Letter from Espargal: 24 August 2018

This is not an easy week about which to say anything pertinent nor to post pictures featuring fewer than four legs  - not for the first time I hear you mutter. One could begin by saying that it's been a hot week, a very hot week, which is not unusual for mid-August. Like the dogs (when not scratching my orbiting heat bumps) I spend a lot of time in air-conditioned horizontal contemplation, waiting for autumn.



If truth be told, what we've done mostly over the past several days is to care for little Prickles. For some time he has been ultra-fussy about his food and liable to throw up anything that upsets him. (Fortunately, Jones is a good cleaner-upperer.) This month he began throwing up just about everything he ate which we found most disconcerting. The washing machine has worked overtime. So off to the vet he went, much against his inclination.



An x-ray showed the cause to be a stomach tumour. We decided against an operation as he's at least 13 or 14 years old, never mind that he hates entering the  surgery. Instead he has been prescribed cortisone and Jones has put him on a diet of liquids and patés that he seems to cope with - most of the time. We don't know whether the tumour is malignant and it's impossible to know how long the little dog may survive.  At the weekend Slavic and I completed the grave we've been preparing for him, fully expecting that he would shortly be occupying it.



In the meanwhile we've continued to take him with us in the car (as usual) - which he loves - and sat with him at night, or part of it at least. So far, somewhat to our surprise, on his limited diet, there has been no obvious deterioration in his condition. Most of the day he spends in his basket or sprawled on the couch. In the mornings he accompanies Barbara out of the front door for a brief leg-lifter while the rest of the pack set out with me on a trek around the hills.



I make my way clockwise around our circuit, Barbara travels anti-clockwise. We confer briefly midway and meet at the gates on our return. At that stage the dogs are awarded treats (very important: it encourages the stragglers to come in promptly); Mello dives into her bath, I prepare doggy breakfasts, Jones makes coffee and we get on with the day.



Pally inevitably comes back last. He remains by nature a loner. When he isn't zonked out in the heat, he noses off around the garden or park until he finds something of interest. Then he barks. He barks a lot. His persistent barks in her garden one afternoon drove an exasperated Jones to investigate.



The cause turned out to be a large snake that Pally was confronting. So she yelled for me to come back from the park. (I have my uses). By the time I'd arrived on the scene, snake gripper in hand, the serpent had slithered off into the undergrowth, where we left it. Except on open ground, they're all but invisible. What's more it was a big snake. I don't believe in fighting above my weight.



This week we started collecting carobs. At last they've started dropping from the trees - at least a month late. This season's beans are smaller and drier than usual so it takes a lot more work to fill a bucket. Since they're sold by weight, small and dry is bad news for farmers and good news for the merchants.



As Armenio pointed out to me, it's the seeds lined up within the pod that are valued by the food industry. The pods themselves are essentially fodder. With dry beans the merchants get more seeds for their money. For the most part our carobs are still tinged with green and unwilling to part with the branches. Unless whacked down, they'll take their time to fall over the next several months.



By evening the temperatures slip back to the mid-20s, ideal for dining outside. A mozzie candle serves to keep the little blighters at bay. Jones kindly prepares dinner. I keep the dogs in order, keep an eye on the garden, observe the alignment of the planets, look out for any aliens and watch out for the lizard that hunts for his supper around the patio lights (busy man!).



The little fellow lurks in the shadows until he spots a likely meal, generally a moth. Then he sneaks up, gathers his energies and zap!, a flick of the tongue and they're gone. There was a real glut of moths a few weeks back. Now they're much thinner on the ground - or rather, around the lights on the wall. (What there isn't a shortage of is wasps, yellow-jackets that pester the dogs each time I put down their dishes.)


MARIE'S LIZARD
I often reflect how useful it would be to run effortlessly around a vertical wall Spiderman style and to grow new body parts to replace those that get lost or damaged. It really appeals. Evolution has failed us. On the other hand I don't much fancy a diet of moths, as much as this might promote my weight-loss programme (down 5kgs in two months and counting).


FROM JONES'S NEPHEW IN CAPE TOWN
We have also been watching local TV and learning lots of Portuguese grammar for exams due in October. Portugal's male-leaning language doesn't seem to arouse the same gender controversies as upset (some!) English speakers. I note that the Guardian, to which I subscribe online, has become gender sensitive. In a questionnaire the newspaper inquired whether I identified as male, female or other - the first time I have faced such question.  I responded in the "other" block that I identified as a retired European expat in Portugal. Seems adequate to me.


ROLL ON AUTUMN!

Letter from Espargal: 17 August 2018

SUNSET OVER MONCHIQUE MOUNTAIN~
As you can see, last week's smoke-choked air has cleared.



The raging fires that fanned out from Monchique have finally been extinguished, leaving vast acreages of skeletal black trees amid the ashes of people's homes and lives.



The effort now is to render assistance to the bewildered victims. Appeals have gone out for donations to emergency funds while teams of volunteers distribute food and clothing.



No longer focused on the western horizon, we have resumed our normal lives. As we set out on our walk last Saturday morning, the dogs sniffed suspiciously at a creature coiled just inside the gate. The serpentine visitor, for such it was, distrustful of the beasts, immediately slithered into the undergrowth beside the woodshed. There we left it as we went on our way.



On our return I equipped Slavic with our snake-gripper while I turned the hose on the undergrowth. As he was assuring me that the snake had already moved on, it shot out, heading for Casa Nada. Slavic, equally quick, managed to grab it by the tail. The snake, understandably upset at being thus grasped, made no attempt to hide its feelings. You can't explain to a snake that you mean it no harm and are merely intent on relocating it which, photographs taken, was exactly what we did. Dogs and snakes don't mix.



The day's big job was relaying the cobbles that we had removed two weeks earlier to replace the cracked t-joint on the water main. We reckoned that we'd given the foundations time enough to settle again. Slavic tapped the stones back into position before filling the cracks between them with a weak concrete mixture. Finally he are then tamped the surface down. Job done.



Twice during the week we have visited a small holiday apartment-and- restaurant complex on the fringes of Loule, once to dine with friends and once just to relax with Pricks over a glass of wine and a toasted sandwich while Natasha was busy in the house. (Age and disability have not reduced the little dog's insistence on a daily ride in the car!)



Light refreshments are available from the kiosk beside the pool. Pricks just loves the lawn, not a luxury that we can offer him at home. I confess that I rather like it myself. (That's my foot poking out bottom right.)



One can relax over a sandwich on the grass verge or settle down at tables on a dais under the trees, away from the hustle and bustle of the adjoining restaurant. The pool and its environs, which are intended primarily for vacationers staying at the holiday apartments, are little used and serve to provide a most pleasant setting.



Of an evening we have also dined out on our own front patio when the temperature has dropped from pant to bearable. Jonesy generally makes a large mixed salad. She arms herself with a baggie or we share a glass of wine, I light the anti-mozzie candles, the dogs gather around, Jones points out whatever planet has hoved into celestial view and we dine to the song of the cicadas or the magical call of the owl in the valley.


SECTION OF THE ELECTRICITY SWITCHBOARD
A long overdue task now accomplished is the interpretation of the scribble left on the main switchboard by the Portuguese electrician who installed it. This board (there's a small one upstairs and a third in Casa Nada) has three rows of switches, each with scrawled clues to their use. By dint of both guessing and testing, I have identified the purpose of all except three. Next time we see the electrician, I hope to pin those down as well.


TWO MERGED BLACKS CATS
On Wednesday, the feast of the Assumption of Mary into Heaven, the people of Portugal enjoyed a public holiday.  Back in the days of yore when I was a good Marist brother it was an extra-special occasion when rules were relaxed - one we looked forward to during our years of training.



The belief that Mary's body was "assumed" into heaven remains an article of faith of the Catholic Church, one over which I have reflected a great deal (somewhat disbelievingly) down the years. Sadly, what makes news is not the church's beliefs but rather its abuses and the hierarchy that hid them for shame. I shudder at the revelations.



Jones, as ever, has been spending long hours in her garden.  (Please take a moment to admire her Asclepia Curassavica.) From time to time she asks me whether I've noticed how she's cut this or that back and I promise to look carefully next time I pass. For what it's worth, for my part I join her in  watering the garden daily as well as cutting back, mainly in the evening when I wander around the park, clippers in hand, with the dogs. They chivvy me on, impatient to reach the top where they get a treat.



Thursday dawned cloudy and much cooler, a welcome change from mid-30s temps. My orbiting body bumps heaved a (temporary) sigh of relief - the heat is due back at the weekend. We celebrated by picking more plums from our trees and sharing them, along with the veggies that Armenio brought us last night. Our carobs are now ripening and will soon be ready for picking in turn - when we shall be able to repay some of his generosity.


DAWN THURSDAY
Sufficient unto the week!

Letter from Espargal: 10 August 2018

WEDNESDAY'S SKY - FROM OUR PATIO

This has been a week of extremes. It started intensely hot and it ended quite chilly, especially in the wind that's ruffled the trees these past few days. The heat and the wind together have caused huge problems for the firefighters - some 1,400 at last count -  who are still battling the wildfire that sprang up in the Monchique area last Friday. Since then it has spread alarmingly north and east.  Wednesday's sky prompted us to consider how we might evacuate the property if threatened. In the meanwhile we have raked the dry grass cuttings well away from the garden.



As the exhausted firefighters battled on, the expat association put out an urgent appeal for supplies to sustain them. With the support of several neighbours, Jones and I raided supermarkets and pharmacies for the essentials and ran a carload out to the bombeiros in Sao Bras. (Bombeiros, literally, the pumpers.)



There, to our subsequent disappointment, we became so involved in the unloading of the supplies that we failed to take any pictures of the half dozen grateful bombeiros assisting us. The best we could do was to circle back to get a photo of the station itself. As I write on Thursday night, the fire seems to be largely under control after destroying some 30,000 hectares of trees and scores of houses.



There's been much coverage of the controversy around residents who refused police instructions to evacuate their houses, insisting on remaining to defend them. Some were removed by force. From what we understand of the legal advice given on TV, the police have the right to remove residents when they consider the circumstances warrant evacuation.



Much of the area where the fire has raged is inaccessible except to water-bombing aircraft. Although the operation now seems to be essentially damping down, we continue to monitor the Portuguese news stations, which are providing 24 hour coverage.



While returning from Sao Bras we stopped to take a photo of this monument -  a tribute to the first Portuguese airmen to fly across the Atlantic. Clearly no Business Class in those days. Jones took a moment to inspect the building in the background, which turned out to be the municipal swimming pool.


CAR TEMPERATURE GAUGE, MID PIC, SHOWING 41*
Last weekend, as I indicated, was a stinker. The car's temperature gauge speaks for itself. It's the first time I've seen it register figures in the 40s. (The Ronald eRupts, by the way. refers to the seasonal and infernally itchy heat bumps now orbiting my nether regions.)



Last Saturday Jones suggested - and I agreed - that it might be a good day to clean out my workshop rather than work under the sun. Slavic and I hauled the dusty contents on to the drive, snipped the creeper that had crept inside the building, brushed the cobwebs from the windows, swept the leaves from the floor and embarked on a great sorting out.



Slavic was pleased to take receipt of a number of tools, mainly items that had been passed on to us by down-sizing friends. The junk went on to the back of the tractor, to be distributed in due course between the recycling bins and garbage. At lunchtime we called it a day, raising cold beers on the patio to a job well done.



Mid-afternoon the sky turned ominously grey and oppressive. It felt as though we were living in a giant stew pot. Even so, the squall that hit us came completely out of the blue or, rather, out of the grey.



In seconds, a gale-driven rain-storm scattered the patio chairs, tubs and buckets around the cobbles like paper cups. The spray came in horizontally, soaking the patio and its contents. Huge drops spattered off the cobbles like so many water bomblets.



Jones got soaked in an instant rescuing the chairs.



As did I (if not quite as attractively), lining up tubs underneath the spouts that were gushing great streams of water down from the upper patio. The squall eased off after a few minutes, to be followed by another half an hour later. At least by then we had rescued the furniture and dried ourselves off.  Afterwards I measured a welcome (and extremely unusual for August) 9 mm of rain.


MELLO TAKING A BATH
Sunday things started to cool off a little as the intense cell of hot Sahara air that had gripped Iberia for days gradually dispersed. Relief couldn't come soon enough to the Portuguese and Spanish interiors where many people were trapped in their houses by temperatures that climbed into the upper 40s. Not even Arabia was that hot.



Sunday evening we attended the Benafim festa. It's an annual two-day fund-raiser for the community centre and adjoining retirement home, an event we always enjoy in the company of neighbours. As I have often remarked, alcohol flows freely for those who want it but there are no inebriates in evidence. It's a family-oriented gathering and we like it that way.



Chloe bravely took the floor with Dina (an intelligent village "mute" now living in the retirement home). Towards the end of the evening we more or less bought out the remaining tickets for tombola stall (which had several attractive items on display) and spent half an hour claiming and sorting our prizes. What we didn't fancy went back to the stall for next year's draw.



It's hard to know what's happened to the rest of the week. I have spent a good deal of time staying cool (i.e. in my siesta recliner in the air-conditioned study).



Jones has gardened, ironed, cleaned and cooked, stewing more of our plums, destalking donated raisins and retrieving last year's frozen figs from the fridge. We have both begun revising the Portuguese language papers of past years with a view to taking the exam in October.



On several occasions we have had to rescue beautiful humming bird hawk-moths that abound at present and are forever finding their way into the house. This photo shows one that we trapped in light netting in order to remove it from the electrical socket in which it sought refuge. The picture does it no credit. Hawk moths are spectacular creatures that hover fleetingly just like their namesakes on the fringes of flowers.


CHLOE MASSEY'S FIERY SKY FROM THE MASSEY PATIO
And so the sun rises and sets on another week!

Letter from Espargal: 3 August 2018

The mid-30s temps that I left behind in the UK at the end of last month have arrived in Iberia with a vengeance. But hot or not, there was work to be done. I girded my loins.



Saturday: The first task was to attend to the leak in the water supply pipe. It was Slavic who did most of the fixing. As we suspected, the T-joint had developed a hairline crack. You won't believe how much water can escape through a hairline crack. Jones was delighted to have water flowing from the taps again, rather than having to fetch it from the cisterna, a bucket at a time.



Sunday evening we joined the Masseys at Sao Bras fair - always a favourite of ours. The tractors in the background are Kubotas. They have an excellent reputation. Although my tractor is a Kioti, it has a Kubota engine, something I point out to aficionados. Oh, yes, that's Fintan and Pauline with winsome granddaughter, Chloe, down from Dublin. Chloe and I discussed the best chat-up lines for pensioners (to avoid such responses as: "Piss off grandpa; I'm not into OAPs). Jones needs no introduction.



Monday we ran around. Vodafone explained why they had been charging me a lot of money; Leroy Merlin exchanged the tap-fittings that hadn't fitted and provided us with a branch-lopper to replace the one that fell off the tractor when I went to Benafim to fetch the strimmer; the vet sold us some more muti for Russ's infected ears - and so on.  Jones has been treating Russ twice a day (while I encourage him to sit still, awaiting a treat); Russ is a particularly earie dog.



Also on Monday the UK authorities sent me a police certificate saying I hadn't done anything wrong (or, at least, I hadn't been convicted). They're quibbling over Jones's because her pension slip, proving she lives in Portugal, lacks the street address. We've tried to explain that until recently the house didn't have a street address. (The streets were named and houses numbered just a few years back.) Meanwhile we've entered for the Portuguese language exams later in the year. The Brexit news is particularly depressing.



On Tuesday we picked lots of plums. That's Jones up a plum tree, partially obscured by the tractor roll-bar and partially by the branches. As I was coming back home from a delivery run on the tractor, a small military armoured car approached from the opposite direction. A female soldier was standing in the turret. I saluted her. She saluted back. Once I did military service too; it's not a period that I remember with affection.



Wednesday I was grateful for an appointment with Jodi. If I am reincarnated, I am going to re-emerge in a species without a backbone -  not that the options are attractive. It was too hot to leave Prickles in the car. He came with me into Jodi's rooms. The car thermometer registered  C40*. Central Portugal and parts of Spain are expected to peak closer to C50* today and tomorrow.



Wednesday evening we gathered at Armenio's art gallery and museum for a convivial hour. Afterwards Armenio demonstrated some of the liquors that had sustained members of his generation after a hard day's work. Chloe spluttered over a thimble of baggy, expressing doubts that anyone would drink the stuff on purpose. Jonesy assured her that with practice it came quite easily. She should know.



The star attraction was the antique rodent trap, a box whose heavy lid could be raised in order to descend guillotine-like on the head of its unfortunate victim. Several demonstrations of its efficacy were required to satisfy the general curiosity.



Later that evening Armenio came round with a box full of aubergines, a favourite Jones delicacy. We've been eating aubergines steadily for two nights. So, I suspect, have several of our neighbours.

MORNING WALK VISTA
Thursday we topped up our baggy supplies, renewed our animal larder and lunched at the Hamburgo while Natasha set about the house. Then we hurried home to seek air-conditioned siesta relief.


IN THE PARK
We are still walking the hills in the morning but in the evenings we merely meander around the park. It's just too hot! Roll on autumn!