Letter from Espargal: 30 of 2012

Here is the news from Espargal or, at least, from this corner of it. Our guest worker, Walker, has departed. He flew to Porto last Tuesday evening, there to meet a friend before setting out on a brief tour of northern Portugal. He will be sorely missed by the mosquitoes in Casa Nada for they feasted during his stay in spite of our prevention efforts.

Each day Walker would appear with some new itchy pink bites. The fact is that he proved most attractive to nature. He managed to get bitten, not only by the mosquitoes, but also by a spider (we think - under his foot) and a horse-fly (on the leg). I had warned him shortly after his arrival to keep a sharp lookout for horseflies as they can be persistent and their bites are painful.

But, forgetting my advice as he watered the fruit trees one afternoon, he ignored the insect that buzzed around his leg. Until it bit him, that is. They don’t trouble me as I always wear jeans outdoors. I try to let the blighters settle before taking a smack at them, and then grinding them underfoot. There’s no “live and let live” with horseflies.

Walker joined us each morning for the 45 minute circuit of the hill, stopping to take in the views on breezy days when the wind blew all the gunk out to sea and the towns along the coast sparkled in the distance beyond the several ranges of hills. You may admire Jones’s efforts with the new camera.

One day he took himself off to Lagos in the hopes of seeing the spectacular sea caves there. In the event the swell was too high. Instead he went dolphin watching on a large semi-inflatable, returning with a host of pictures. It was, he reported, a very rough ride – reminiscent of our own in the Acores - although well worth the discomfort.

We tried to show our appreciation of Walker’s efforts in the garden by entertaining him generously at the local eateries. He showed his by downing notable quantities of Portuguese lager – without apparent effect - as he recounted his extensive travels and food interests. For a young man he has certainly been around.

Our next guests are Cathy and Rolf, who are due to arrive from Berlin this coming Tuesday – that’s if Lufthansa’s cabin crew do not strike again that day. I was trying to imagine the Sisyphean task of the Lufthansa planners as they deal with the chaos left by the cancellation of hundreds of flights – and of the check-in staff confronted by thousands of frustrated passengers going nowhere. Had trade unions existed in Dante’s time he might well have given their leaders their own special circle in hell.

Be warned Cathy and Rolf that a mega-heatwave is being forecast for the weekend after your arrival – most unusual for mid-September. In the meanwhile we are continuing our clearing and carob-picking activities in the area of land that we acquired a couple of years ago. It had lain untended for decades,

all but hiding the carob trees behind barriers of scrub and thorn. The results have been both plentiful and pleasing. It is most satisfying to see the shape of a garden emerging from the jungle. We ought to have finished picking within a week or two. The clearing is a never-ending job, a bit like painting the Forth bridge.

Ermenio came around with another delivery of grapes, peppers and tomatoes to show his thanks for our donations of carobs. He apologised (quite needlessly) for the paucity of the delivery, complaining bitterly about the havoc that wild pig had been wreaking nightly on his crops. The animals really are a serious problem for farmers.

A neighbour was telling us that to relieve their thirst, the pigs used to chew holes in the plastic irrigation pipes that fed his crops until he made a trough of water available to them. The problem is that Portuguese farmers have plots of land scattered all over the countryside, and it’s quite impossible to police them or fence them effectively. Ermenio tried erecting an electric fence at one stage, only to have the battery that powered it stolen.

Have you heard of a Swiss group calling itself the Top Secret Drum Corps? Watching a recording of the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, I was bowled over by their display. Their precision and showmanship was beyond anything I’ve witnessed – truly amazing – as you can see for yourself although the youtube version is a poor reflection of the TV coverage( http://ulsterobserver.wordpress.com/2012/08/27/top-secret-drum-corps-royal-edinburgh-military-tattoo-2012/ )

I use the word “amazing” advisedly as it is so abused, along with “incredible”, “unbelievable”, “fantastic” and all their kith and kin – appropriated by the advertising industry for soap-powder discounts and stain removers. And I fume at their repeated use on radio and TV for every piffling performance or fatuous experience. Oh! it’s a hard life for a pedant, pissing in the wind as the saying goes. In the word-inflation game, even “hyped” has now given way to “overhyped”, an irony if ever there was one.

Some weeks ago I made the mistake of acquiring two new pairs of inexpensive work trousers to replace some ageing and much-darned jeans. The mistake was simply to try the trousers on without climbing a few steps. I have since found that they cling around my thighs and that I have constantly to pull up the legs in order to go walking. This is both confining and irritating.

I suspect that the trousers were designed for a wearer with less muscular thighs. Jones says they may fit a little better when I have lost some more weight. She has also suggested taking them back to the shop. But since the shop concerned is an old-fashioned one where each sale is noted in a book with a pencil and receipts are not generally issued, I have my doubts about any returns.

Letter from Espargal: 29 of 2012

I haven't the energy to write anything sensible this week, especially as it was much the same as last week and the week before that, but here are some pictures that we took. This one shows a blue moon - at least, that was what the radio said. You hear some strange stuff on the radio, like Mitt promising to create 12 million jobs.

On Tuesday we went to the airport to meet Walker, son of Nancy and Brian, London colleagues of Barbara at NBC. With us came the usual suspects, Ono and Prickles, as well as Russ, who was making his first visit to the airport. We waited outside the golf-hire shop. Walker had grown since last we saw him - several feet.

He got a pretty barky reception from the rest of the gang when we got home. But after giving him a good sniff and a few licks, they decided to let him stay. The idea is that he will do some work around the place for the next week, before going off to join a friend upcountry. We have got in a good supply of beers in the meanwhile.

The first job was to bring in the rest of the carobs and to clear the thorns from under the trees, a task we should have performed long ago. Walker likes to whack out the thorny wild asparagus with a small axe. It's this wild asparagus that gives Espargal its name. I like to think that I did my share of clearing and picking.

I find it easier to work on my knees, possibly a hang-over from my monkish days. We managed to collect two tractor loads that have since been delivered down the road. We showed Walker the cavernous interior of one of the carob-milling warehouses, full of black dust and syrupy smells.

On Wednesday Rui arrived with three tons of firewood and two workers. The deal was that his team would first unload the wood into my tractor and then stack it again in the woodshed. The wood comes from the Alentejo - mainly varieties of oak. Two or three logs are sufficient to warm the house on a cold evening.

It took ten tractor loads and two hours of hard labour to get the job done, up and down, up and down. But that was a great improvement on last year when I did it all myself; it took three days and I couldn't stand up straight for a week.

Outside the woodshed, we formed a human chain to pass the wood in, a piece at a time, to the stacker. Three tons is a lot of firewood. Several bottles of water were required to refresh the workers and cans of beer afterwards to thank them.

I love this picture of clouds over the landscape - one of Jones's best. She's really getting to grips with the new camera. The zoom is extraordinary although the camera sometimes takes a while to figure out what it is that the picture-taker is trying to focus on.

This is another of her pictures, of a mantis that we found minding his own business under a carob tree. They and the numerous stick insects are all but invisible in their camouflage. We try not to harm them as we fill our buckets with carobs. The bothersome flies we harm as much as possible.

Also discovered in the bushes - a few days earlier - was Kayleigh, although she was picking up carobs and we stuck this picture in just because we liked it. She's enviously photogenic. Come back again next year, Kayleigh! We miss you already.

Between bringing in carobs and stacking firewood we took ourselves to the Coral for refreshment. Brigitte does brilliant kebabs and curried chicken. On a warm evening, with a bottle of wine and good company for cheer, they're unbeatable. What we don't consume we bring home again, to share with the dogs.

Sometimes bottles of wine are the very devil to open, not that Celso will let a bottle defeat him. This one put up a brief struggle before giving up its cork. Celso has got to know our preferences and has the appropriate wines chilled in anticipation of our arrival. That's what you call service.

Another time we lunched at the Hamburgo, at the other end of Benafim, with friends, David and Dagmar, their son Stefan and wife Jane, and grandchildren. As you can see, lunching al fresco at the Hamburgo is just as pleasant as supping at the Coral.

Here's the proprietor's daughter, Salina, who took a shine to Russ. Salina is eight years old and has two horses. She chats to clients or, even better, plays with their kids while mum cooks and dad serves. By the way, September is here at last. Roll on Autumn!

Letter from Espargal: 28 of 2012

If our entry into heaven depended on the week's deeds, our application might look something like this. Monday: In spite of the heatwave under which Portugal sizzles, we are committed to taking May into Faro to do a little personal shopping. After dropping her and Barbara at the Algarve Forum,

I continue into central Faro, where the Nokia shop is located. For once, we have gritted our teeth and left the beseeching dogs behind. You can't shut dogs in a car, even with the windows open, when it's C37*. The Nokia shop is down near the seafront, a five minute walk from the underground car park.

The attendant there takes a close look at what remains of Jonesy's phone, which Barri has given a good chewing. By a miracle, the essential parts are undamaged and all the rest can be replaced. I wait 15 mins for a technician to do the necessary. He asks for €37 euros and returns the phone. It looks as good as new.

Back to the Forum to fetch May and Barbara. May clutches a bag of ladies' undies. We head to Almancil for a bite of lunch and grocery shopping. There's not a hint of a breeze. The sky is leaden and the air is heavy. I sometimes wonder whether global freezing would be kinder than global warming - not that we'll get to vote on it.

Tuesday: We plan a visit to Fatacil, the big industrial show 30 minutes away on the coast at Lagoa. Natasha phones to ask if she can work today rather than tomorrow because of a mix-up at her usual Tuesday venue. That's fine by us. Her mobile phone is playing up and I give her my old Nokia N95. It was once a world beater.

We make it to Fatacil that evening, just in time to find parking on the roadside. The show is popular; thousands of people turn up for the 10-day run. We skip the main dining area in favour of a corner specialising in smoked ham and cheese sandwiches. These taste wonderful, washed down with cold red wine.

As usual, I snap away with the camera. What you can't see is the kid holding the string attached to the balloon that's looming over his parents. Our aim is to find the stall selling the ceramics made by our neighbour, Ze Carlos, but we fail. Jones steers me away from the stalls selling the hyper-expensive, sleep-guaranteed mattresses.

Instead we purchase a copper brolly stand to replace the rickety wicker basket that holds my collection of walking sticks on the front patio. The salesman, a copper worker from upcountry, is delighted with the sale. Although the crowds are heavy, there's little commerce. People have come mainly for the entertainment.

Wednesday: Another scorcher! We have an appointment with our Iranian optometrist. Jones has decided that she needs new specs - and about time. I want photochromic lenses. I'm forever swapping my dark specs for my ordinary specs in the car. Membership of the local expat association brings a welcome 25% discount.

I spend a couple of hours outside on the patio repairing the folding chairs that Barri has nibbled. The wretch has chewed the front of the elasticised webbing making up the seats. I sew lengths of reinforcing ribbon along the leading edge of each chair. The electric fan hums away beside the table to provide a relieving breeze.

Thursday: Morning walk: We're down to our last mid-point 5-litre bottle of water. Jones uses two bottles a day, pouring one into a bucket (from which the dogs first refresh themselves) and the other in a rocky hollow. In the heat, the bees go mad for the moisture. Twigs in the water ensure that the bees can clamber out.

We fill the bottles from a water barrel that I take around on the tractor. Jones walks across the hill to meet me at the water point and help with the exercise. The bees buzz round impatiently, swooping on to the drops leaking from the hose. Jones rides home side-saddle on the tractor.

Mid-morning we travel into Benafim for refreshments. Celso is up a ladder repairing his awning. He's a man for all seasons. As usual, we order coffee and share a cake. Half a cake once or twice a week is permitted on my bespoke diet. I'm still shedding weight, albeit at a gentle rate. Jones says that's the best way.

We have arranged to dine with our friends, Mike and Lyn, newly-arrived from the UK. The Hamburgo's swordfish is excellent. The restaurant fills up as the evening wears on. We are pleased for the owners, Manuel and Graca, who have found the going tough this year. Many restaurants have already closed.

Kayleigh has spent a morning helping us to collect carobs. I am able to deliver another tractor-load down the road. The dogs and Kayleigh run a mutual adoration society. Mind you, the hounds have a knack of being able to check their admirers' pockets for biscuits while indulging in such exchanges of affection.

Letter from Espargal: 27 of 2012

In August it is difficult in Espargal not to write about being hot and collecting carobs because that's what nearly everyone is and does. The fields are thick with thwacking branches and dropping carobs while the roads groan with grundling tractors. Everybody is out picking carobs. Serious carob pickers -

farmers with plantations - start at 6.30, take a break for lunch and go out again in the afternoon, returning with tractors piled high with sacks, often with spouse perched precariously on top. My spouse isn't into perching but she's a jolly good tree climber, here being assisted by Kayleigh, the daughter of visiting friends.

Jones and I permit ourselves a relaxed picking regime, generally an hour or so after our morning walk and the same again as the day cools down. The dogs helpfully wee on the carobs to show us where they lie, assistance that Jones would much rather do without. She goes armed with two mini-rakes to remove the surprising

amounts of dog poo that collect under the trees. By the end of the week, we have a respectable load of carobs to take down the road to Ermenio's cellar. The approach to his cellar is via the workshop on the upper floor. We carry the baskets through the workshop and then tip the carobs into the cellar through the hole that you can see below.

Right now, the cellar holds just a few cubic metres. By the end of the picking season in a couple of months, it will be brimful. Some farmers stack their carobs in sacks but it takes more strength than I've got to hoist a 40kg sack of carobs on to a pile higher than one's head. The question farmers face is whether to sell immediately to one of the local dealers or to hang on in the hope of a better price later.

With the carobs safely deposited, Ermenio led us to the mini-museum that he has been building up in his wine cellar one level below. Most of the old implements on the walls we'd seen before. But we hadn't seen was his growing collection of natural sculptures, derived from the stumps and roots of a wild bush.

He cleans and dries the stumps before varnishing them, to produce the amazing ornaments that you can see on the barrels. He was merely enhancing nature's handiwork, he remarked, for no human artists could render such interesting shapes. As is customary on such occasions, we raised a glass to one another's health before taking our leave.

I have to confess that I generally find the local wines a bit rough but Ermenio's home-produced fortified wine is something else. He'd added grape-spirit and sugar in roughly calculated proportions to his red wine to produce a port-like blend which I found most acceptable. My appreciation must have showed for we came away with five litres of it.

Next door to Ermenio reside the Faisca family, who are also hard-working farmers. While Joachim is out on his tractor, his wife, Natércia (an anagram of Caterina, from the poet Camões), is often to be found tending the superb array of flowers that she cultivates in front of the house. Barbara stopped to ask her about some unusual ones and came home with several of them.

To my astonishment, Natércia turned out to be a reader of my blog. She'd been using Google Translate to turn the script into Portuguese, she said, but had recently been unable to - a problem that was, fortunately, easily resolved. But I did wonder what Google (and she) made of my less conventional constructions and made-to-fit words.

On a change of theme: Each time we go out, Russ drags his blanket from the back patio on to the cobbles and proceeds to chew holes in it, generally with a little help from his playmate, Barri. For a time Barbara and our ever patient house-sitters tried repairing the damage. But the time came when there wasn't much left to repair.

In fact, when we returned from supper in Loule last night, there wasn't anything left but shreds. Better old blankets than Jones's garden! Last night's outing was to a new Indian restaurant that's just opened. The food was good. Jones is particularly fond of Indian food - she likes it hot; I'm a mild man myself - and I imagine that we'll be going back.

What else, you might ask. Well there isn't any else. This is the Algarve in August. We're bracing ourselves for next week's heatwave and that's quite enough for the moment.