20October1997

Monday 20 October 1997
My dear folks,

I am 53 at the time of writing this letter & we are “celebrating” our 18th wedding anniversary so I guess that we will soon have to face the inevitable onset of middle age. By “soon” I mean within the next few years; I don’t believe in rushing anything, especially the ageing process. If you wonder about the quotation marks hedging the celebrations, these allude only to the weather that has blanketed our weekend destination. We are ensconced at the Quinta Barranco da Estrada, a remote holiday hotel perched on the vast Santa Clara Dam. For all the beauty of the waters that curl around numerous coves & islands, the scene is – as Jones has just conceded - a mite dismal. There’s a steady rain falling of the kind that looks set to continue. It’s welcome here & we don’t resent it. It’s just a mite inhibiting, especially as the small interim electricity generator doesn’t run to anything more than dim bedside lamps.

We arrived late on Sunday afternoon, taking our time to negotiate the potholed road from the village of Santa Clara de Velha & then the bumpy track that winds through the hills down to the hotel. At that stage, at least, the road was still dry. We had intended either to sail or paddle today across to the pousada (state-run hotel) visible on the far banks of the dam & then walk the 4 kms into Santa Clara. But the weather put a damper on that. Instead we slithered the 20 minutes back along the track & into town. Not exactly hair-raising but definitely designed for 4-wheel drive.

Santa Clara is a lovely little town, neat & self-confident, its houses trimmed with typical blue or yellow edges. A number of women had gathered for their morning chat in the café to which we repaired for coffee & toast. The men-folk were doing the same thing at another café in the next block. After a leisurely perusal of the papers, we retrieved our brollies & took a 15 minute turn through the streets. (There’s not much of St Clara you can’t see in 15 mins.) En route we found a watchmaker who replaced the plastic strap of my watch & tightened the screws in Jones’s glasses for the price of a London bus ticket. All the while the rain came down, a steady, soft, soaking rain that was already carpeting the countryside with minute, green shoots.

Quinta da Barranco is the handiwork of an English couple (away on holiday) who settled there 10 years ago. Four New Zealanders are running the place in their absence. We met their 5 dogs (ranging from a wee yapper to a Newfoundland), Radar the cat, & the two resident geese & their six goslings. There had been eight goslings, we gathered, but two had been imprudent enough to try to share the supper bowl of Tiny the Newfoundland. We also met Araby & Alexandra, the eloquent 7 & 5 year old daughters of the owners. The Quinta runs to 7 double bedrooms-en-suite. Below it, gardens tumble steeply down to the dam where a fading rowing boat, a sailing dinghy & several canoes are available to guests. All around it, creepers & shrubs grow busily in every direction. I felt that the place looked tired: Jones opted for an “end of season” look. Either way, there’s not much to do when it’s raining, other than go for a long under-brolly walk, which we did. The area is very slatey, all that rescues the track from total impassability in the rain.

To our surprise we were the only guests. We thought the place would be full as a neighbour had tried to get in for a single night over the weekend & failed. We could only conclude that the Quinta didn’t like taking people for single nights. This was to prove to our advantage as we were able to enjoy all our meals at a small table just outside our door, a situation which afforded us both the privacy that Jones so appreciates & a wonderful view of the dam.

I was fascinated during a stop in the town of Alte to see a dozen cats resting up in a field. Five of them had perched on the wall where the largest was busy spitting at & clouting each of the others to reinforce his rank. Not one that escaped without a blow & a hiss. I guess they were feral although they took not the least notice of us. We also stopped off in the town of Odemira which clings to half a dozen hillsides & whose raison d’être escaped us completely. We peered into two restaurants & thought better of each. We were about to depart when we found a third where we joined the patron & his family for lunch. I apologised to the young woman – probably a daughter – who had to leave her lunch table to see to ours. It was a good lunch, brown bread & salads over a bottle of vinho verde, & well worth waiting for.

Tuesday 21:
A leisurely two-hour drive brought us back to the Quintassential, with a stop only to fill the tank & repair the disintegrating windscreen wiper of our newish VW Polo. It’s a nice little car, superior to the Opel Corsa we drove in September but without the oomph of the Ford Fiesta we had in August. At least by the time that I retire down here I will have tried all the popular ranges.

At the Quinta we found Annelise and Andries. Annelise is a friend from Cape Town who spent six months here five years ago to write a novel. It’s in Afrikaans - Julia se Broer – although she’s hoping to get it translated into English. She’s back for a week to breathe the Algarve air again. Andries is nearing the end of his summer stay. His beloved sun is retreating ever further south & he will soon follow it. The rain which had poured down on us in the Alentejo poured down equally over the Algarve in our absence. Annelise said it rained all of Monday. The wheelbarrow was full of water, as if to make the point. The garden was thrilled to bits. So was Jones who was relieved of the daily burden of watering it.

After a lunch of the deliciousist kind of brown bread & tomato sandwiches, washed down with red wine, we took ourselves off on a long walk. First stop was “our” dog, the former pet of the English family who abandoned him & the big house below us. He’s now chained by the locals to a tree & lives in an overturned oil drum. The locals explained that he had nearly been run over several times & they’d chained him up for his own good. They feed him intermittently & we try to fill the gaps with regular helpings of biscuits & dog goo. We wished we could offer him a home. The poor guy looks much the worse for wear, infested with fleas & with his ribs starting to show. We wondered, as we walked, what to do for him.

The rain started to fall again & we hoisted the brollies we were carrying. They were just little brollies but they fended off the worst of it. I slung my walking stick over my brolly arm to leave my other arm free to swat the flies that have flooded in with the rain. The little buggers irritated us greatly up in the Alentejo where I regretted a rare decision to leave my swatter behind. Not that there were many animals there. The hillsides around us were forested, largely with young gum plantations. We saw a few sheep, once a horse dragging a plough across a field, once two bullocks pulling a cart & once two peasants driving a huge pig down the road. That was it. The dogs you know about already. They rush to welcome all guests with a furious fusillade of barks. Radar, the tiny ginger cat, sidled up to us over dinner with the most delicate brushing of his tail across our legs to invite us to toss any scraps in his direction.

I have to thank Mum, Cathy & Ann for the faxes we have found waiting for us & for the kind thoughts to accompany our anniversary. We have absorbed your weather & your news. Tonight we are taking ourselves to the local for supper. And we think we have found a home for our dog.

Blessings
T&B.