Little Lamb who made thee?

 

On this morning's dog walk with Harry and a cork tree

Fonsequinha makes progress

The evening dog walk looking back towards Bernardos

Today has been slow paced.  I learnt and have already forgotten the Portuguese words for French Toast (I didn't know what French Toast was anyway!) and can just about still remember the word for scissors.  Fonsequinha has been pulled back from the abyss and is playful and eating better.  I'm not sure what the response should be to an almost-seventy-year-old lady and Harry galloping around making bleating noises to encourage the lambs to play but this is what they do.  The lambs seem to like it and start running behind them.

Mrs Fatima wasn't in the mood to cook lunch today and suggested we go into Moinhos de Vento to eat but then repented.  Her neighbour had returned from there saying there was a queue.  Added to that, today's offerings were not too impressive either.  "I have an idea," she said.  "Let's go into Almodôvar."  That way we could also pop in to the garage and get a face-to-face update on the predicament of the van.  Before heading out I received several photos and a message from the mechanic showing what looked like gunk (the technical term) which he'd removed from various bits of the engine.  I was none the wiser about what this meant but answered his questions about how Monty had behaved when breaking down.

Almodôvar is a small town.  I understand there are about 3000 inhabitants in the town itself with another 4000 scattered around within the municipality (4002 if you include Harry and me).  It was our base when we visited in October and returned in May.  We've seen a house there which we may rent depending on another viewing we have.  I've slightly lost track of the days.  I think it was the day before yesterday that we were in Almodôvar, popped into a pet shop (the only pet shop, I later find out) to see if they sell the brand of dog food Ichiro eats (they don't but will see if they can get hold of it), and a few minutes later Mrs Fatima establishes that the owner has both connections within the building business to help us renovate and a cousin in London who has a house to rent locally.  Next thing I know I'm on the phone to the cousin in London and he's trying to work out if I'm the kind of person he wants to rent to.  With no time to waste he then gets on the phone to his mum who is nearby and Mrs Fatima and I wander over to the house to look around.  Harry had decided this was the day to take his motorbike for a ride so as not to leave it too long and travelled separately.  Apparently motorbikes get sick quick if you don't regularly ride them.  It's the middle of the day and Harry is sweating buckets in his protective motorcycle jacket and jeans.  He can't find us because with bike gear and gloved hands there's no easy way to use his phone so uses his smartwatch to call me.  "I don't know where we are!" I answer.  I was born without a GPS module and have absolutely no sense of direction.  Luckily I have Harry and Google Maps nowadays.  Mrs Fatima is also well orientated and when she heard he was back at the pet shop she darted off (I can't believe how fast she runs) to find and direct him.

After the house viewing we return to the industrial zone where the garage is but visit another garage where (of course) the wife of a retired mechanic––who keeps his garage open as a form of social activity––is making goat's cheese from their own animals.  Unsalted goat's whey cheese (think ricotta but much better) is one of my favourite things and we continue to enjoy this each morning and today with something called French Toast.  After purchasing five cheeses and getting three giant tomatoes thrown in for free, Mrs Fatima and I get back in her car and Harry onto his bike.  We have to turn our vehicles round but each driver goes a different way so we lose sight of each other.  At the T-junction to leave the estate, Mrs Fatima asks where Harry is.  "He's almost certain to have gone on ahead."  She seems uncertain and waits a little.  Harry doesn't appear but I encourage her to get on our way.  A minute later my smartwatch starts buzzing.  It's Harry.  I answer.  "My bike's fallen over and I can't pick it up.  I'm going to have to wait until someone appears to help me".  Mrs Fatima can't believe it as she pulls over and makes a three-point turn.  When we get to Harry his bike is on its left side and he is sweatier still.  He calls me over to help pick up the two-hundred-and-something-kilo lump.  He explains that whilst he lifts he needs me to press the brake lever to stop the bike from rolling away.  He squats down with his back to me and the seat and grabs underneath whilst I stand over the bike with my right hand poised to brake and the other to lift and on one, two, three... heave.  Nothing.  One, two, three, heave... a few millimetres' movement.  As is customary in these situations, my cack-handedness and Harry's short temper make for an exothermic reaction.  Before our frustrations can gain too much momentum and on our third attempt, Mrs Fatima appears next to Harry and the bike suddenly starts levitating back into the upright position.  Mrs Fatima may be strong but I am now wondering whether she might be a witch as I'm sure I heard some kind of muttering and perhaps saw a wand being whisked about as the bike turned weightless in my hands.  A couple of non-essential bits of broken motorbike later we head back to Bernardos, the collection of houses where we are staying and which hasn't yet made it's debut on Google Maps (good job Harry's and Mrs Fatima's brains have GPS factory installed).

Back in Almodôvar today, we had the chance to run a couple of errands and have lunch.  After dinner with Andrea the other night, we agreed I could order Ichiro's food online and have it delivered to the pharmacy she runs on the corner as it's always open.  When I tracked and traced online I saw that things were moving surprisingly quickly (lesson one again) and the package was being delivered today.  Unfortunately, it seemed that the delivery driver chose to turn up during the lunch hour and had left the parcel somewhere else in town.  Almodôvar is a place where everything still shuts for an hour or two over lunch (apart from lunch-suppliers) for a cooked meal and a nap.  After our own delicious meals (Harry and I had duck rice with salad, Mrs Fatima hake) we walked round to where DPD said the parcel was, knocked on the house's door but there was no reply.  It seemed a bit odd they would leave it at a random house several minutes' walk away from the pharmacy.  Then we went to the pharmacy but they'd seen no parcel.  It was all a bit of a mystery until much later at home I discovered the status of delivery as 'invalid address' and needed to input it  again...  Before leaving Almodôvar we passed by the garage to visit Monty, an in-patient at Almodopneus (it sounds a bit like a medical condition, as in, "it's definitely not covid; I've had a touch of Almodopneus") to find Monty where we left him, outside the garage, but now with his bonnet open.  Mrs Fatima went into the very high-roofed garage and started talking to one of the mechanics in a hushed voice as though she were hatching some evil plan with him.  I couldn't tell what on earth was going on and just hung around waiting for something to happen.  Some minutes later the owner pulled up in a car, got out, came into the garage and spoke to Mrs Fatima and me about Monty's condition.  He had a problem with his alternator and prices for replacements had been requested.  Monty would not be discharged home before next week.  We took advantage of the visit and collected some items which we'd not had time to unload previously then made our way home.

This weekend there is a festival in the nearby village of Gomes Aires (of the tiny HINT HINT house).  Tomorrow there is a mass and procession and on Sunday some kind of horse show in the afternoon.