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.

Letter from Espargal: 24 June 2016

SOLSTICE DAWN

Our thoughts have been zooming in and out, like some cosmic camera lens, between the macro implications of a Brexit vote and the micro-means of stopping the ants from raiding the bird feeder. (Many years ago at Kyalami I accompanied a TV crew that whiled away the waiting hours by zooming a mile across the racing circuit to pick out the line that wound around the block for the ladies' loos; it was nothing particularly vulgar, just an interesting study of faces and poses and a valuable lesson in the reach of these devices!)



As I was about to say, there's not much point in my pondering the outcome of the referendum because it will shortly be old hat. I should mention, however, that it greatly concerns my wife who has exhorted me to plan an austerity budget just in case. She has visions of the UK drawbridge being raised, the pound sinking into the mire and prices rising through the roof.


NOW LISTEN CAREFULLY ALL OF YOU!

I was explaining to Jodi during my midweek tune-up how fortunate Barbara was to have me doing the budgeting. Left to her own devices, she would live like a pauper, saving every available penny and leaving her heirs to squabble over her fortune.


IF YOU'VE GOT IT, FLAUNT IT!

Such a strategy would also have a negative impact on the local economy. Happily, I do my best to avoid the excessive accumulation of funds, skilfully allocating resources as required, conscious of the adage that "you can't take it with you". Better a nice car than a nice coffin.



Speaking of which, I have been an admirer of Sir James Dyson's inventiveness and in particular of his tower fans. They are slim, stylish and quiet, working on some revolutionary principle (that I don't really understand) which does away with whirring propeller blades. I had considered acquiring one of these fans while Jones was sailing down the Adriatic, discouraged (for once) only by their astronomical price.



Instead, while meandering through a super store, I acquired somebody else's tower fan at a fraction of the price, only to discover that it's little more than a decoration. So much for consolation prizes. Since then Dyson has landed in our bad books by proclaiming himself a Brexiter. No more Sir James in this household.



This brings me to the issue of the thieving ants. I have long been fascinated by these enterprising little creatures, immersing myself as a youth in Eugène Marais's "The Soul of the White Ant" (Ignore for the moment the distinction between ants and termites). We have long since ascertained that there is no point in hanging food waste from washing lines to keep it away from the ants, nor is there any known device that gives the birds access to the food while keeping the ants out. The only practical method is to create a moat with the bird seed deposited on an island in the centre. Which is what we do.



As long as there is ample water in the moat, the scheme works reasonably well - excepting for ants that bridge it clinging to seeds or hurl themselves recklessly into the water. But in the summer heat the moat evaporates in a few hours and ant platoons again invade the island to deplete the bird seed. Thus it becomes a war of attrition. Twice a day I top up the moat and twice a day I find the ants carrying off their loot, staggering down the tree-trunk base clutching seeds twice their own size - sometimes with one seed between two ants.


ORPHANS ON GUARD

The ant's brain has not evolved to consider futility or surrender. It's hardwired to do or die in the knowledge that for every ant that falls in service of the community, two are ready to take its place. If only we humans were as altruistic! While I am not optimistic about the future of mankind, I would happily put my money on ants.


THE HOUSE, VALLEY AND ROCHA DE PENA SALIENT FROM THE TELEF

During the hot, dry months of summer - very hot and very dry - I tend to park my tractor under the trees on the Casanova field. That frees up its garage for other duties, such as replacing the strimmer cords that are forever being ripped out by the tangled undergrowth.



One of the shading trees is an ancient carob whose heart has been entirely eaten away down the years. It's possible to look right through the hollow interior. In spite of the loss of most of the internal trunk, the tree continues to flourish, promising us yet another excellent crop of carobs.



The large green beans are already fully formed although it will be July before they start turning black and mid-August before they are ready to pick. As usual, we will donate ours to a local farmer who brings us boxes of fruit and veges in return.



Another valuable service that he has provided is to graft many of our almond trees - we have scores - with fruit, mainly peach and plum. This week I picked our first peach crop, just a dozen, but glorious peaches that brought a glow to my heart as rosy as the peaches themselves. Later in the season we should have plums and apples too. Additionally, our new vines are thriving although it will be while before they start bearing. One crop that we won't be enjoying this year is almonds. Late rains more or less wiped out the almond blossom and any prospect of good pickings.



On the practical side Jones has done a lot more gardening while Nelson and I have continued to clean up the overgrown fields. He has been cutting the tough suckers that surround the bases of the trees (and rip out my strimmer cords) while I have been strimming the surrounding fuzz of grasses and weeds. Meanwhile, our waste heaps grow in both size and number, destined to dot the fields at least until autumn.



My Saturday morning workers constructed a couple of new flower-bed retaining walls for Barbara as well as laying more rough stone floors in rocky areas that get covered in a variety of the wickedest winter weeds. My aim is both to improve looks and access as well as reducing future labour.


STONE FLOORING IN ROCKERY

Albeit at a glacial pace, we are working towards curbing nature's excesses and making Valapena more pleasantly inhabitable. A couple of hundred years from now the place ought to look quite good.


SOLSTICE SUNDOWN

Letter from Espargal: 18 June 2016

We don't get many visitors to Valapena and, without trying to sound unsociable, we quite like it that way. Our relative solitude comes with living at the far end of a steep, narrow dead-end rural road. The occasional neighbour or stray pops by - generally to a canine clamour - and, most days, that's about it.


CAMOUFLAGED GOAT IN THE PEN

But last Friday wasn't most days. Nelson and I were forking yet another load of weeds on to the tractor when we looked up to see a kid ambling down the track. The dogs were as taken aback as we were and loudly advised the little animal to make itself scarce. The goat, seemingly used to people and dogs, wasn't too put out. It made its way through the tractor doors into Casa Nada where it paused to peer intently at its image in the mirror on the washroom door. There Nelson was able to grab it and carry it across to the orphans' overgrown former pen where we enclosed it while we sought its owner.


ALLIUM DELL ON OUR MORNING ROUTE

In this inquiry we had no luck in spite of much phoning and riding around on the tractor to local hamlets. Finally Claudia and her son Marco, who keep goats in a vacant yard on the village square, agreed to take it. With Nelson holding it firmly on the back of the tractor, we delivered it to the yard where Marco - a strapping young lad - lifted it over the fence into one of the goat pens. Much to my regret, I was so caught up in events that I failed to take any pictures of the occasion.



Slavic and Andre were back at the weekend to complete the retaining wall above the new carport and to enclose the flowerbed at the bottom. Nelson and I had supplied them in advance with an adequate selection of rocks. As usual, they did a fine job. We have a lot of walls here at Valapena. I am very fond of them, practical and attractive as they are. If we didn't have them, we'd spend a lot of time tumbling down the steep hillside which the house grasps. I reflect as I watch my wall builders in action that the walls themselves will long outlast us all.



I did a bit of building myself. The site was our bottom gate, one that gives us access to the twisty contour path that runs east to the dirt road a kilometre away. The gate sits above a steep bank that smaller and older dogs - and occasionally their master - have found increasing difficulty in ascending. I tried for a while to remedy matters by stationing myself at the bottom of the bank to assist Ono - nearly 17 - who tends to fall back. However, as he sometimes reached the gate ahead of me, this proved to be an intermittent solution at best.


UP WE GO

The permanent solution was to obtain two large even rocks with which to improve the rough stone ascent. This Nelson and I did at Joachim Sousa's rubble mountain, ferrying them home on the tractor and tipping them down the bank before heaving and finally cementing them into place. The dogs now sail nonchalantly up the steps and even I manage them with a semblance of graceful ease - or that easeful grace?


RUSS AT EASE - LEFT

One of our dogs, Russ, has run into another bout of eczema, a summer hazard. The ailment is located right up under the "armpit" where Jones noticed it only when the dog lay down on his back, she says, as if to draw the problem to her attention. To remedy matters, the vet has prescribed various pills, creams and cleansers. The pills are easily disguised in a spoonful of pâté. Treating the dog with the applications is rather more demanding even though he's the most obliging of pets.



One of the problems is Russ's weight. He's a big boy, just on 35 kilos. We know he ought to lose weight; the vet urged us to do something about it. But Russ lives for food. It's his thing. He can hear the rustle of a treat packet from the bottom of the garden. He gollops down his meals in a jiffy and is pleased to finish off his companions'.



Two more little strays have arrived in the village. We see them occasionally on the roadside or playing with Bernardo, the son of Vitor and Ana. It would be lovely if they were able to adopt them.



One evening the Espargal expats gathered at David and Sarah's cottage for a meal - a most excellent repast as it proved. Over dessert David revealed that the occasion was a celebration to mark the award to his wife of the British Empire Medal in the Queen's birthday honours list for services to conservation and heritage.


OLD ESPARGAL

The couple are both are active in running a heritage centre in East Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Although Sarah was excessively modest about receiving this distinction, waving away compliments like unwelcome callers, her smile said a lot. I am reminded of Prickles who feigns indifference to treats that we leave at his nose but whose wagging tail indicates his true feelings.



This week the temperatures dropped and the north wind blew in. It howled around the house almost without pause like the banshee seeking the soul of Faust. Although one can find relief from the heat there is no escaping the wind. It spooks the dogs, shakes the shutters and gleefully snatches off a careless hat. In spite of Dinis's assurances about the strength of the carport, I kept an anxious eye on the structure lest the wind should test it beyond the endurance he promised. So far, so good.

I ordered and we watched the movie, The Big Short. I was disappointed. Unless one was au fait with developments, which I was, it was impossible to follow - and not easy even then. In between strimmings - of which I have been doing a great deal - I have been watching football, quite a lot of football. My team, Portugal, will need to improve a great deal if it is to proceed.

This time next week we'll know whether it's BREXIT or BREMAIN. Scary!

Letter from Espargal: 11 June 2016

The hot season is now upon us. I have to change damp vests and shirts three times a day. The air-conditioner in the bedroom - the only unit we possess - has been set to cold air for two humans and two animals. No longer dare we park the car in the sun, not with the dogs inside. Before our morning walks, we smear on a generous layer of 50-strength sun cream. Soon a ring of satellite heat bumps will renew its summery orbit about my waist.


LATEST SATURDAY WALL BUILDING

The pests continue to pester - flies, mosquitoes and ticks. Most of the ticks we catch still crawling up our legs or clothes but the odd one gets through. Worse than the ticks themselves are the false positive tickles. I can't tell you how often I snatch off my shirt or drop my trousers to check whether the tickle is genuine or an impostor. Most are illusory but the price of ignoring a tick tickle is a bump that itches for ages.



In view of the heat we have invested in some expensive shade, about 30m2 of it. Dinis, the local metal man, has built us a carport just outside the side gates. He warned us when he undertook the work that he had a busy schedule and might not be able to complete it until late in June. In the event, one of his workers had a motorbike accident that has laid him off for a couple of months, forcing Dinis to concentrate on smaller jobs - such as ours.



Dinis is not cheap but he is meticulous. After the erection of the structure, his assistant resprayed paint blotches on the metal posts while Dinis used turps to remove minute paint stains from the overhead panels.



The new carport means that we don't need to bring the car into the gates to park in the shade - an event that  tempts the orphans to go walk-about. I might add that Jones is not entirely persuaded about the wisdom of this particular investment. I'm hoping she will come to appreciate its value.


BEFORE STRIMMING

The parish strimmers have been busy in the village. Gone are the heavily overgrown verges that limited drivers' vision and dusted the sides of passing cars. In past years the cutting back has been done by a large tractor fitted with a brush cutter. This year the work has been carried out - slowly and carefully - by two workers with strimmers.


AFTER STRIMMING

After strimming the verges, they use backpack-powered blowers to gather the cuttings before they bin them. I've twice expressed our gratitude with cold refreshments - much appreciated in the afternoon heat.



Anybody familiar with Jane Austen's "Emma" will know how important it is to go to the assistance of a damsel in distress. Whether the peril is to her honour or her high heels, she has to be rescued by a knight - ideally young, wealthy, single and good-looking. (On second thoughts, the "single" bit isn't really important!)


OUR GREAT WALL AFTER CLEARING

This thought was vaguely in my mind over lunch on Monday at a restaurant in Loule when a strikingly tall and attractive young woman entered and took a seat opposite a fellow at a busy table. Over my fish salad I watched her in conversation with the chap, trying to gauge the relationship.



After some minutes, he, to make a point, threw out his arms in an expansive gesture that flung his beer into the damsel's open handbag on a chair beside her. The couple leapt up, scrabbling for serviettes. This gripping mini-drama was invisible to Barbara and our lunching friends. Grabbing the serviettes on our table, I discreetly offered them to the maiden, who rewarded me with a whispered "thank you" as she dabbed away. Who knows? I may have saved a romance from a damp conclusion.



As it happens, lunch had followed a fairly fraught morning. While once we took our dogs to the vet for their annual vaccinations, in recent times the vet has come to us. This reversal has saved on time and fuel but not on stress. Although our five regular beasts - plus Poppy, who is boarding with us - suffer their pricks with admirable resignation, the orphans will have nothing to do with the process. Last year, in anticipation, we dosed the little dogs with tranquiliser pills - to no obvious effect - and we failed to vaccinate them.



This year we doubled the dose and enclosed them on the back patio ahead of Carlos the vet's arrival. Although slightly dopey, the orphans were far from tranquil. Jones and I had to corner them and leap upon them one at a time to secure them long enough for Carlos to do his thing, a nerve-racking business. So it was with much relief and a deal of satisfaction that we managed to get the unwilling trio both vaccinated and dosed against ticks.


THE INOCULATED SISTERS

Another minor victory was to return to a supermarket to claim back 10 euros that it had charged me in error the previous day - twice billing me for a single bag of dog biscuits. It was a mistake that I noticed only while checking the bill later. I was well aware that supermarkets warn customers to go over their bills before they leave.



After hearing my story the manager took the slip from me, asked me to wait and disappeared into a back room. I surmised that he had gone to check the security video. After some minutes he reappeared with a form for me to sign and the 10 euros. I asked him whether he'd confirmed the error on the security tape but he replied that the shop couldn't afford one.

DEARHEART

(A moment's distraction there to rescue a mouse from the claws of Dearheart and fling it over the balcony into the garden. I read once that you can't injure a mouse by dropping it from the top of a skyscraper because of its high surface to mass ratio. The writer gave warning that the contrary holds true for elephants.)


WAITING THEIR TURN

Jones and I have both visited the optician, she to replace clouded lenses with new ones and I to replace a broken frame. The optician brought out three similar frames and asked me to choose one. Two were priced at around €90 (before a generous cash discount!). The third was much more expensive.



When I asked why, he explained that it was a Christian Dior frame - and that some clients liked to be seen sporting such fashionable brands. As you may imagine, I didn't see the point of trying to impress my fellow Espargalians with Mr Dior's monicker.