Letter from Espargal: 10 March 2017

Jones is home. She made a flying visit to the UK at the weekend to see three art exhibitions of particular interest. Here she is with Lucia, entering the portals of Tate Britain.



The gallery is staging an exhibition of the works of David Hockney, an artist whose pictures she's been admiring since the 70s. The other two exhibitions were mounted at the Royal Academy, one entitled America after the Fall and the other Russian Art 1917 - 1932. She thought it the the best. So, she says, did Llewellyn.



As I don't have much to say this week, I'll leave it mainly to the pictures. Here's Jones in her garden, taking a close-up shot of a flower. Note (below) the bird feeder on a stump behind her and the bird bath a little further to the right, both popular stops with the local avian community.



I had taken the picture from inside the house.



As you see, it's well framed. We've been listening to the latest revelations of CIA monitoring. These days one never knows who's watching, listening or recording.



While my wife was absent the wind did a lot of vigorous blowing and the skies did a lot of raining, along with some flashing and thundering. Although the garden was grateful, the dogs didn't like it at all (nor did I particularly). So the bed got a bit crowded at night. Jones says it's a good thing she was away.



The rain paused long enough each day for us to get out of the house; if the skies were menacing, we confined ourselves to the park, within easy reach of shelter. The park is our extended wild garden, an enclosed acre of rocks, trees and scrub. Bobby poses for a picture. He's a handsome fellow and he knows it.



During one of these outings I was delighted to come across this fine Early Purple orchid in the park. Some of the orchids are difficult to identify. Jones's advice is not to name them lest more knowledgeable people correct us. Fortunately, Early Purples are distinctive.



In my English class on Monday we discussed proposals to further soften Portuguese legislation on the use of cannabis. Most of my pupils hesitated to express a view, pleading lack of information, but one fellow was firmly opposed to it - and to anything that might become an open door for vice. He didn't even approve of the consumption of alcohol (because all drugs led to people staggering around out of control). If he became President, I told him, I was emigrating.



This clever Jones photo is not of a hill, as might seem at first glance, but of the late afternoon shadow of our hill across the valley. Ten out of ten!

THE BABES AT THE COMMUNITY CENTRE GO FOR A WALK IN THE FIELDS

On Tuesday Peter arrived to set up speakers and an amp, with a view to improving our TV sound. It is certainly a much more impressive sound for his efforts and our outlay, especially when we are listening to music. However, it becomes clear to us that the quality of sound depends at least as much on the recording as one's audio equipment.


FIXING ANOTHER CHEWED PILLOW

On Wednesday, summer arrived in a rush. For the first time this year we went walking in shirtsleeves (in a manner of speaking). We had to persuade ourselves of the benefits of lighting a fire that evening. Ditto on Thursday evening. Afternoon temperatures are reaching into the upper 20s. Already the air conditioner in the car is earning its summer living.



Friday morning: We are back from a warm walk, a newly-extended 5 km hike through the hills. At one point a bee got tangled in Jones's hair and when I chased it out, it gave me a hard time. You can't reason with bees. The walk takes (me) a sweaty hour. Afterwards, I hang my damp shirt and vest on the line and put on yesterday's shirt and vest, both well dried in the sun. Mini has not yet returned. Jonesy, who cannot bear the tension of her absence, has gone up the hill to look for her.



An hour after the rest of us, Mini comes bursting through the gate and up the stairs, demanding a treat. (She gets one.) Now she's lying exhausted on the floor. Only she knows where she's been. I tell Jones that if we leave them alone, they'll come home (dragging their tails behind them). It's a philosophy she'd like to adopt but she's not capable.



And then there's the rigmarole of feeding Barri twice a day. As much as she still loves her walks, she shows no interest in food. Ever more delicious treats are produced in an effort to persuade her to eat. One wonders whether there is method in her madness.

Letter from Espargal: 4 March 2017

Friday morning has arrived, a wet, windy and frustrating affair. The dogs are loth to go outside. The orphan bitches regard the (paw-drying) towels laid on the tiles just inside the doors as legitimate loo stops. If I leave the towels in place, they get pissed or poohed on. (There are two in the washing machine as I write.) If I remove them, the dogs tramp water and mud into the house - newly cleaned by Natasha.  Hence the frustration.


PICKING ORANGES AT AN ABSENT NEIGHBOUR'S HOUSE

What's more, I'm way behind with the blog. It's a truth universally acknowledged (doffing my cap to Jane Austen) that time speeds up as a deadline approaches, albeit a soft and forgiving blog deadline. Although there are no penalties for late publication - or even no publication - these bring a certain nagging sense of failure. What's more, I miss the satisfaction that rewards accomplishment, however modest.  



We face few deadlines these days, and most of those we do are barely ill, apart from the occasional flight or medical appointment. The majority of our engagements are merely for a meal and no-one is fussed if neighbours should arrive late.



It was not always thus. I think we both still suffer a mild form (if that's allowed) of post traumatic stress disorder from the decades of coping with rigid broadcast deadlines. Twenty years after retirement, my inner self is still trying to come to terms with them.  Nightly I struggle to gets bulletins ready on time; I can't find a spare desk or a working computer and nothing comes together.


MINI - NO LONGER ABLE TO SQUEEZE THROUGH THE GATES

One night, towards the end of a long and complicated dream, I encountered a man who was trying to stick something down a dog's throat. (I'd seen a film in which cattle were inoculated in just such a fashion!) Outraged at such cruelty, I snatched up a screwdriver and stabbed the villain in the ribs. A fierce fight then ensued. To my utter bewilderment I suddenly found myself (in real life) battling Mini, who had chosen that moment to leap on to the bed (and me). It's hard to know which of us was the more shocked.



As you may see, not a lot has happened this past week. I'm overlooking the carnival celebrations in Loule and Alte, major festivals both but not ones we care to attend any longer. We was hardly necessary for the music from distant Alte came blaring miles across the valley to our very doorstep.  The parades take place on the Sunday and Tuesday, the latter a public holiday.  A great many people take the Monday off as well. The senior university closes down for the long weekend, meaning that I had no English classes. For this I was grateful. My back was playing up and I was pleased to fit in an extra session with Jodi.



Our one serious outing was to the Algarve Shopping mall at Guia to purchase the items necessary for our intended TV audio improvements. Guided by (our electronics guru friend) Peter, we returned with a pair of speakers and a scart connecting box. Peter is awaiting the delivery of an amplifier that he has ordered from the UK before he returns to the house to connect the system up. He confessed that, although he has a quality audio system at home, he resorts to subtitles to follow the muttered dialogue in the latest BBC drama.



For shopping malls, we are able to choose between the Forum on the outskirts of Faro and Shopping at Guia. Both are about 30 minutes away although in opposite directions. However life is about to change with the imminent opening of the mega Ikea mall that has been rising just off the freeway linking Loule with Faro. While shoppers will be well served by the new development, many smaller traders are likely to close their doors.



As ever, it's the dogs, walks and countryside that occupy our lives. March brings with it a rich sprinkling of spring flowers, including two newly-spotted orchids, the Sawfly pictured below:



And a grouping of Early Purples that arises annually just below the gate in our lower field.



They give us enormous pleasure, along with the daffodils, asphodels, bluebells and cistus that splash the hillsides with colour in spring. As the days warm up and stretch themselves out, Barbara's garden too shakes off its green winter torpor and comes to vivid life.



I had reason to visit Portuguese neighbours one afternoon to fetch some bread. It is not easy or usual on such occasions just to knock on the door, secure one's object, say good afternoon and return home. A visitor is drawn into the kitchen - always the warmest room in the house - and engaged in conversation while a dusty unlabelled bottle is fetched down from a shelf. On this occasion it contained honey medronho, a most acceptable combination, all the better consumed with the biscuits that also appear.



To get away inside 20 minutes, which means declining repeated offers of a top-up, is good going. I had to. As I explained to my hosts, nine dogs were waiting impatiently for supper.



 

Letter from Espargal: 23 February 2017

Thursday has dawned, a reluctant, grey, dusty dawning, suggesting that much of the Sahara has blown across the Atlantic to the Algarve (which, we subsequently learned, it has). We are spattered with dust blotches, as though a vast container of paint dust had exploded in the sky above.



My tractor, which spent the night outside - as it often does - is covered so thick with dust that I could not read the instruments. The very plants are submerged under dust. The authorities are warning citizens to avoid prolonged physical activity. Rain is promised later in the day; it may help clear the skies if not the spattered windows.



If the dust served any purpose, it was to present Jones with some outstanding picture opportunities at sunset on Wednesday. She takes a lot of good pics but these are in a different category, the kind that romantic holiday mags love to splash across their covers. Effusive compliments are welcome.

LIFE'S GOOD

Dust or no dust, we completed our 4 km morning hike, noting the absence of the usual Thursday morning shooting. The hunting season must be at an end. It was warm enough to sling our jackets over our shoulders. The first mosquitoes are back on station already and I fear that the ticks will not be far behind.



Dusty reflections aside, it's been a busy week. Sunday's task was to complete the repair and refurbishment of two elderly chairs that Jones has rescued from the tip. My wife doesn't hesitate to salvage discarded items of furniture or reparable ceramic pots. The fact of the matter is that she prefers old things to new; she seems to feel more comfortable in their presence. It's not a preference that I share, possibly because my primary interest is in function and hers generally in form.



A combination of love, elbow grease, glue, sandpaper, oil and varnish has served to restore both chairs to an acceptable state. One of them really needs professional attention to replace its grubby plaited seat. But that can wait. Meanwhile, we have to find somewhere to put the chairs.  There's certainly no room in the house.  (Every so often I contemplate briefly the daunting task we will face one day when we need to downsize.)

ON THE DOG POO RUN

Monday's English lesson dealt with the painfully belated investigation by the state into the alleged misdeeds of a former prime minister, one Jose Socrates. While in office he is alleged to have accepted bribes worth millions. If one is to believe detailed reports in the media, he practised corruption on an industrial scale.  But nearly two years beyond the official deadline, no charges have yet been brought. Portuguese justice in notoriously slow!



Mr Socrates, who has endured both prison and house arrest in the meanwhile, is threatening to sue the state, complaining of political persecution. It should be said that few people have been reaching for a sympathetic tissue.



Tuesday we renewed Jones's stock of baggy. This is a visit that we make several times a year. Generally our 5 litre bottle is thrust under a tap at the base of a large tank. On this occasion the tank was out of action; instead, the liquid was transferred from a plastic container with the help of a metal scoop.



Wednesday was complicated. In the morning I had my usual weekly back tune-up with Jodi. The afternoon brought my annual appointment with the local accountant, who manages the paperwork required for our employment of Natasha.  



I returned home to find that Peter (a retired electronics engineer friend) had already arrived at the house to see how we might improve the audio from the flat-screen TV in the lounge. The tinny speakers at the rear of the screen have never been more than adequate. They serve well enough for news bulletins but muffle the dialogue in any poorly articulated movies and documentaries.  I had earlier sent him a photo of the ports at the rear of the set. Sadly, these lack the ideal "audio out" connections so that his task, while doable, is complicated.

WHAT A PICTURE!

We were deeply frustrated over the weekend by our inability to follow the dialogue in a new series on the BBC, entitled SS-GB. Jonesy kept on asking me what one or other person had said and I kept on telling her that I had no idea. We were relieved to hear several mentions subsequently on the radio that most other people had endured the same frustration as a result of the dreadful recording. The BBC promised to take note.


CELEBRATING A DISTANT 70TH BIRTHDAY - AT THE HAMBURGO

One night I sat up to watch a German-language (art-house) film entitled Phoenix, after a night club that it features. The movie's theme was the return to Berlin of a Jewish woman who had been sent to a concentration camp after being betrayed to the Nazis by her treacherous husband. In the interim she had undergone facial reconstruction surgery sufficient to enable her to hide her real identity from him.  Things go from there. (There are detailed descriptions online for anyone who might be interested.)



The reason I mention the film is the moral issues it raises and its stunning conclusion, on a par with that of The Shawshank Redemption. (You've really missed something if you haven't seen that movie.) While most movies feel compelled to end with "happy ever after" or "into the sunset" scenes, this final scene is anything but and yet utterly compelling. It left me long pondering the many issues it raises.



On the dog front Jones continues to hand-feed Barri twice a day (while the rest of zoo congregates round in the hope that a crumb may fall). The dog simply shows no interest in conventional food and has to be persuaded to take it a biscuit at a time. I should add that she's more than happy to consume treats and seems to enjoy her walks as much as ever. The rest of the day and night she spends semi-immobile on a chair or the divan. It's getting up and getting down that seem to trouble her most.



 

Letter from Espargal: 17 February 2017

There's bad news and there's good this week - along with a lot of dog and sky pics. Saturday was bad news. And the irony is that the bad stuff came about because of the good stuff.  The good stuff was braving stormy weather to buy a welcome (food & drinks) pack in Loule for members of May's family who were flying in that night to stay in her house.



The gritty details are painful to spell out! While in the car, I handed Barbara my phone to check a message. And when she handed it back, I didn't seat it properly in my shirt pocket, where it habitually resides. As I was wearing both a jacket and a raincoat over the shirt, I didn't notice. That was a mistake, a bad mistake!



It was only an hour later, after stocking up at Lidl, that I became aware of the phone's absence - clapping my hand to my pocket, with a lurching feeling in my tummy. We returned in the pouring rain to the store, where inquiries proved fruitless. I've no doubt that the phone slipped out between my coats as we were scuttling across the car-park - and that somebody found it and thought their lucky day had come.



Back home, Google's Android Device Manager informed me that it was not able to locate the phone. (I suspect that the finder had either turned it off or removed the simcard.) However using this software I was able remotely to both wipe and lock the device - or so it confirmed. Whoever has it should get no joy from it.


OVER THE WALL

Losing one's phone ranks in my universe with disasters like developing a prominent pimple before an important first date (I once did!) or, even worse, living with Donald Trump in the White House. So you can well imagine my distress. To add to my troubles, I had to brave the elements a second time, taking my back-up phone to a rain-soaked Faro to get Vodafone to insert a new sim-card with my old number.All that I can say in my favour is that all my info had been backed up online and synced. I may be a fool but I'm not stupid! Or is it the other way around?

Pause here while I consider the week's other news.

SEE ANYTHING?

In my English class we discussed plans by two companies to grow and process cannabis in Portugal for medicinal purposes. Portugal has some strange laws concerning cannabis. It is legal for individuals to be in possession of as much cannabis as they can reasonably consume in ten days. But it's not legal for them to grow it or trade in it. Presumably their only resort is to obtain it (illegally?) on the black market.


DID YOU CALL?

Whatever the case, my pupils are mainly retired folk with little personal interest in getting high, and they weren't too concerned one way or the other.


WHAT IS IT?

While Natasha took over the house on Wednesday, we made a trip to a large pet-food supplier, Tibi, who is based down on the main east-west coastal road. With nine dogs and three cats to support (not to mention the hangers on) we find it expedient to purchase biscuits in 18kg bags.

HAND-FEEDING BARRI!

At the same time we bought a small bag of ultra special food, which the supplier assured us, no dog could resist - organic, no artificial ingredients and all that! He spoke truly. Barri, although she continues to enjoy her walks, won't get up to eat and has to be hand-fed crumb by crumb.

GROOMING AFTER A WET WALK

From Tibi we progressed up the road to Apolonia which, for those who don't know it, is a smart supermarket that caters largely for expats. The store stocks an extensive range of products beloved of northern European visitors. It also offers exceptional service and the security of a guard in the car-park - all at a price. 

HAD ENOUGH OF DOGS? SO HAVE WE!

The above paragraphs are not really about anything except making room for a couple more pictures.



We have had several social engagements - events on which I always find it hard to report. Jones, on checking my blogs, sometimes remarks that I've said nothing about going to lunch with X or supper with Y. But since X and Y mean nothing to most people, the food was not remarkable and the conversation produced no surprises, I can't see the point. Most of the time we patronise either the Hamburgo or the Chicken Shack, both of them excellent restaurants.



Okay, now for the conclusion of the phone saga.

A couple of days after losing the phone, we returned to Lidl to check whether by any chance it had been handed in. Indeed it had. The phone was produced, along with its soggy leather case and a scrap of paper bearing the name and phone number of the finder.  When I turned the phone on, a message appeared on the screen saying that it had been locked by Android Device Manager. According to the shop assistants, someone had brought the phone in the previous day; that's to say some 24 hours after I'd locked it.



My suspicion is that the finder initially planned to keep the phone or sell it. But on discovering that the device was useless, he had decided to hand it in, hoping for a reward.  I certainly left him a reward - and later had a call thanking me for it. What matters is that I have my phone back. It's a brilliant HTC model, no longer available except on the second hand market. Joy, according to the New Testament, is finding a lost sheep. These days, I should make that a lost phone.
P.S. Although I used Google's online software to delete my personal info from the phone, in fact it wasn't deleted, maybe because Google couldn't locate it. Dunno!