The Little Owl and the Black Redstart were the very first birds that came into our lives when we moved into our house in the valley almost two years ago. The Little Owl has stayed around ever since. The Black Redstart left in our first spring and didn’t return for the winter; I missed it. But now it’s back, having skipped a year. It clicks and flicks and dips around the veranda and the roofs of our house and our neighbours’. It has taken a great liking to the swallows’ balcony. When the Red-rumped Swallows built their mud nest around a hook in the veranda ceiling this year, they began with a small extension facing outwards, which looked like it would be the entrance tunnel. They then turned their backs on the extension and grew the nest instead towards our front door, with the bottle-neck entrance facing just where we emerge from the house. The rear extension was perhaps a mistake, or a practice run. It stayed unused all summer – but no longer. The returning Black Redstart has found it to be the perfect perch and vantage point.
The clocks have gone forward. It’s now easier for a lie-abed like me to get up and walk up the hill before sunrise (currently around 7 a.m.). The valley in the damp morning is fragrant: woody, spicy and herbaceous, and ambery, too, from the sticky leaves of Cistus ladanifer. The earth is also greening by the day. By midday the sun is warm and the season feels more like spring than autumn. We have made a cabbage patch and a lettuce patch with small plants we bought at Santa Catarina’s monthly market: 15 seedlings for 1 euro from a friendly farmer; we bought two lots of cabbages and one of lettuce. When the spring-like day comes to an end it feels chilly and damp again, so we’ve started lighting the fire: a treat.
I’ve finally done something I should have done two years ago, and joined the Portuguese language classes held in the town of São Bras. I was told about them at the start of our time here but I was terrified of driving then. Now me and Rolie are best mates and like nothing better than an outing. So we rolled up to a class where I found a charming and expressive elderly teacher, who places great emphasis on pronunciation – very important – and, even better, at the end of the class bumped me up to a higher level. Still beginners, mind you, but a little confidence boost is a good thing. Thursday will see how I get on at level II.
Assembleia da República
I have been to England again, this time to attend my uncle’s funeral, and missed last Wednesday’s trip to Lisbon for the debates in the Assembleia, the response to the petitions delivered by anti-oil group PALP. Three buses, filled by many schoolchildren and a few dozen adults, left from the Algarve. Husband was among them. When he called me that evening he sounded annoyed, even a little shaken, by the experience the adults had undergone. The schoolchildren and a small group of petitioners with prior clearance gained relatively easy access. For the remainder to get into Portugal’s proud ‘house of national democracy’ to witness an open debate proved almost impossible. Armed uniformed men took them in groups of three, having first demanded they deposit all their belongings into plastic bags that were sealed and locked away. Once through, Husband had his sweatshirt yanked up to reveal his ‘Don’t Spoil the Algarve’ T-shirt, which he was then ordered to remove. He was made to go out, add the T-shirt to the bag – which had to be opened, sealed again and put back in the locker – and return. The treatment was peremptory and intended to be intimidating. Everyone was given a text to read, available in Portuguese, French, German and English, which threatened a prison term of three years if any expression of opinion was made in any form once they were inside. When they finally got in, the debate was under way, but the petitions had been moved on to the bottom of the queue; in the end, most of the issues relevant to us were neither debated nor voted on. It felt like a day of democratic failure.
Our next planned action is for Sunday, a joint demonstration with the Spanish to take place on and around the Guadiana International Bridge that spans the river border between the southern Algarve and Spain. As always, I’m anxious about it, but I’ll try to do my bit.