I’m hoping for rain, not least because our garden watering system isn’t working and I’m clambering over the rocky ground with a heavy watering can sploshing against my leg. I’m concentrating on the citrus trees – lemons, oranges, grapefruit – because those are currently in fruit, and not being true natives they are intolerant of aridity. The water from Eleuterio’s riverside well, which usually fills our garden tank, isn’t reaching us. We’ve replaced bits of the pump, searched the hoses for kinks, put in new junction pieces, all without success. Eleuterio said he found an amphibian in the piping and thought that was the problem, but I guess it’s been removed and yet nothing has changed. The amphibian was identified by an Algarvian name which we couldn’t recognise, and by the way I now know the amphibians and reptiles of Portugal pretty damn well having attended two lectures on the subject in Sagres and made copious notes. (That weekend wasn’t just about birds.) Which also means that my recent claim to know nothing of reptilian reproduction is no longer valid. All the baby lizards and geckos around now are the product of a second breeding cycle – which only happens in advantageous years – and is thanks to a bounty of insects resulting from the rain in May. So there you go. But Eleuterio’s name for the beast-that-hadn’t-anyway-caused-the-blockage eluded us. And rain is eluding us too, though I had hoped the ferocious weather on the other side of the Atlantic might throw a drop or two our way.
Although the riverside wells have water, the river itself is almost totally dry. The swimming area is down to the size of a small bathtub, lively with fish. Since we cannot refill our garden tank from the riverside well, we’re going to have to buy in water. (The well on our own land, 150 metres higher than the river, provides enough water only for our household use, and that barely.) Today it’s being delivered. It won’t be any easy drop. The tractor and tanker will have to drive partway up a steep hillside path, park near the little round wooden house and hope the hose is long enough to reach the tank from there. The Algarvians are practical people who can get things done, so I hope it will be all right.
Costa, the ever-practical Renault 4 man, continues to be reachable only by extraordinary and unconventional means. Rolie has been choking and coughing lately, and I wanted to take him in for a service. I called Costa but had no luck in getting through. The next day, Husband and I were driving through Tavira at night in the jeep when we saw a car ahead of us with no lights on. Husband, in his dutiful, slightly overbearing way, beeped at the car a couple of times to alert them to their lack of illumination. The car pulled over instead – and out from the passenger seat leapt Costa. I jumped out too, and we shook hands and discussed arrangements for Rolie, while the two men in the driving seats nodded to each other and Husband politely suggested the other put his lights on. Yesterday I took Rolie to the garage in Olhão that Costa had arranged. Within twenty-four hours, some troublesome part had been replaced and Rolie is now rolling along as smooth as anything. My dear little old polluter. I’ll be very sad when I have to let him go.
No blog next week, because we will be in England for a wedding. Thereafter comes a heavy schedule of activism. I’d imagined a quieter autumn after the summer beach events, but there’s no let-up. More on that to come.