I asked for rain, and I got it. It thundered on the roof and danced on the fragrant earth. It was at its heaviest on Monday night, when lightning flash-lit the valley and we decided to light the fire to burn off the chill. We had friends visiting us over this wet period, whom I’d promised swims and sundowners. Luckily they had read the weather forecast and arrived clad as though for a weekend in the Lake District, which was appropriate.
By Tuesday the rain had caused tongues of red earth to slither down the hillsides on to the dirt road, but Rolie had no problems driving along. He’s still running like a dream. Don’t quite know how Costa’s Olhão-based mechanic worked the magic he did.
The rain came just in time. The water man hadn’t been able to deliver his water to the garden cisterna. He couldn’t negotiate the track up the hillside, nor did he have pipes long enough to reach from the dirt road. The garden tank had almost run dry; our external water supply was looking precarious. This primarily affected the swimming pool. Being in possession of a swimming pool is like looking after a rare and precious beast. It snores and rumbles. It requires regular inputs of water and salt. It swishes insects away with its skimmers. It likes having its sides brushed.
But then you get to swim, which is heavenly.
Now, with the rainfall, the citrus trees got saturated, droplets hanging off their yellow and green-orange fruit skins, and Eleuterio’s well started giving up water again. Perhaps the well had simply become too dry. Water is so precious.
A meeting about the future of fossil fuels in the Algarve was held in the Clube de Tavira. On the panel were the baby-faced town mayor, an admirable and precise lawyer and the writer (Lídia Jorge) whom I quoted a few weeks ago. All three were there to make the case against exploration and exploitation of oil and gas in the Algarve. Local government and local people remain lined up against central government and vested interests. Questions were sought from the audience after the panel had made their speeches. The silence that might fall over a British audience at this point, who would shrink in their seats and shuffle their feet until someone was brave enough to raise a hand, does not happen here. Instead, there is a clamour for the microphone. (A microphone!) Those who get the chance to speak will not merely stand up and introduce themselves, but quite often exit their seat in order to pace the aisle and be seen from different angles by the audience during their peroration. They might start off quietly, but as they limber up, their voice finds its rhythm and rather than ask an actual question of the panel they might be declaiming their point of view for ten whole minutes. Soon I lose my dim and hopeful grasp of Portuguese. The language ceases to be a collection of discrete words, some of which I understand, and returns to being the torrent of plosive pops, zhuzhes and rasps that it was when I first arrived here. Eventually those for whom this is the opportunity to read out an entire mission statement, which might run to several sides of A4, will get their turn at the mic. The moderator’s request for succinctness is ignored. Most of the audience, like the panel, were against the oil and gas plans, so this was not so much preaching to the converted as drilling them into the ground. The panel hardly got another word in. The wonderful passion of the people of the Algarve to protect their environment sometimes gets drowned in a sea of words.
But there are actions to come, and actions speak louder than words.