Accidents Will Happen (let’s blame the French*)

Accidents Will Happen (let’s blame the French*)

Beautiful smooth rocks on the all-time-low River Mondego

Beautiful smooth rocks on the all-time-low River Mondego

It’s been quite a week for a number of reasons. It seemed that almost everywhere else in Central Portugal was in flames except us. So many people lost homes and lives, it’s been quite unbelievable. We missed it all by a day as we had left for the UK. From seeing maps of the burned areas, it looks unlikely that escape would have been an option once the fire came close – our land was surrounded, but we weren’t on it. There is much written on the latest fires and their aftermath, so I’m not going to dwell on it here, but in reality my mind has been thinking of little else. Along with deep sadness for those who lost so much and working out how we can help them, I’m pondering how we can continue to look at ways to protect ourselves in the short term and reforest our land in the long term.

In a previous post I mentioned the increased likelihood of Keith sustaining near fatal injuries due to our increased tool collection and usage in our much larger quinta. He didn’t wait long to prove me right and it’s all the fault of French Air Traffic Control*.

One evening, four days before the fires, Keith and I were indoors. Keith was washing-up. Suddenly, he said: ‘Sarah, we need to go to a hospital. I have lost my thumb’. I turned to find him clutching a blood soaked tea towel around his right hand. It was 10pm at night and had no idea what to do. Amidst a heated, panicked difference of opinion about whether we should call an ambulance (me) or drive to a hospital (him), we called 112 to find out where the hell the nearest 24 hour hospital was. Utilising our not-now-wasted First Aid training we kept the wound wrapped with Keith periodically becoming minorly hysterical about life with a severed digit. The emergency operator told us to stay put and the ambulance would come. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could find us in the forest as we have no address, road or post box – our mail goes to a cafe in the nearest village – and was yelling all this to the probably long-suffering operator, convinced that Keith was going to pass out through blood loss at any moment and knowing I couldn’t life him into the car. Amazingly from a few basic details she told me the name of our quinta and my name: we were registered somewhere and they knew us and the house. Phew! There is only one route to our house in a non-4×4 so I drove us up to the edge of the village to save the ambulance time. This meant sitting in a forest in the car, waiting for an ambulance that I wasn’t sure would come, with a man with a severed thumb, who I was expecting to pass out at any moment. I was flipping terrified. As is always the case in Portugal, stuff always works out in the end. Our friendly bombeiros (firemen) arrived (filthy fingernails – definitely not paramedics) and took us to a hospital 40 minutes away providing me with the best opportunity for practising Portuguese that I have had in more than  year – I now know exactly when to pick our olives – whilst Keith sat in the back with an ice pack. Every cloud, and all that.

Keith looking pensive, sporting Portuguese NHS jim jams

Keith looking pensive, sporting Portuguese NHS jim jams post-surgery.

The Doctor at the hospital diagnosed cut tendons and nerves all around his thumb – it was still attached, but he couldn’t feel or move it – but didn’t want to operate and sent Keith to a larger hospital another hour away, straight into emergency surgery and two days in hospital. I returned home after a night sleeping in the car to what looked like a crime scene. Next time, he needs to maintain greater control of the blood I now know that blood takes off the top layer of terracotta tiles. That night is literally indelibly etched on our kitchen floor.

A picture of a mantis on the table rather than one of a blood splatted floor

A picture of a mantis on the table rather than one of a blood splattered floor. You’d thank me for it

Three days before Keith had his mishap, we broke the coffee holding cup from our coffee machine.

One day before Keith’s mishap, my brother and his wife were due to arrive with a replacement coffee holding cup which we had delivered to their house. Their trip was foiled due to a French Air Traffic Control strike; their plane cancelled – while they were sitting on it waiting to take off. Without a replacement part, we were using a cafetiere. Keith was washing up the cafetiere when he pressed – somewhat incredulously – too hard on the glass at the bottom and pushed his thumb straight through.

If you know Keith, you will know that this is a particularly typical Keith accident which involves testing items to discover their boundaries. In order to discover their boundaries, it is necessary to go past the boundary to know where it is. This explains why he breaks things so frequently. ‘I’m an engineer’, he says, ‘engineering is all about testing for the edges’. ‘You’re a liability,’ I say, ‘you nearly lost your fucking thumb’. Even he conceded on that point. At least, he now knows the boundaries of a cafetiere. And a thumb.

Beyond the boundary of a cafetiere

Beyond the boundary of a cafetiere

Keith is fine but one-handed for the next 3-4 months at least. He can’t drive, use a strimmer, a chainsaw or cut up his dinner. This may be a saving grace for his longevity, but it’s a bloody nuisance for making progress in our garden. After two days in hospital, he was so bored and so happy to be out, telling me how he could help again now. No, I said, kindly: when you were in hospital I only had one person to look after, now you are out, I have one and a half. It’s a jolly good job that I didn’t chose nursing. Pity him.

Hospital food, Portuguese style.

Hospital food, Portuguese style.

His stitches come out this week and physio should start soon after. He has no movement or sensation in his thumb. It’s a serious injury and it will be months before we know how much mobility and strength he will regain. He can still make tea and eat biscuits so he has retained all of the essential, life-affirming qualities. The tree felling and three hectares of strimming will just have to wait.

Bloody French*.

*None of this had anything to with the French. It was all Keith’s fault. If he had been consistently trying to find the boundaries of the original coffee machine since the day we bought it by cramming too much bloody coffee into it, the coffee holding cup thing would never have broken and we wouldn’t have been using the cafetiere. I love the French despite them screwing up my brother’s holiday, but hey, you gotta love a strike.

It’s been a while

 

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I’m sorry, it’s  been more than a year, which is pretty poor in terms of contact even by my standards. It’s why I only have friends who are as low maintenance as I am. I should have said that the main reason that I stopped sharing our nonsense here in this blog was that I was sharing it elsewhere; in Standard Issue magazine, to be precise. Is that infidelity? Perhaps. If so, I’m sorry, but that fabulous magazine is no more and so now I’m back. That’s a bit shitty now I think about it: I’m back for you because the much more important people no longer want me. Don’t take it personally. I thought about you every day (I didn’t). If you want to read what I’ve been up to, check out the Standard Issue link above, it’s all there.

Anyway, I’m here now and stuff has happened. We have moved! We no longer stalk geckos in the Algarve, now we stalk mongooses (it’s not mongeese – I looked it up. Mongoose and goose have different linguistic origins, actually) in Central Portugal.

I won’t bore you with all the details but in brief we decided to work in France over the summer as we found the Algarve too hot. Keith got a job as bicycle mechanic, we both got qualified as bicycle mechanics and First Aiders and then the whole project he was due to work for collapsed, so we drove 5 hours north in Portugal and bought a house. Because. We are now qualified bicycle mechanics who live up the steepest hill known to anyone with no one stupid enough to cycle anywhere apart from us.

 

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So, now we live in the middle of a forest in 3 hectares of land – that’s 28 times larger than our Algarve plot – in a granite, totally off-grid house (solar, mountain water and compost toilet) with a couple of stretches of the Mondego River thrown in. We are 3km down an off-road dirt track and require a 4×4 to reach our house up a 1:2.75 (20 degrees) slope, which we now own. For information: Owning a 4×4 has not made Keith any more manly, although I’m sure he thinks it has, which is all that matters. I certainly feel more manly. My ankles are killing me and we’ve only been here 2 months. Pushing a wheelbarrow full of mud up that  slope is only a very special person’s type of fun (we love it). I now have biceps, which may explain the manliness.

Our nearest cities are Coimbra and Viseu neither of which you will have heard of unless you are familiar with Portuguese geography, but both of which you should have heard of because they are both fabulous and entirely untouched by hen parties and Costa.

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We moved away from the Algarve because of the heat or the summer meaning that we were more inactive than we wanted to be, wanting more land to keep ourselves amused, physically knackered and alive in my case (see About – PKD is kept somewhat at bay by good health and managing blood pressure), and the potential for some future income in the form of tourist accommodation, which our Algarve house didn’t have. That’s right – one day you can come and stay with us in our humble abode but don’t expect us to be interesting, because we’re not. We are some way from the brand launch of our boutique hotel yet due to our single compost toilet perched halfway up the garden hardly being anyone’s idea of ‘en-suite’ unless you plan to sleep in it. We are undoubtedly ‘eco-friendly’ and ‘green’ given that everything that goes in that toilet will one day end up aiding the growth of a lettuce that we’ll serve our guests for dinner making sure that we share the provenance of their hor d’oeuvres just at the point that the first mouthful has reached their lips. Circle of life ‘n’ all that.

Please stick around. Keith can have 28 times more near fatal accidents with all this land. And you wouldn’t want to miss that now, would you?

 

 

Darling, Bring Me A Pan, It’s Raining In The Kitchen

Darling, Bring Me A Pan, It’s Raining In The Kitchen

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Well, it’s a bit different from last May (2015) when we were basking in 30+ degrees at this time of year. The rain has been incessant this past week. Heavy, prolonged and at times downright cantankerous: stopping and starting every time I go to put a welly on or take a welly off. We scoffed at how much use those wellies would get when we bought them last year and now we can’t leave the house without needing them as our path is 2 inches deep in water.

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Yes, yes, it’s good for the garden and given the drought in Portugal in 2015, it is certainly welcome and needed, but when exactly is enough? The tanks are full; the plants are happy – not all: the baby pumpkins have got rotten and shrivelled – and we are fed up of being indoors.

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We are partly fed up of being indoors because it is raining in here too. Our house is old and roofed only with some tiles, a waterproof membrane and some canes. The membrane has holes in places and therefore naturally fails to live up to its ‘waterproof’ status in those parts. It’s strange that if in England our flat were to have water dripping through the ceiling, we would panic, believe the roof be about to fall in and rush to find a person to rub his/her chin thoughtfully and charge us a considerable amount to fix it. Here: we just put some pans under the drips and make sure we don’t leave laptops or phones on the kitchen table. We eat meals to the sound of the drips and casually mop up any that fail to hit the saucepan target. Why do we react so differently here? Is it just that we know the sun will come and dry it all up any moment now, or that our possessions and life here are so much simpler and smaller (no carpet, for a start) that a few puddles here and there are really not a problem. Or is it that we have changed just by being here? I have noticed other inconsistencies between our UK and our Algarve life: we are happy to live with geckos, centipedes, and ants on occasion, where in England we would freak out at sharing the bathroom with another pair of eyes. These things are just part of the deal in a rural setting and more than just tolerate them; we welcome them. We say good morning to Colin the gecko who lives in the bathroom and watch for hours the ants with their astonishing weightlifting capabilities. It was only the Yellow Banded Centipede who moved into the kitchen cupboard who met with a sorry end (they can cause coma with a single nip).

This afternoon between showers we ventured out, Vitamin D depleted and bored, for a walk in the hills. Usually silent, the sound of gushing streams and even waterfalls assaulted our ears and we were halted in our progress by a typically bone dry riverbed which had flooded the road creating a torrent. One of Keith’s wellies has a split so we couldn’t go any further. What a difference a few days downpour makes.

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So, whilst we ponder on the rain from inside and out, it serves to remind us that a few drips in a pan aren’t really that important in the grand scheme of things, and that maybe this carefree attitude to the small things is a good one to take on board for life in general. We still have a roof of sorts, some wellies of a sort and a beautiful place to live. That is, until you realise that you’ve left your sandals outside, again and that you’d like to cook some dinner but there are no saucepans left.

And breathe…

21st Century Broad Beans

21st Century Broad Beans

Spring is a beautiful time of year here and the hillsides are ablaze with colour and the swallows and bee-eaters have returned. Our layered beds are planted, our fingers are crossed and we’re hopeful of some kind of harvest.

Photograph of colourful spring flowers in the Algarve countryside

This is our first year of determined growing efforts and we have bought/sowed one of almost every edible species going in order to experiment and see what works and what doesn’t. It’s like the Noah’s Ark of gardening. Luckily, trees, plants and seeds are incredibly cheap in Portugal and so this feels possible without any huge financial risk. Our newly planted ‘vineyard’ (it is a patch of ground with vines in it, therefore it is a vineyard) cost €24 for 12 vines. They have more than paid for themselves already through the joy and anticipation we have had in peering closely at this pile of sticks protruding from the earth all winter pining desperately for a sign that reassures us that we are not the laughing stock of the market for having paid €24 for someone’s kindling pile. And that we are in fact, the Algarve’s answer to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie in the wine-making department (they make their own, but with considerably more staff, I suspect). Over the past few weeks our devotion has been rewarded and they all have sprouted.

Photograph of a young grapevine sprouting its first leaves
Broad beans have been the great success of early spring. We have observed that these are the crop do dia of rural Portugal and wondered why. My memories of broad beans are of pale minority members of a bag of frozen mixed vegetables thrown in a pan and boiled to death by my well meaning mother and the habits of 1970s cooking. To be honest, I only grew them because judging by their proliferation round here, they seemed like a sure fire success and I’m kind of desperate like that. I didn’t really expect to like them. Yet again, I was wrong.

We know now why they are so common: they are incredibly easy to grow and they taste amazing. Given the poverty in rural Portuguese communities in the past and to some extent in the present day, it is easy to understand why a twice a year, non-irrigated food source would become almost a national dish. From our perspective, they grow quickly, strongly and look like an impressive feat of garden expertise with zero effort. You get to see how the Jack and the Beanstalk tale originated when you see how tall they get in such a short space of time.

There are essentially two bean growing seasons in the Algarve – one sowing takes place at the arrival of the rains in the Autumn with a harvest around February and the second sowing goes in around February with a harvest in May before the heat hits. They don’t require watering or any assistance whatsoever. As an added bonus, the impatient gardener doesn’t even have to wait for the beans to reach maturity before reaping some free food from the plants: you can eat the plant itself. It is recommend by some that picking off the top shoots of the plants after flowering will stop the plant using its energy for leaf growth and instead focus it on bean growth, which makes sense to me. The tips are a pale, grey-green colour, but once wilted in a pan with a tiny amount of water they turn a deep and vibrant green and make a fine soup or addition to an omelette. Probably they could make a substitute for any recipe involving spinach or spring greens.

And if you end up with too many in your veg patch, you can always dry them and get fava beans, which should keep Hannibal Lecter happy should he ever pay a visit.

Photograph of a bowl of broad bean, courgette, and broad bean tip soup
Today we had them for lunch in the most delicious and pretty quick to make soup. I could eat this on a daily basis, it is so good, and so darned healthy.

Courgette, Broad Bean and Broad Bean Tip Soup
Makes 2 large bowls or 4 small bowls
Slug of olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 large courgette, chopped
500g fresh broad beans in their pods (less if already de-podded). I leave the little jackets on, but if you prefer a creamier taste, take ‘em off
3 handfuls broad bean tips
1 litre stock – I used some boiled up roast chicken bones to make the stock but a stock cube of any variety will do
Slug of vermouth or white wine (optional)

Heat the oil in a pan, gently cook the onion for 5 minutes, then add all remaining vegetables and cook for 10 minutes. Add stock and wine if using and simmer for a further 10 minutes. Leave to cool for a few minutes before blending – either until completely smooth or leaving a few lumps for texture. Adjust liquid if required.
Serve with warm bread and some creamy cheese.

Cracking The Algarve Feira Circuit – Available for Bookings

Cracking The Algarve Feira Circuit – Available for Bookings

Hello, hello. It’s been ages, months in fact. Where have you been?

What’s my excuse? Well, where to start… Since April, we’ve sold a house, put our vastly reduced stuff in storage as currently homeless in UK and are in the process of buying the smallest studio flat you could ever possibly imagine… no, smaller than that, really – 18m sq. We’re moving from a 4 bedroom house into a cupboard. And one of us is a hoarder. Don’t ask. Someone is going to have to throw a lot of their (his) stuff away and remind himself that this is all part of the plan to reduce outgoings. Oh dear.

Anyway, I’ve done a few stints of ridiculously full-on exhausting round Britain working stints to get the funds to hang out here for a while. So, we’re hanging here for a while. Oh, and I’m writing a (non-autism) book while I’m out here, so have been a but busy in between sweating. Sweating is the main activity of the day and I’m getting very proficient at it. It’s hot, extremely hot with temperatures reaching 40+C up here in the hills. Never had so many showers in my life, all of which have been rendered virtually pointless within minutes of stepping out from the water due to the immediate recurrence of the sweating.

We’ve had visits from family some of whom have been hotter than even they thought possible and not altogether well because of it. It is becoming clear that summer is not the time for people to visit us, unless their idea of a good holiday is sweating, sitting indoors and moaning about being hot.

There are many feiras – local fairs and festivals on throughout the summer in the surrounding villages and towns but all start at 7pm and later due to the heat. We have been to several of these feiras, which are quite low-key and largely local affairs which, along with some entertainment, appear to always involve cake, knitted dolls and killing things (hunting). The headline act comes on around 12.30am, or in other words ‘tomorrow’ and we have so far failed to make it through.

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Please forgive me, Portugal, but given the posters, warm-up acts and parcel tape that we have seen, my suspicion is that we’re not talking quality here, but something that is rarely witnessed in the UK – small rural communities getting together and having a good time. We’re not even talking tribute band level here (come back, Worthing, all is forgiven). We spent one evening in the company of such a support act in the form of a portly gent in his 50’s with full moustache and checked shirt singing along in Portuguese to a Euro beat backing track and his own efforts on an organ. His early evening audience consisted of 3 middle aged couples – both male/female and female/female couples (the female/female couples I suspect were borne out of necessity from a lack of willing males, rather than us having stumbled upon a large gay community out here in the rural Algarve hills) waltzing. Sometimes switching partners between the six of them to add a bit of a frisson to the proceedings. Well, needs must and all that. He relied on songsheets throughout, which leads me to wonder if the real act had failed to show up and someone’s Dad who grows a fine pumpkin had been dragged in as a replacement. And nobody cared either way. I guarantee that had we made it to the end of the night, a supremely good night would have been had by all.

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The number of chairs did suggest that things were going to hot up considerably later on, but our Northern European stamina was not in the same league as these guys and we wandered off into the darkness to stumble home (wine is 60p a glass) hours before the main event. Keith and I even considered that we could break on to the Algarve rural feira circuit and perform our own infamous (never-seen-in-public) acapella rendition of The Rubette’s Sugar Baby Love claiming to be related to The Beatles, or something. Surely being British has some musical clout and glamour that we could turn into a lucrative career on this busy and burgeoning circuit where the same name and face has yet to be seen twice? We would work for a bag of figs and a plate of chips, which is somewhere near the minimum wage in Portugal. We can even do the whole Abba songbook where we replace one word in each title with the word ‘spoon’: ‘Dancing Spoon’, ‘Spooner Takes It All’, Take A Chance On Spoon’. You had to be there. That’s a USP for sure, no one else doing that. Where’s Portugal’s answer to Simon Cowell when you need him? Anyone know the Portuguese for ‘Living On A Prayer’? I feel a new world opening up for us where we are celebrities in a land where we can only ask people their name and what subjects their brother and sister study at school.

Wake us up when it’s time to go on, will you?

Gecko Poo and Hardcore Gardening

Gecko Poo and Hardcore Gardening

Here’s a question: If you buy an orange tree which has an orange on it and plant it in your garden, can you legitimately claim for have ‘grown’ that orange? Thought not.

There were two oranges on it, as you can see. Not anymore. The other one tasted fantastic.

The new orange tree (we have others already, but this is by far the biggest) brings with it hundreds of little orangelets and our great hope for them to transform into big ones. Oranges grow in abundance in the Algarve and as such are dirt cheap (€0.50 per kg) but they are not grown so far up here in the hills as its too windy for them and the soil is not their preference, so our hope may not be quite sufficient. Gotta be worth a try though. We already have an established lemon tree (as you know) full of ripening fruits.

And a grapefruit (which as you can see has some way to go) and a nespera which are fruiting, as well as a pomegranate and olive which are flowering beautifully.

We also planted a fig, tangerine and quince, so hoping to have a right little packed fruitbowl at some point in the distant future. They cost between a fiver and a tenner each, so not an expensive risk. Seems amazing to be able to buy these things so readily and so cheaply, and that they have a chance of growing. Too exciting.

We’ve been here almost a month now and the place is looking a lot better than it was. We have furniture, cushions and rugs but no telly. No Family Guy for Keith and no Place in the Sun for me. It’s a revelation; we cope. Our entire structure, routine and general way of life has gone out of the window and we’re alright. Perhaps we are cured of our *autism? If you remove enough stressors; a relaxed normality is possible. I feel like a different person here without that ‘life’ stuff that many seem to manage with relative ease and minimal fallout. Although it is fair to say we have barely spoken to a soul apart from ourselves, so hardly been pressed on the social front, which could be the true test or our ‘recovery’.

* NB. This is not a serious comment. There is no cure for autism and the amount of money spent on looking for one could be far better spent improving the quality of life for autistic people rather than in trying to eradicate future generations.

Moving on…

The person, apart from each other, that we have spoken to most since we’ve been here is Luis, our Portuguese teacher, and that’s hardly a social chat, concerned as he is for gender, verb endings and whether Maria’s house is green or yellow. The Portuguese lessons are a slow struggle starting from zero and having to unlearn all I know about other languages I have some familiarity with. Portuguese isn’t like any of them. They don’t have a ‘k’ in their alphabet for one thing so we have no idea how Keith says his name. For Keith having never learned another language even the jargon of ‘verb’ and ‘article’ is something that has to be understood before he can even begin. The only success I have had with my learning, apart from being able to order an espresso, decaf with milk and two Pastel de Natas with aplomb (frequently practiced), was when cycling up the 1:4 hill to our house today, an elderly country gentlemen asked me if I was tired and I was able to both understand and reply that I was. I’m practically a local now.

After becoming acclimatised to my environment after a few days of hayfever and general yuk at the beginning, I can report a drop in blood pressure (a very important kidney disease indicator), zero headaches – I had one for 4 months constantly before arriving here and no back (kidney ache). I am now going to live until I’m 103 and defy my cyst filled kidneys. Portugal is the cure for everything.

The streaks down the walls which we presumed to be rain have revealed themselves to be gecko droppings. They live in the roof except the one who lives behind the boiler in the bathroom and who poos on the washing machine, but you know, we’re new here and we don’t know anyone, so company is company. Beggars: choosers and all that. I did a Google on gecko poo and it’s a thing. Many people appreciate their appetite for bugs in the house and so feel that a bit of poop here and there is a fair trade and leave them be. Other people are not so kind… Ours are staying, especially Eric behind the boiler.

In summary the past month has been spent cooking, eating, doing DIY jobs, gardening and fixing or replacing all of the things that Keith has broken (washing machine, garage doors – two doors: both broken, toilet – 4 days and counting of using a bucket).

There are more but we tend to erase them from our memory in order to avoid them being resurrected during a future argument. Sometimes its just best not to know how much of a liability you’re love is. Keith breaks a lot of things. It upsets him more than it does anyone else, so he says, but how the fuck does he know??

For balance, and to avoid someone setting up Keithline to protect him from the horror of me revealing his failings to the world (he did remind me of extra things he’d broken so that I could include them here, so save your pity, he’s a media whore), I did this, whilst trying to ‘cleverly’ transport the paint, but ‘stupidly’ failing to check the lid was shut.

We’ve been doing a lot in the garden as its mostly way too nice to be indoors but still probably a bit too hot for our type of gardening, which is a bit hardcore by necessity of the environment. Our garden is made mostly of almost solid rock and every tree we have planted has required a pickaxe to break up the soil.

If the sight of pale Northern European flesh disturbs you, please scroll no further. If it excites you, please send £10 by Postal Order.

I’ve become very interested in permaculture over the past few months in preparation for our new plot. Permaculture is the idea of working with nature and what you’ve got in your surroundings, rather than working against it in all aspects of your plot (and your life, if you like) – design, practical use, using existing resources rather than introducing new ones. So, for example, instead of chemically blasting your aphids, you introduce and encourage native plants which attract insects which like scoffing aphids, such as ladybirds and lace wings. Keith thought it sounded like a load of hippy guff when I first told him about it, but that’s not so and he is now converted. It is about efficiency, multiple functions and resilience (multiple solutions to each need/function) and so is right up our logical systemised street, as it were. It also means we get more food grown for less effort and we don’t do any digging, so it’s a Good Thing. There are a multitude of websites, books and courses to become properly knowledgeable about it, but my reading has, I hope, allowed me to understand the basic principles, which we are, and will be applying to our life here. We’ve started by weeing on all of our trees (nitrogen producing and save water on flushes), leaving patches of wilderness for the bug eating bugs, composting and making raised beds from the abundant rocks already here to mention a few. We have longer term plans for solar powered showers, compost toilets and veg companion planting methods, but they’ll have to wait a while. It’s my new favourite thing.

Bamboo mulched raised bed with rock border and rock path. We got a lot of rocks.

The dry stone (rock) wall compost bin. Still got a lot of rocks.

We have also tooled ourselves up for our horticultural adventures. This is a chipper which turns all your tree and grass choppings into mulch. It has a sign on it which tells you not to put people in it. It would be good for getting rid of people, but the blade gets a bit gummed up if the leaves are too wet, so I imagine a people would be quite wet and require some manual ungumming. Best stick to the leaves.

We also have this little beauty: a brushcutter; that’s a hardcore strimmer to the uninitiated. This is my job as Keith doesn’t really like to get smashed to pieces by bits of flying stick, grass and rock, and I do. I like the battle scars. It’s a deeply satisfying job; totally locked away in your own little world behind your ear defenders and mask making so much noise that no one can speak to you, turning the scruffy wilderness into something tidy. What’s not to like? Oh bugger, I’m still autistic, aren’t I? Not cured after all. No multi-million pound retirement for me once I have relocated all autistic people to Portugal to live a calm, warm and peaceful life with their own brushcutters.

*NB. If this does turn out to be a bloody brilliant idea, I’m claiming copyright and 10% minimum.

It’s a glorious rural environment both harsh and vibrant at the same time. Some days we have woken up and a new tree or shrub has burst into blossom from what we had presumed to be a half dead stick.

The novelty of almost wall to wall sunshine – apart from the night that it rained so hard on every single pair of shoes we have that it filled each and every one to the top with water – doesn’t wear off.

It’s a continual delight that every day is mostly warm and mostly sunny, to the point that when it does rain we don’t really mind because we know it won’t stick around for long, and anyway, we need it if we’re going to make that rendezvous with those oranges later this year.

Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Lemons

Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Lemons

I don’t wish to start moaning already, but… it’s a bit too hot. It’s only March and it’s 31 degrees. We moved from Worthing because it was too cold to cycle (yes, we’re pathetic) and now we’re thinking that it might be too hot to cycle. It’s beginning to sound like we’re looking for reasons not to cycle.

The whole experience so far has been utterly overwhelming. It’s just so perfect and beautiful; a proper country idyll. There’ll be bad days and worse days, I’m sure, but right now it’s like a very long held dream come true; something I wasn’t sure would ever come to fruition throughout the decades (yup, that long) that this lifestyle has been on the cards (spreadsheet). I won’t get too smooshy here, but this is all a pretty big deal. If you’re reading this and thinking you’d like to live differently, but are scared to take the step: take the step. Mostly this is all wonderful because we have a lemon tree.

Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Lemons - 01

The Algarve gets two crops of lemons a year because the climate is so warm for so long. These particular lemons are from the autumn batch last year and most were gathered from the ground, so are a bit old, but perfectly fine. The lemon tree is the paler green bush in the background, currently covered in blossom and green lemons. Hundreds of them, which will all be ready in the next few weeks. Lemon Armageddon. Lemageddon. Armalemon.

So, in the spirit of economy, good living and the utter joy of foraged food, we have eaten a lot of lemons in our first week here so as not to waste them. That is alongside three 200 miles round trip journeys to IKEA. That’s right, three visits to IKEA in one week. What fresh hell is this? In our defence, our doorways are both low and narrow and nothing but flatpack furniture will fit through them. We are in zero fear of burglars who will not be able to get anything out without first dismantling it, and no one in the history of the world thinks that would be worth a day of their life.

So, on the menu this week has been Lemon Chicken, lots of sparkling water drunk with, you guessed it, freshly squeezed lemon juice. I’ve also baked a Spanish Almond Torta, which is traditionally made using oranges; not this time.Served with Lemon Curd Ice Cream made from the Lemon Curd that I made with my… er… lemons. Lemon Curd Ice Cream is as good as it sounds and just requires Lemon Curd and whipped double cream chucked in the freezer, if you don’t have an ice cream maker.

As I still had around 30 odd lemons after all that lot of culinary creativity, my brother, Frank, reminded me about Preserved Lemons, which are a staple of Moroccan cuisine and have a very different lemony taste; the bitterness goes. They are pretty pricey in the UK and, as it turns out, pretty easy to make. I now have to wait four weeks before I can eat them, by which time there will be another 300 lemons ready for consumption. Ah well, no such thing as too much lemon cake. Here I am, looking proud with my jars of (free) Preserved Lemons.

Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Lemons - 04

Whilst making the house habitable, Keith has been banging his head. A lot. The doorways, as I said, are low and Keith is not. They are too low for me as well, but I don’t have to bend so far down and appear to have encompassed bending down into my general way of being whilst in the house and so far, I have not hit my head once. Keith probably does it at least once a day; a right hard thwack each time which has left him with lumps on his head and tears in his eyes, poor sausage. Apart from knocking through about 12 inches of stone which make up the walls of the house – interior and exterior – there’s not much we can do about the door heights, except…

 

A Post-It note Blu-taced next to every single doorway in the house. I somehow knew whilst I was packing for this trip that taking Post-It notes, marker pens and Blu-tac would be a good idea. Never leave home without stationery, I say.

The house next door to ours is a British owned holiday home and is empty most of the year (crazy fools). For the first time since we arrived, we saw a person in shorts getting debris out of the huge, turquoise, empty for most of the year swimming pool in the garden. We decided that this must be the owner and that we must be ‘sociable’. We spent about 20 minutes whispering,stressing, arguing and deliberating as to who was going to say what in way of an introduction to our neighbour. After approaching the adjoining wall in united and somewhat formal fashion and hailing the gentleman next door, we discovered that he was not in the slightest bit interested in making our acquaintance beyond a slightly confused and heavily accented hello… because he was the Portuguese pool guy and not our neighbour. Bollocks, we’ve got to go through all that again when the real neighbour arrives. The perils of sociability. It’d be easier just to ignore everyone and avoid the stress; but that pool next door is really rather lovely…

But it’s not all rural bliss in the country, I appear to be allergic to Portugal, or sun, or something. Since being here I’ve developed a lumpy rash all over my body, mouth ulcers, cold sore, streaming eyes and incessant sneezing. I’ve never suffered from hayfever or allergies of this nature, but it has been a while since I’ve been in the midst of quite so much nature. I’ve started eating a spoon of local flower honey every day to try and desensitize to the pollen and it seems to be working. A much greater risk to our new life is that we’ve also nearly run out of Tunnocks. Strangely enough, I’m not expecting much support or sympathy in our time of need here, guys. Guys?