Letter from Espargal: 14 December 2018

The sun rises on another week. Jones is up early as is her habit to ensure that the orb is prompt. These days the camera sits securely on a tripod.



Cut to a Saturday scene. This Moses effect arises, not from any heavenly apparition, but from low-drifting smoke lazying up through the trees in the park. Slavic and I were burning off cuttings. It's that time of year.



We were not the only ones. In the valley below, farmers were following suit. That's Benafim smudged across the far hill.



The big job was laying a second strip down the gravel slope on the driveway approach to the house. Deliveries of sand, stone and cement were in place. Beneath the concrete we buried various bits of chicken wire and metal grids, both to get rid of them and to secure the strip. The concrete's had the rest of the week to cure.



The park itself is now a foot high in winter greenery, encouraged by late rains, not that we've had any winter to speak of. Temperatures dip into single figures overnight before climbing back into the teens by day. When the sun's up and wind's down, the days are glorious. It's not only we who enjoy them; the bugs love them too. I killed two mosquitoes in the bathroom one night, wondering where on earth they'd come from in mid December.


BURGEONING LEMON TREE
Speaking of killing things - on our walks I came across a scorpion as I was clearing small rocks from a new path. Well aware of the peril that scorpions present, I was wearing gloves and taking care. And although I was in no danger, I instinctively crushed the little stinger (who was pretty upset at losing his house). I've been reflecting since on the ethics. Flies, ticks and mosquitoes are sworn enemies, liable to instant capital punishment. But I'm not sure what rights scorpions should enjoy on their own turf.



After our morning walk, once the dogs are fed, unless we're going to town, we sit down at the table to coffee and a biscuit. Braveheart the cat, bottom left, likes to occupy my seat.



Such scenes of domestic harmony invite a snap. Jones objected on the grounds that her morning face was not suitable for public viewing. Hence the obscuring flowers. (I might add that I've seen the face just about every morning for 40 years and come to no harm.)



Definitely suitable for public viewing at all hours is the wild rose at the bottom of the garden. It asks only to be dead-headed and for the occasional drink although, as I write, it's being battered by the wind - as are we all after an overnight storm.



One evening we were guests of our Swedish neighbours, Lennert and Annchen, who have done impressive things with their home (not without a great deal of effort) since arriving here a couple of years ago. Annchen puts their gleaming new kitchen to delightful use.



As her contribution to the yuletide ambience of the evening, Jones had prepared a succulent tray - tiny plants that ought to take root and thrive. The bark seen resting on the central candle was intended - when I took the picture mid-morning - to prevent the winter sun streaming through the patio window from melting the wax.



To our regret, the Hamburgo is about to close for several weeks. In truth, the staff deserve a break. I took the opportunity to thank Daniela for the many meals she's served us throughout the year.



One way and another, it's been a social week. We lunched midweek at the Alte hotel with friends, the Grahams. Brexit dominated the conversation.  I need hardly say that the continuing circus in Westminster has flummoxed and depressed us in equal measure.


THE FIRE'S WARM AND WE'VE HAD A LONG DAY
Another day we popped up to the community centre with bags of marshmallows and other Christmas treats for residents of the retirement home. Marshmallows are particularly welcome among residents who lack good teeth. The home is a happy place, full of lightness (if that's possible). The staff go to great efforts with festive decorations.

Sufficient unto the week.



(PS: Dearheart makes herself at home on Jones's newly-ironed slacks.)

Letter from Espargal: 7 December 2018

REPAIRED WALL
My week began (or ended, depending on how you look at it) last Saturday morning with a wall repair at the top of our field. The section of wall above the marker-post had collapsed, spilling stones across the drive. The old walls are dry-stone constructions that bulge in time and and start giving way, generally after rain. In this part of the world, walls traditionally belong to the owner of the upper property, who is responsible for repairing them. That's the theory, anyhow. In practice, it's he who cares that mends the wall.



In the afternoon we made a point of attending Benafim's monthly street market, a modest affair that involves rather more conversation than commerce. Popular music blares through the loudspeaker attached to the tree on the left. Home-grown produce, home baking and nick knacks are the order of the day.  A euro suffices for a kilo of quinces or similar. (Quinces, by the way, are known in Portuguese as marmelos, the derivation of marmalade.)



Whatever the market's limitations, it's easy to spend 20 or 30 euros, especially if one comes away with a bottle or two of home-distilled liquor or home-pressed olive oil. We confined ourselves to veggies, a couple of cakes and the Christmas flower - one euro please - pictured. I always take pity on the flower vendor, who would go hungry if he depended on sales.



In spite of my futile resistance to the commercialization of Christmas, when I consider anew the attractions of a hermitic existence, a flavour of the times is not out of place. I loved the presepio (nativity scene) prepared by residents of the Benafim retirement home and set up in the parish office.



Portugal does these presepios in great style, ranging from the simplest to the most elaborate. You find them in every town and village. They capture for me a little of the lost magic of the season. Even so, it was to the brash Mar shopping mall just beyond Loule that we took ourselves to acquire a few seasonal necessities. I wandered around the electronics displays (but resisted temptation) while Jones did her thing. (She says it doesn't work if I trail around after her.)


A VISITOR TO THE BIRD FEEDER
Whatever the case, she didn't have much luck. We came away with chocolates and marshmallows for the retirement-home. Monday and Wednesday brought visits to Loule hospital for a change of dressing on Barbara's arm. The stitches come out this weekend. The pair of us are looking somewhat shot-up right now, with red patches on exposed skin where the dermatologist zapped us a couple of weeks ago.



We've been doing our best to stay in the shade as these zapped areas are particularly sensitive to sunlight. And we've certainly been getting our fair share of December sunlight. The 50-strength sun block is back in use.



In some ways, the weather has been perfect, warm enough for t-shirts by day, just cool enough to justify a fire (to drift off in front of) in the evenings. Jones is ruthless about taking these snaps when I can't look my best. Please note that at least I still clasp my iPad securely.



Vitor, my motor mechanic neighbour, has visited us twice this week, once to take stock of my dying tractor battery and once to replace it. If I had any advice for a prospective expat moving to Portugal, I would advise the person concerned to seek a village with a resident motor mechanic. This is a blessing beyond measure.



After carrying out minor repairs in the lower garden one morning, I looked up at the scene you see above and paused. There wasn't a breath of wind. The dogs reclined as still and contented as the plants and trees surrounding them. The sun filtered lazily down through the branches, creating dappled displays on beds and steps. It was, I reflected, about as good as the Garden of Eden gets.



Enjoying their own Garden of Eden have been the piggies, the wild boar who inhabit the mato by night. On all sides their handiwork is evident, great patches of earth that have been turned over for roots, bulbs or whatever the animals feed upon. Some weeks ago, returning from the Hamburgo, we saw a whole family of boar crossing the road ahead of us. It was VERY special.



We've been pausing on our walks, gazing across the hills to the sea and reflecting on the pall of vehicle-exhaust pollution that hangs over the coastal strip in winter. I wonder whether the climate scientists meeting in Katowice will convince the politicians of the need to do something about it.



Somehow, I doubt it, not while their voters are clamouring for electricity. (Electricity black-outs are the bane of my South African family's lives!) It's nearly midwinter and we're still using the AC in the car. I don't look forward to summer. Jones shrugs and concentrates on her skies. There's not much point in worrying your head about stuff you can do nothing about.

Letter from Espargal: 30 November 2018

STAYING UPRIGHT ON TREACHEROUSLY SLIPPERY PATHS
This week has unfolded, a bit like a damp ball of string that unwraps itself as it bobs uncertainly downhill. It's hard to know exactly where it started. But last Saturday's as good a starting point as any.

WORK IN PROGRESS
Slavic and I set about silencing the unruly guest-bedroom (NOTE the placing of the hyphen) and bathroom doors, running a thin rubber lining down the door frames and seeking to replace the door locks with magnetic closers. That, at least, was the plan. Unfortunately, the magnetic closers didn't fit the existing slots. The question now is whether it's worth bringing a carpenter in to do a proper job.



We also spent a couple of hours cutting back the exuberant winter growth in the park. Several large piles of greenery await disposal once the weather clears.


THE ALGIBRE FROM THE BRIDGE
In spite of generous rains this month, the Algibre at the foot of hill remains a dry, stony water-course. We peer hopefully over the bridge wall each time we pass, thus far to no avail.



Monday we presented ourselves for treatment to the dermatology unit at Loule hospital. We both had bits nicked out of us and got zapped with those cryo-gas guns. Jones needed several stitches in her arm and has to report to the hospital to have the dressing changed. I got away more lightly.


THIS IS JONES
After fetching the dog bones from the butcher, I joined Jones in the pharmacy, taking her by the arm from behind and relieving her of the ticket in her hand. She was most surprised, quite astonished in fact. So was I to see that I was clutching the arm of a woman of similar stature with identical hair and the same off-white jacket.


THIS IS NOT JONES
I was most apologetic although she saw instantly that the mistake was innocent. The same thing nearly happened in the supermarket a day or two later when I was about to dump a bag of dog food into a stranger's trolley. It was only the trolley contents that alerted me. As you see, the error might be forgiven.



While we were in town we popped into an impressive office that has opened to publicise the posh Ombria resort being developed just beyond Tor, between us and Loule. The sales consultant was delighted to describe just how wonderful it was going to be. When complete, the resort will comprise a hotel, clubhouse, conference centre, restaurants, villas, apartments and a golf course, set in hundreds of hectares of woody hillside. Stage One is due to open two years hence.


THE MODEL
Jones hates it, I hardly need say.  In her world, development is a four-syllable word. I'm more sanguine. If it brings useful investment and employment to the Portuguese interior, I can live with it, even if we can't afford to live in it. The developers are anxious to emphasise the resort's ecological foundations. Jones liked the ecology the way it used to be before the machines moved in.



Tuesday I had a tune-up with Jodi.  As she kneaded my back I confided to her that we had both passed the Portuguese language exams that we undertook last month as part of the requirement to obtain Portuguese citizenship. Jodi, who is also South African born, took the same road a few years ago and gave us valuable advice on how to proceed. (The evils of Brexit, now just four months away, are never far from our thoughts!)


GORGEOUS FLOWER ON A PERNICIOUS WEED
As you may imagine, we were both (Jones and I) very pleased and relieved to have got through. Jones had earlier insisted that she wasn't going to sit the exam again, whatever the result. Once was enough. We both found it rather tougher than we'd anticipated.


A TOUGH, THORNY, RESISTANT CREEPER
Another visit I made was to the secretary of the Senior University who has been badgering me to continue with English conversation classes this coming year. After more than ten years of teaching I felt a bit stale and took the last quarter of the year off, both to travel and to think things over.


AUTUMN COLOURS
Another discouraging factor has been the recent deaths from cancer of two long-standing pupils, both men my own age (and two ex-Marist colleagues from heart attacks.) One is reminded of the limited septuagenarian horizon. Anyhow, following my conversation with the secretary, I've agreed to give it a go again in 2019.


A DRINK
Except when it's rained, we've walked morning and evening. We relish the autumn days. What's more, I need to shed several kilos that have attached themselves to me during our breaks and my travels. One is wise to take great care on the steep paths and smooth rocks. I unblushingly use two walking sticks. Even Jones has been seen with an occasional stick in her hand.



As Natasha set about the house on Wednesday, we took ourselves to Sao Bras to top up our baggy and olive oil supplies before going on to lunch at Faro Beach. Across the estuary a TAP airbus was doing circuits and bumps, presumably at the hands of nerve-wracked trainees. The drama of making one's first "real" landing was reflected in an excellent easyJet TV documentary earlier this year.


PADDED LEATHER SEATS AT ZURICH AIRPORT GATES
Speaking of which, I was impressed by both Zurich airport and the Swiss (airline) service that I received en route to and from South Africa where I spent a week with the Bensons in Witbank and a day with the Joneses near Johannesburg - for whose hospitality thank you all.



I also enjoyed a morning with Barbara's nephew, Chris Jones, who had flown up from Cape Town to oversee the repair of a vast mining boom. Chris stood me to an excellent lunch at Rand Airport.



He later sent me this picture of half of the boom being transported back to the open-cast mine concerned - the biggest load ever seen on the road. How on earth it was lifted on to the trailer (and off again) boggles the imagination.



Our black and white cat, Not-Robbie, who upgraded himself from visitor to resident status some months ago, is starting to throw his weight around with the two established black cats, skinny little runt that he is.


CAT ON A WARM TIN ROOF
Barbara now has to feed her established felines separately to prevent the intruder from elbowing them out of the way.



In the meanwhile they've parked themselves in the chair in front of the TV, beside the fire. What a delight the fire is at this time of year! On a dull day we light it early and keep it just aglow in the heart of the living room. In the evenings some of us are inclined to doze off in front of it, especially after dinner on a dull TV night.



December looms - my least favourite month - the tinsel time of expectation and excess, of traffic jams and shopping queues, Santas skulking in the supermarkets, Silent Night wafting through the loos. T'will soon be over! Come my dogs, it's time for a walk!