and the guy concerned wasn't known to me. (He subsequently had the civility to inquire whether our Bevan was okay. I was able to reassure him that our nephew had missed the bomb by 24 hours.) Bevan later confirmed that he did use WhatsApp but not at the number I had for him. This has since been rectified.


PLUMBAGO

I continue to receive daily invitations from senior members of the United Nations and the International Monetary Fund to collect the vast funds waiting for me if only I will pay the necessary duties. Today's, written in the usual excruciating English and warning of the dangers of impostors, comes from "Ms Christine Largade (sic)" via her yahoo account. Like the UN Secretary General, the director of the FBI and other worthies, her office appears to be based in Benin. One can only think that the West African scammers on the far side of these emails must continue to make money from new idiots although the scams themselves have hardly changed down the years.



If all this stuff seems very dull, it's because there is little new to say about dog duties, gardening and field clearing, which I have reported ad nauseam. We are concerned about a small stray bitch, obviously domesticated, that has recently appeared in the village. She's been on heat for several days, attracting the inevitable attentions of the male strays. It's only a matter of time before she pups. Jones and I are hoping well before then to get her to the vet. The hard bit will be releasing her back on to the streets afterwards. My heart goes out to these unfortunate abandoned animals. I often reflect that, as a species, we humans first seduced dogs, then we either abused them or betrayed them.


IT'S A DOG'S LIFE

Mind you, there are exceptions!


TOMATO SANDWICHES ON STILL-WARM BREAD AT THE PRIMEIRO DO MAIO SNACK-BAR

We watch dismally as the pound continues to slide, wondering whether and when it will hit bottom. All the pundits are agreed on is that it has further to go.


MISTY MORNING

At last Portugal's football team would appear to have gelled. It's extraordinary that they will be going into the Euro final this Sunday after winning just one match - the semis against Wales - within 90 minutes. Time and again they've scraped through.The nation will go crazy if they are successful again on Sunday. Fingers crossed.

SLAVIC, NATASHA AND HER SON, ALEX, AT THE WATER PARK

I frequently make mention of Slavic, Natasha and Alex. Here they are at a local water park. Natasha and Alex have just returned from an international gymnastics competition up north where he secured fourth place.

Letter from Espargal: 2 July 2016

Thursday: Although it's largely events in sleepy Espargal with which this blog concerns itself, it's events in the UK that have had us gripped this week. We have looked on in bemusement at dagger-wielding politicians knifing their rivals while the SS GB drifts towards the shoals. I murmured fervent thanks that I was not in a TV news control room, trying to decide which homicide to attend next.



But like it or hate it, we can't escape it. The pair of us are drawn inexorably to the news media for the latest snippet like moths to the flames. Brexit and its repercussions have simply dominated our lives.



We have found Britain's decision to leave the EU hard to accept, akin to an unexpected death in the family. As an Irish citizen I should not be directly affected; but as an Irish citizen married to an irate and distressed British citizen, I am. It's not so much any eventual effects of Brexit, nor even its implications for sterling that are troubling; it's the emotional shock, the sense of betrayal - like discovering that your partner is playing you false and with some vile knave to boot.



We have to remind ourselves of the fulfilling lives we lead - of our lovely home, gorgeous garden, enviable environment and (relatively) secure income. Yet somehow, these are things one comes to take for granted.



In-between times we (more I than she) have watched a group of second league Icelandic footballers humiliate mighty Albion and winced as Portugal inched through to the semi-finals by a whisker.



On the home front we still walk the dogs twice a day, still apply muti to Russ's exzema (much improved), still wage war on the weeds, still talk to the neighbours and still feed the waifs and strays. I have pumped out the fossa over Jones's grateful plants. Nelson and I have continued to remove the suckers and clean up around the trunks of our many trees.



When he and I were unable between us to fire up the chainsaw, I took it up to Helio's workshop in Benafim to seek expert advice. Helio informed me that I was flooding it by repeatedly trying to start it with the choke open - and showed me how to get around the problem. Five euros please!



I give thanks for individuals like Helio. Life would be much tougher without them. When a client arrives, he puts down whatever he's working on and attends to one's needs. Never mind that his workshop looks like a bomb site, with spare parts and bits of machinery clinging to the walls and clogging the floor.



Inevitably, such deals are settled in cash that the taxman is anxious to know about. From next year the Financas will have automatic access to all bank accounts as part of a campaign to clamp down on tax evasion. Equally he will be informed about any transfers offshore and any expenditure on expensive new vehicles, boats and the like.



My Saturday morning workers have virtually completed the walls at the entrance to our new circular driveway. I have several other projects in mind for them before the Algarve goes into hibernation under the simmering heat of August when even the cicadas tend to nod off.



These works are aimed at improving both looks and function and reducing the workload in years ahead. Jones is determined to show age two fingers- it's just a number she says; I am not quite as confident. She strolls along our rocky trails, hands clasped behind her, while I pick my cautious way, walking stick in hand.



In spite of my many labours, I have encountered a chorus of complaints from my waistband and have grown concerned to do something about them. This is especially over mid-summer as my beer consumption tends to rise with the temperature.



With temps already well into the 30s, the beer seems to ooze out of one almost as fast as it goes down. Aware of the calories involved, I've invested in a stock of low calorie alcohol-free beers. They're not what I'd drink for choice but they do offer an acceptable compromise between thirst-quenching and obesity.



The week's light relief has come from the Loule Sports venue where hundreds of young gymnasts and several thousand clappers-on gathered last weekend for a display. Jones and I went along at Natasha's suggestion to watch her son, Alex, in action. We thought we'd missed him but Natasha says that he was the youth performing on the trampoline in a mask. And he was brilliant.



She herself took part in a display of some kind of keep-fit dancing. The most impressive part of the event was to see the numbers of tiny tots already doing their thing - with a little help from bigger friends. Pre-teens were building human pyramids and teens were somersaulting and tumbling every which way. It was good to forget about Brexit for an hour.