Water

Back to the river

Another heart-shaped stone in the river

Another heart-shaped stone in the river

Poppies (für meine Schwiegermutter); from a meadow by the river

Poppies from a meadow by the riverbank

Yellow lupin

Yellow lupin (Lupinus luteus), from the riverbank

The rather odd green lavender, common in cork oak forests: this one from the riverbank

The rather odd green lavender (Lavandula viridis), common in cork oak forests: this one from the riverbank

I pulled my first garlic from the ground - a little early, but it tasted heavenly

I pulled my first garlic from the ground – a little early, but it tasted heavenly

The apricot tree in blossom

The apricot tree in blossom: this is the one that fruits first

Greenfinch pair in our conifer: poets such as Wordsworth and John Clare called them Green Linnets

Greenfinch pair in our conifer: poets such as Wordsworth and John Clare called the birds Green Linnets

 

A blushing Linnet (Carduelis cannabina) sang on our wire this week: such a pretty song. I don’t think I’ve heard it before. No wonder ‘me old cock linnet’ was once such a popular caged bird, enough to have appeared in music-hall song. The little streaked yellow Serin continues to fill the air with its manic, high-speed, glass-beads-shattering-on-a-stone-floor song, and the Zitting Cisticola dzips as he rises and dips on his looping flight. A pair of greenfinches is considering the conifer at the front of the house as a possible nesting site, obviously not put off by the nearby posturing of Mr Cock-of-the-Walk Sparrow. All these little bundles of feathers bursting with life and song: it seems miraculous.

I’ve had time to go back to the river this week. The cold water slides slowly over the rocks with their streamers of weed. That the water is cold I can feel through my wellies. The toad spawn is largely gone: dispersed or eaten. I hope a few eggs have found their way under rocks to develop into toadlets (or are they called tadpoles, like frogs?). I can testify to the irresistible deliciousness of the eggs, however. Not personally, exactly, but by the fact that we got our first ever good look at the mystery wading bird thanks to the toad eggs. We were about to drive over the ford and there was the bird, quite unable to fly off into the distance in its usual way, with a flash of long white rump and a complaining kyew, because it couldn’t stop dipping for toad eggs. We grabbed the chance for a close inspection – binoculars thankfully in the car – then carried on our journey and left it alone.

It’s one of a pair now, though usually we see a solitary bird. We see it often; it can’t be migratory. It’s like a Greenshank, but smaller, with a distinctly straight beak. We haven’t settled on what it is, though it’s got to be something obvious; it always is. Therefore, it cannot be a Marsh Sandpiper, even though that’s the only bird in the book that fits the bill (or beak).

Water, fire and oil

The well was almost full and we ran the crystal water into the cisterna under the front veranda for two and a half hours. That’ll do us for a good while. And I have finally faced up to something that has been on my conscience: all that bottled water we drink, most of it in plastic. We had our well water tested and were advised not to drink it: it was pure of every contamination except, possibly, bacterial. We cook with it and clean our teeth, but were drinking from bottles. We recycled them afterwards, of course, but recycling plastic barely limits the damage. Then it clicked, at last. Good heavens: just boil our own water using our solar-powered electricity, cool it and keep it in the fridge. It tastes wonderful, and this is a big weight off my mind.

The days are warm under the sun but the wind has been chilly. We still light a fire in the evenings. The metric tonne of firewood we had delivered at the start of winter ran out and, rather than get a new delivery so late in the season, we’ve been scavenging. The old woody branches of Gum Cistus, the plant that grows in such richly scented, resinous profusion all over the hills, was once a common fuel, I read, so we went collecting uprooted or fallen branches of that.

On return we took a shortcut back to the house, straight down the hill, unwieldy branches in hand. It’s steep, but the horizontal plough lines make reasonable steps, and you just need to watch where you place your foot among the stones. But the driver of a JCB had been watching us. That was dangerous, he told us when we reached the house. I don’t think I mind that the driver of a JCB in our garden is excessively safety-conscious. And, should you wonder what he’s doing there: he is completing the rectangular hole for the swimming pool.

A last word, for this week, on oil. At the tourism trade fair in Lisbon last week, the mayor of Tavira gave a speech – the Algarve being the featured region of the fair. He nodded to us in the audience and said, in Portuguese, ‘Nice T-shirts.’ Afterwards he told us it was good we were there, good to keep up the pressure, but that he had it all in hand. On 9 March we read that the Assembleia Municipal of the Tavira district had passed a motion by the Socialist Party, with 24 in favour and only 2 against, to reject and condemn the exploitation of hydrocarbons in the area, both on- and offshore. This is, of course, wonderful. But is it enough? I wish I could believe it was.

photobomb2

Yours truly photobombing the Algarve stand in my protest T-shirt (this photo, of course, was taken by Husband)

Algarve watermill

The crumpled-tissue-paper flower of the gum cistus

The crumpled-tissue-paper flower of the Gum Cistus

Lavender is in flower now

Lavender is in flower now

Moorish Gecko and Common Fumitory

Moorish Gecko and, half in shade, Common Fumitory

Turtle in the river, pretending to be invisible

Turtle in the river, pretending to be invisible

 

Last Friday we rejoiced in the torrents of rain that hammered down for the whole day and much of the night. An even greater joy followed: the limpidity of the rained-out atmosphere. The past few days have been bright and clear, and the nights so dark and star-speckled they are, well, heavenly. Two babbling swallows alighted on the telegraph wire in front of the veranda one morning: the first swallows to arrive in our part of the valley. They are Barn Swallows; the Red-rumped we don’t expect to see for a few weeks yet. Our faithful Little Owl is becoming increasingly vocal, day and night. Its repeated ‘weeow’ call sounds like a yo-yo whistling through the air.

Husband is hard at work in the bakery as I type. The latest batch of loaves includes dark-rye Borodinsky breads for a Russian friend of a friend, for whom they taste of home. Some of these loaves will be swapped for a handmade Hoopoe nesting box. Hoopoes occupy the farmland just over the river, but this side is a bit too rough and ready for them with their elaborate, cabaret get-up. We are hoping to persuade them it’s quite refined over here really. As if we didn’t have enough birds! It’s pure greed. Keeping the sparrows out of the nest will be a job, too.

Abandoned millhouse

Abandoned millhouse

Watermill

I haven’t paid too much attention so far to the ruined watermill I pass every time I go down to the river. The gradually rotting caravan in one corner of the grounds, evidence of someone’s long-dead ambitions for the site, is off-putting for a start. Plus the land is, of course, private property. The ruin itself isn’t so eye-catching, nor are ruins a rarity round here. I couldn’t figure out how it could be a watermill anyway. Where was the race? Where would the large, vertical wheel have been positioned? Perhaps it was someone’s fanciful idea it had ever been a watermill. Then one day I noticed, having taken a little detour, that at the back of the ruin was a large, deep, rectangular depression: some kind of water storage.

Curiosity gradually got the better of me. This week I persuaded a friend with an interest in mills into trespassing with me. After all, the mill is unoccupied and for sale, so surely it’s OK to take a look. I not only had the benefit of his judgement on site, but also the resource of a splendid book he got hold of (being in fact an antiquarian bookseller rather than a mill engineer): Portugal’s Other Kingdom: The Algarve, published in 1963. The author is Dan Stanislawski, an American professor of historical geography. The book is brilliant. (Thank you, Robert Brown, and Becky B.)

Professor Stanislawski wrote: ‘A typical water mill of the Algarve is built with a vertical shaft. The grinding stones are at the upper end of the shaft, and at the other end are horizontal blades against which the force of water is directed. … [This] simple type … is certainly as old as the first century BC.’

So, nothing like the kind of watermill I am familiar with.

Inside the main room of the mill: there is a large cavity beneath the floor

Inside the main room of the mill: there is a large cavity beneath this floor. The beam here has descended from the roof

The back room of the mill

The back room of the mill

The streaked walls of the mill interior

Streaked walls

Bits of old millstone

Bits of old millstone in the main room

A cavity we found under the floor of the main room must have been where the horizontal blades operated. Among the rubble on the floor were segments of chased stone, which could only be from a broken millstone. The single room behind, several steps up, has a shaft at the rear, where perhaps a sluice-gate controlled the flow of water from the holding tank beyond. Later Husband pointed out that the water reservoir was just downstream of both a deep channel in the river and our neighbour Eleuterio’s abundant well. The mill could have operated not only when the river was running but also in the dry season, using the underground springs that feed the well. He also spotted, among the weeds in the grounds, two entire, pristine-looking millstones, which I had never noticed.

millstones in the grass

Millstones among the buttercups, ruin in the background

Recessed window

Recessed window in the main room

The roof falling in. You can see the structure: beams supporting canes, with semi-tubular handmade tiles from local clay arranged on top

The roof falling in. You can see the structure: beams supporting canes, with semi-tubular tiles made from local clay laid on top

River channel and well pump-house

Nearby river channel and well pump-house; as viewers we are standing downstream and the mill is behind us and to the right

I am the last person who should be trying to describe the workings of a watermill. My engineering skills are, let us say, undeveloped. I have the technological nous of a water rat (but that’s a little unfair on the rat). None the less, I am fascinated by this mill, and its technology that was – if the American professor is to be believed – in continuous use for two millennia, only to be abandoned in my meagre lifetime.

No, I cannot buy the mill. It is for sale at a commercial price on a tourism-potential ticket. One day someone will build a lovely house there, and the mill will be history.

The road to nowhere

I can never tire of our river

I can never tire of our river

river1 river2

Some of this week's bread

Some of this week’s bread

We may be at the back of beyond but many roads lead here. For Rolie, the Renault 4, the only possible route is our ‘main’ one; you need an off-road vehicle for the rest. You take a turning off the main east–west road, close to our local big village. The road condition deteriorates somewhat but it’s still a road. It goes up to a pass – not too high, we’re in the hills not the mountains here – then drops down, past Flaviano’s emporium with his never-ending Christmas, until it reaches a concrete bridge over the river. It’s a simple bridge with no sides. It probably never had any sides but a visiting boy, thinking it looked dismantled, asked us if that was because James Bond movies were filmed around here.

From there it’s a fairly steep ascent and a sharp bend, then you come to a turn-off. Now you are off the tarmac and on to the dirt. It’s a couple of kilometres along this track until you reach the river, where we live, and where there are two fording points if you want to go on any further. The second of these fords is the closest to our house and it’s the one strangers come a-cropper on. They will have driven on until the dirt road runs out and must either give up, turn round and go back or attempt the route to the river, which means driving over a rocky lip and down a footpath. Farmers can do it in their tractors and pickups; saloon and estate-car drivers cannot. It’s worse for people coming up from the river, which happens in the summer sometimes. The lip at the top of the path will defeat them. We come out at the sound of spinning wheels and spitting pebbles to recommend they reverse out of their predicament and take another route.

If you can get across the river, which is still possible even now, while it isn’t in spate, there’s an immediate choice of three dirt roads, which branch off into more and more tracks, some of ever-decreasing size. From here you can end up in neighbouring villages or eventually re-emerge at some point along the main east–west road. It was one of these routes that led a couple of weeks ago to the burst tyre, and the spotting of the fire salamander when we completed our journey home by foot.

In winter, without our neighbours here, we see an average of one vehicle a day, and it’s probably a tractor. Occasionally on a weekend there is the short-lived nuisance of a dirt bike. We don’t hear any other vehicle; the main roads are too far away for even a distant hum to reach us. We live with birdsong.

A Common Buzzard has recently taken up residence here. Its Portuguese name – the ‘round-winged eagle’ – is so much more charming than its English one. It isn’t welcomed by the foraging flocks of smaller birds we have around: Goldfinches, Serins, particularly the Azure-winged Magpies. The magpies, in their smart uniform of fawn with air-force-blue wings and neat black cap, are a rather military bird. Impossibly elegant in their dress uniform but with manners that do not match, they have taken to squawking at and mobbing the buzzard, who hunches rather pathetically in a too-small medronho (strawberry bush) until giving up and flying off. I wonder why the magpies are so bullish when they don’t have any young to protect. I guess it comes with the uniform.

The real road to nowhere: fossil fuel

And I can’t stop thinking about how all this could be lost, not just for us, but for everyone in the Algarve and for everyone who loves to come here. If anyone reading this hasn’t yet signed the petition against oil and gas exploration and exploitation in the Algarve, and would like to, please click on the link. Ta very much.

Tavira river

I never tire of Tavira either: the river Gilão reflecting the streetlights

tavira castle

Tavira’s castle by night. Original fortifications were built by the Moors, then rebuilt in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries by Portuguese kings

tavira parish church

Santa Maria do Castelo, the main parish church. After the 1755 earthquake, it was too damaged to be in use; the nearby Miséricordia took over as the parish church until 1800. The beautiful Baroque azulejos (tiles) of Miséricordia date from 1760 and perhaps it was the church’s elevated, albeit temporary, status that made their shipping in from Lisbon a possibility

 

Winter

Husband's bread

Husband’s latest bread

The rushing river

The rushing river

Clouds over the valley

Clouds over the valley

 

The river is very talkative these days. We’ve had so much rain that it babbles loudly. We can hear it from the front terrace, adding a new track to the bird sounds that accompany sunny breakfasts. Only two such breakfasts have been possible in this week of cloud cover. The well is liquid again and allowed us a second cisterna top-up of the month; this is the water tank under the front terrace, which supplies water to the house. A mathematical error in its building means that it is unusually capacious – 30,000 litres instead of the intended 15,000 – and we have managed to get it about three-quarters full, which is good.

Winter is a beautiful time in the Algarve. I love the cool brightness of it, the lushness of the hills, the crystal water that gushes from our well, the quietude in local towns; I love the fact that daytime is always temperate, if not warm, while night-time calls out for a fire to be lit.

Manueline

I’ve been exploring Tavira some more. The town was at the height of its success in the sixteenth century. Dom Manuel I was on the throne until 1521, and known as ‘the Fortunate’ for the wealth that came in through the spices and gold of India and Africa. His name was subsequently given to the predominant architectural style of the era, Manueline, also known as Portuguese late Gothic. The armillary sphere, a navigational device represented by a globe or half-globe encircled by bands, is a key Manueline symbol. No surprise there, with the astonishing success of Portuguese navigators and the riches pouring into the coffers of the Fortunate king. Other marine ornamentation – shells, pearls, rope, seaweed – also found their way into frothing, elaborate designs, but my personal favourites are the simpler examples of the style, ones which arguably show the calming influence of the Renaissance.

At this time, the Gothic pointed arch has been replaced by a rounded arch, often containing counter curves, like this one in Rua da Liberdade:

counter-curve

And here is another, the original doorway of a sixteenth-century inn, and now, as you can see, part of a chemist’s:

inn

And here is what remains of another . . .

counter-curve2

with, if you zoom in closely . . .

counter-face

a tiny, highly simplified, upside-down head – the discovery of which absolutely made my day. It’s on the house said to have been built in 1541 by André Pilarte, stonemason and Renaissance designer of the Misericórdia church.

Ever since the time of Dom Manuel I, the armillary sphere has been a key symbol of Portugal. It appears on the national flag, which dates to 1911 after the overthrow of the monarchy; the monarchy went but not their symbol. It was also, as I saw from this old postbox, once used for the Portuguese postal service, though a redesign has seen the end of it

Ever since the time of Dom Manuel I, the armillary sphere has been a key symbol of Portugal. It appears on the national flag, which dates from 1911 after the overthrow of the monarchy; the monarchy went but not their symbol. It was also, as I saw from this old postbox, once used for the Portuguese postal service, though a redesign has seen the end of it

 

Oil

So we went to the Sessão Pública de Esclarecimento, where representatives of various oil companies plus, my favourite fool, Paulo Carmona of the ENMC oil quango gave, after much public pressure, a series of talks to demystify what the process of oil prospecting and exploitation was all about. This is the cabinet of fools:

oilers1

The oil company representatives seemed to think they were there to give a geology lecture to a bunch of schoolchildren, or else to bring the good news to the benighted, and might have been surprised to be met with 250 stroppy, well-informed and angry members of the public. The presentation of the Italian rep, from ENI (Agip), was the worst, and ended with this spectacularly patronising picture:

oilers

whereupon he was almost laughed out of the lecture hall. However, it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all. These people have never heard of climate change, never heard of renewable energy, never heard of a global movement away from fossil fuel. Because if they did, they’d have to cease to exist. They’d have to uninvent themselves. We’re stuck with them. I’ll do everything I can to stop them despoiling this beautiful part of the world and to protect it for the future, but I know there’s not much I can do. So here’s the deal. I’m just going to enjoy the hell out of being in this beautiful place while we still have it – OK?

Week 76: The river is back

I'm looking after a neighbour's dogs and cats. This one is always leaping with joy so I can only catch her mid-leap

I’m looking after a neighbour’s dogs and cats. This one is always leaping for joy so she’s difficult to photograph

She was pretty excited by the river, too, but also scared. She stayed in the shallow parts and whimpered if I waded too far

She was pretty excited by the river, but also scared. She stayed in the shallow parts and whimpered if I waded in too far

Much of October felt like a second spring. Showers were plentiful – such a relief, after all our anxieties about the aridity. Patches of bright green appeared on the hillsides. Tiny white snowdrop-like flowers emerged: Leucojum autumnale, the autumn Snowflake. Blue-winged Grasshoppers flew up from the riverbed and the paths around at approaching footfall; as good as invisible on the ground, it is only the flash of blue wing when they take flight that lets you know they are there. In our garden, it was possible to sit out in the warm sun and be surrounded by birdsong. At the front veranda, the sparrows flew in looking for the mud nest, as though ready for another brood. But the nest is gone. We took it down to get ready for painting the walls, and a smelly, wormy thing it was too.

But this is a spring in reverse, a spring heading for winter. On Sunday 1 November we woke up to thunder and heavy rain, and read of an extreme weather alert for the Algarve, especially between the hours of noon and 3 p.m.: up to 20mm of rain per hour, and gusts of wind at 80 kph. Here in our house at the end of the world the outlines of the hills dissolved and the sky vanished. The rain came down in torrents but we were safe and dry inside, and cosy with the fire lit. Flaviano and the nice round lady at our shop/letter-collection centre were very happy about the rain when Husband saw them two days later. People in local towns didn’t fare so well, especially the tourist developments on the coast, where streets ran with water and bars and shops and houses got flooded. The emergency services have been praised for their interventions. An Albufeira SOS page has been set up on Facebook: self-help for the families and businesses affected by the flooding. One visitor to the page lamented in Portuguese: It’s just sad that we are in Portugal but everything on this page is in English. I know nothing of Albufeira and its ilk; I’ve never been there. It is another side to the Algarve than the one we know. I am sorry for the people there, while I can’t help wondering what part the planners and developers played in creating the conditions for storm and heavy rain to turn into flood.

Monday saw more and more rain. It was intermittent, as though the sky takes a huge in-breath, then spews out rain until it needs to draw breath again. Husband had been out shopping. He was happy to arrive back in a dry spell. He got out of the car, picked up the shopping, then, in walking the few yards to the front veranda, got drenched. I opened the door to see him dripping wet, a surprised look on his face.

The river, having started as a trickle on Sunday, was in full flow by Monday. Its reappearance is a month earlier than last year.

The riverbed on Sunday after the storm - the river at this point is a trickle just behind me

The riverbed on Sunday straight after the storm – the river at this point is a trickle just behind me

The river on Monday: at last the fish from the pond get to go somewhere

The river on Monday: at last the fish from the pond get to go somewhere

The river on Tuesday, still flowing well

The river on Tuesday, still flowing well

Husband

Other news, besides his being caught in a sudden surprise downpour: he’s baking more bread than ever, and is also standing in as projectionist for Tavira’s Cine-Clube for a couple of weeks. In summer the club puts on the wonderful outdoor film festival I mentioned before (see Weeks 61 and 64), and the rest of the year maintains a weekly showing in the town’s cinema, a down-at-heel, atmospheric place, which could do with a few more visitors.

Cinema lobby

Cinema lobby

Two lots of antique projectors, and between them, hidden from sight at this angle, the modern, computer-driven version

Two lots of antique projectors, and between them, hidden from sight at this angle, the modern, computer-driven version

Bread

Bread

 

 

 

 

Week 74: Rolie

For some weeks now, my Renault 4 has been misbehaving. This has entailed many meet-ups with Costa, my multi-tasking, extrovert R4 man, a Portuguese with a French accent and an outsider’s view of his own country. We meet at the Cooperativa, where he has a workspace arrangement with a mechanic, the same one who sorted out the R4 when I pranged the back end on the millstone outside our house (Weeks 49 and 50). The car issue at the beginning of this week – indicators that stopped working – was resolved in a matter of moments by Costa, his head under the steering-wheel column, a spanner in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. While fixing the lights, he delivered a non-stop commentary on the job in hand, on procrastination in sunny, southern countries (‘They say “Monday”, but you should ask, “Which Monday?”!’) and on some age-related concerns with his back that were hindering his positioning half in and half out of the car, all the while taking calls on the mobile, and grinning whenever his face was angled outwards so as to be visible.

The preceding problem had been an electrical one that caused the car to cut out. It would usually start again after a few moments, but this wasn’t much fun on the road in traffic. On my way to the Cooperativa that time Rolie had given up the ghost and I had been forced to leave him on the side of the road and walk the rest of the way. Costa came with me back to the car, laughing while perorating on the fact that he eats too much, that I give directions just like someone from the Alentejo (‘Oh, it’s just around the corner, no, not this corner, the next one …’), and that my ‘baby’ – babee, with the accent on the second syllable – was ‘a bad baby’. He got the engine going again and drove off. It took a substantial rewiring to sort out that problem, and it was the fixing thereof that had knocked out the indicator function. There had also been the rattling gear stick – now cushioned by a new rubber washer – and a flat tyre, a slow release caused by a tiny stone between the rubber and the rim.

The Cooperativa, with its huge, under-used (or unused) concrete silos and its Social Realist signage featuring a man and a woman in stout boots and with raised fists marching off into the future carrying a sheaf of wheat, offers space for many activities. While Costa fixes the indicators, a forklift truck manoeuvres sacks of sweetly pungent, freshly dried figs into a store-room. Wine barrels bob in water-filled plastic boxes under the water tank. The mechanic, a bear of a man – whose lateness caused the discourse on southern procrastination, though in the end he wasn’t really that late at all – arrives cleaning his sunglasses on his T-shirt, casually exposing his considerable belly, and joins in the conversation with the man under the steering wheel. Other people, to whom my car must be pretty familiar by now, come and go. Strange agricultural smells assail the nose. Mysteries unfold there. I don’t know the half of it.

Rain

Rain

Wet dog. Estrela, who so often comes to visit

Wet dog. Estrela, who so often comes to visit

These will be our first oranges of the year. I don't know what kind they are; they are an interesting drop shape

These will be our first oranges of the year. I don’t know what kind they are; they are an interesting drop shape

We will have many mandarins this year

We will have many mandarins this year

Grapefruit: the right colour already, but they need to grow a lot bigger

Grapefruit: the right colour already, but they need to grow a lot bigger

Rain

The real story this week has been rain. For days now it has done nothing but pour. Columns of rain have marched up and down the valley, thundering on the roof and hanging in sheets from the gutters. Surely the river will be back earlier this year. We expect it almost any day now.

Each time the noise of the rain stops, birds start up. Small birds are passing through in flocks and singly: wagtails, buntings and warblers; other birds are returning for winter. I opened the garage-type door to our ‘spare’ house one day this week for a yoga session, only for a bird to startle and fly straight into a window then land, stunned, on the floor. Thirty seconds later, it recovered itself and flew out of the still-open door. It was the redstart, my winter companion of last year when we had newly arrived in the valley at the end of the world. I’m so happy to see it back.

As I write I am deafened by the latest downpour and yet, incredibly, the internet is still functioning, allowing me to make this post. Equally incredibly, one day this week was hot and sunny enough for sunbathing at the beach. Our favoured beach at the height of summer is no longer easily reachable since the boat has stopped running, so we returned to our beach of autumn and winter: Barril, where the anchor graveyard is.

Taken on a hot, sunny day at the beach this week

Taken on a hot, sunny day at the beach this week

The anchor graveyard at Barril. At first, I didn't know whether this was an art installation or a dumping ground. It turns out to be neither. The anchors were for holding net frames for tuna capture and slaughter. They were stacked up here at the end of each season, ready for the next year. But then, in the mid-1960s, the next year didn't come - the decades of abundant, cascading tuna fish were over. Since then dunes have grown up around the anchors. All this is a story for another time

The anchor graveyard at Barril. At first, I didn’t know whether this was an art installation or a dumping ground. It turns out to be neither. The anchors were for holding net frames for tuna capture and slaughter. They were stacked up here at the end of each season, ready for the next year. But then, in the mid-1960s, the next year didn’t come – the decades of abundant, cascading tuna fish were over. Since then dunes have grown up around the anchors. All this is a story for another time

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