Brace, brace

More Door

Two months have passed since I last laid a log. There have been more doors, trips outside Almodovar and to the farm and our first Christmas and New Year in Portugal. I've selected these photos to give a flavour of what we've been up to.

Can I take a photo of you eating crisps with chopsticks?

Harry continues to occupy himself with chores, cooking, dog care and clearing brambles on the farm. He is itching to move there and be able to get properly stuck into developing the land. Ichiro has polydipsia (drinking too much) and polyuria (peeing too much) which worsens his bed-wetting. Although we suspected diabetes, the vet's blood tests came back with a normal sugar level although a single reading doesn't rule diabetes out. He's at an age where it feels cruel to put him through invasive tests and it's not clear that any results would lead to a simple intervention. I don't know how Harry does it but every day he tirelessly washes the sponge beds and their covers and provides him with a fresh set and also takes him out for a release several times overnight. But, Ichiro seems happy enough in himself. He eats well and can still manage two slow walks a day.

A small tributary of the river that runs through Almodovar, the Rio Mira

Taken in November, the light turns the lush new growth luminous and we can't get enough of it on our dog walks and trips into the countryside.

Mr Carlos selling roasted chestnuts at the misnamed Festival of Mushrooms and Medronho in São Barnabé

In late November, São Barnabé holds its annual festival of Cogumelos & Medronho––Mushrooms & Medronho––the latter shorthand for "aguardente de medronho", the alcoholic spirit made from the fruit of the strawberry tree. I had looked forward to it for a number of weeks as I thought it would offer an opportunity to stock up on delicious local fungi. Like every other festival we've been to, there's a familiar cast populating the street-market stalls: the various butchers selling sausages and other cured and dry meats, cheesemongers, honey-sellers, alcohol pushers and bric-a-brac pedlars. The village is small and walkable in just a few minutes. Where are the mushroom merchants? There were none. However, Ms Marlene, the lawyer who I thought was from Almodovar, was there, having recently had her first baby. "I'm from São Barnabé!" she explained. She divides her time between the two despite the quite treacherous drive through windy, bendy, wonky and steep country roads. "You get used to it," was her sanguine response to my complaint about the journey. I have to admit that although the road isn't great, the surrounding views are spectacular, making the driving even more dangerous as my eyes wanted to veer off into the landscape. Like everything else here, this patch, despite being part of the same municipality and just minutes from Almodovar, has its own unique character and flavour. The hills are more jagged and the inclines more steep. It felt more cut off and remote.

Ms Marlene has never once spoken to us in English and yet I have this feeling she must know the language. I remember a Greek-school teacher I had when I was a teenager somehow made me believe she didn't speak English even though during the week she was a PhD student at the local English university! Crafty Greek-school teacher. But it worked. It forced me and my classmates to engage with her in Greek and improve our language skills. I wonder if Ms Marlene might be doing the same.

Several months back I'd popped into gravid Ms Marlene's office in Almodovar after a failed attempt to move forward with financial matters at the accountants opposite. I didn't have an appointment but asked if I could ask her something and she was only too happy to oblige. What ensued was gold-plated advice and directions on how Harry and I could sort out residency issues, all spelt out, step by step, without charge. I may have told this story before but I was left feeling confused about how I pay for this very personal service. Later on that day Mrs Fatima admitted she'd been in a similar predicament where local professionals had provided services without exacting a fee. She was as unsure of the etiquette as I had been, having spent more of her life outside Portugal than in. "Buy her a coffee," Mrs Fatima finally concluded. At last, months later, I could treat Ms Marlene to a coffee and rid myself of this terrible debt. The coffee only cost one euro so I may need to repeat the gesture a few more times before my yoke is easy and burthen made light. "So, why are there no mushrooms at the mushroom festival?" I asked her. She claimed it was due to a change in rainfall patterns over the years resulting in drought and a dent in the autumnal fungal bounty. I remained unconvinced this justified an ongoing misleading, mislabelling of the event. I felt like I should take legal advice on the matter. Ms Marlene's husband works in the nearby mine (which employs many people in this area) but he was also manning one of the stalls selling the famous 'firewater' – aguardente de medronho. He treated us to a shot of honey and medronho liqueur and offered shots of the firewater itself. It was my first ever tasting and I only took a drop lest I drove us off a mountain-ledge on the way back to Almodovar. Harry strongly approved of the taste and persuaded me to buy a bottle of the locally-made and overly-priced translucent tipple.

Mr Carlos is our landlord's cousin and a builder. He had been working on the terrace, water-proofing it and working on a few other minor jobs that needed to be done around the rented house. He was absent for a few days before this festival so when he saw us there he launched into a profuse apology about not being able to finish the job, his bad back (look at my back brace!), the weather not being conducive to the paint drying and on and on it went. Whoa! It's not our house. If you want to sell chestnuts, sell chestnuts. As my dad would say in a furtive voice, "mum the words". As we continued our wandering we enjoyed some of Mr Carlos' discounted charcoal-roasted chestnuts.

Originally the plan had been to attend the festival with our friend Andrea, pharmacist and guesthouse owner in Almodovar, but she'd needed to take her car separately and as we headed back to the van, it looked like she wasn't going to make it. Just then Andrea appeared with her daughter, her sister and niece together with a friend from Lisbon so we went back in for another round of no mushrooms.

Mad for marmalade

As we headed into winter, increasing numbers of citrus came to fruition. Amongst others, the main road through Almodovar in particular, the N2 (which runs the length of the country), is lined with bitter orange trees. We don't know why these were chosen to plant nor why nobody collects the fruit. Months before Mrs Fatima had said their fruit was poisonous. Harry knew better – "rubbish!" he'd said to me afterwards. "They are Seville oranges. We used to have them at home and my great-grandmother made marmalade from them." In order to continue this family tradition, Harry would pilfer what fruit he could fit in his coat pockets on after-dark dog walks until he'd amassed enough for his marmalade-making project.

Of course it's made with the pith! What did you think it was made from?!

The fruit? I suggested. The colour is orange after all and the pith is white!

Who knew that marmalade is made with the pith? I didn't. Harry gets contact dermatitis from the rind of citrus so I normally peel oranges and lemons for him but this time he donned these dashing gloves and did the job himself. The rind was collected and used as an ineffective potpourri in the bathroom. Due to the segments' bitterness and acidity they are pretty inedible so were juiced and left in the freezer to use later in cooking and salads. The pith was then left in water to remove some of the bitterness before being cooked, sugared, cinnamoned and whatever else was in the recipe to make bitter orange marmalade.

Remember. It's made from the pith.

Just beyond the bridge at the end of our street the way opens into the surrounding countryside with olive groves. I think these birds might be egrets.

More misleading signs sending the camino pilgrims to an early grave

Look just to the left and below the museu sign. Yet another misleading sign!

In need of no announcement. It is a door.

This orange was lemon-shaped. I loved it!

Just back from a dog walk beyond the river (where the water is flowing for the first time!), Harry tells me these lemon-shaped oranges are this way because they started forming during a period of drought. Someone posting online said it's when an orange blossom is fertilised with lemon pollen. I like both explanations. At the time of writing I've been on another dog walk and seen an orange tree with a number of lemon-shaped fruits. It's right next to a lemon tree. Explanation number two is gaining the advantage.

I'm not entirely sure why, but I love woodlice. Probably as much as I love Portuguese doors. The woodlouse might be my spirit creature. Slow, dim, gentle and eats wood. Maybe not. Whatever it is, I can spend hours with them, watching them move about, so cute. I didn't know if there would be any here in Portugal but one day in early December we saw several in different places we visited. I was surprised at how large these woodlice were. Maybe two to three times the size of the ones I'm used to. This led to an unusual line of thought. I don't find these large Portuguese woodlice cute but I do find the ones in Britain adorable. It's as though I've been looking at diminutive woodlice my whole life but how can this be when I was never exposed to this larger variety? These are the things I ponder in life.

Roman ruins

In an area near Santa Clara-A-Nova are scattered very ancient ruins. Some date back to the Neolithic, others to Roman and Moorish times. Each visit we made was solitary with only cows to keep us company. We're now in the habit of taking Ichiro with us on these trips. It's a dilemma because he's old and probably feels a bit sore when he walks, but he doesn't like being left behind either. He always enjoys the destination even if a ride in Monty is not his thing.

This productive olive tree has been estimated to be 1800 years old. Full of fruit, I took some olives home and have planted some of the pyrenes (stones).

This vine-leaf developed beautiful blocks of autumnal colour which made it look like an aerial map of farmland

A different type of log

Having grown tired of the cold nights, we took the plunge to invest in some firewood. There is a nearby agricultural outlet that had a large mountain of wood from felled Holm oaks. We were told that only diseased or dead trees were cut down. We ordered five-hundred kilos to be delivered to the house but also decided to take some with us straight away as we weren't sure when the delivery would be.

The quite useless wood-burning stove in the kitchen

This wasn't what I had imagined when they said that they could deliver

After dumping 500kg of wood outside the yard area, the digger made off across the wasteland opposite the house as it was unable to continue further along the one-way system

Harry and I piled up the wood

The wood-burning stove: A guide.

The far left contains a water tank which could provide hot water if it weren't old and rusty. To the right of this is a chamber for burning the wood with a grilled bottom allowing ash to fall into the chamber beneath. To the right of them is an oven and beyond that a knob whose purpose we have never discovered despite consulting the internet and Mrs Amalia, the landlord's mother. At the bottom is a space to store and dry the wood. Very clever. And, if you want, you can cook on the top.

The heat which radiates out is glorious. It sinks deep into my cold night-time bones. This is if I sit within two feet of the beast. Any further away and the room is freezing as all the heat escapes up the chimney. It doesn't warm up the house at all! Oh well. The flames and embers are mesmerising and Harry spends hours on cold evenings feeding and stoking the fire.

Another trip

Come on, Ichiro, keep climbing

More hilltop ruins

We've struggled to find good rice. Quite some time back we visited one of the Chinese shops here in Almodovar and saw a large sack of premium rice which excited us. The owner possessively asserted that it was her personal rice and not for sale. She told us she got it at an asian supermarket in Albufeira, a town on the Algarve coast about fifty minutes' drive away. We made a note and I searched online to work out where the supermarket may have been. It took many weeks before we made the trip and made it late in the day. Ichiro in tow, we set off one late afternoon to buy rice in Albufeira. I find anything larger than a village disorientating. I can't work out where I am as everything is sprawled out over so many zones. Albufeira was the same. We eventually found the ocean and a parking spot to then realise we couldn't walk to the water's edge as we were so high up. Back in the van and a little drive on we found another spot which led us to this promenade and very pretty too. Just in time for sunset, we meandered down the cobbled path, hearing tourists (mostly Spanish), foreign workers and some locals. After dark, and with some trouble, we found one of the asian 'supermarkets' and exchanged the contents of our bank account for several bags of their fare. Finding the place had been quite stressful, driving round in circles, exasperation lighting up the van's passengers. Eventually, I'd had enough and parked up so I could properly look at my phone and work out how to get there. Bizarrely, I'd somehow managed to park just outside but still spent several minutes on my phone's map mumbling obscenities. Oh. It's here!

Despite its claim, it was a mini-mart, not a supermarket, very expensive and it didn't have the rice we wanted. At least we were able to stock up on soy sauce, seaweed, rices, oodles of noodles, creamed coconut, spices, pulses and all sorts of other alien goodies which still fill our food cupboard.

Sunset in Albufeira

They have doors in Albufeira as well, and very lovely ones at that...

The church in Almodavar got dressed up for Christmas...

...as did the N2

At the north end of the N2 in Almodovar, Ichiro gets up to shenanigans

Harry and I have been going to the farm much more and taking Ichiro with us more often than not. Here are various views:

Tavira is another town on the Algarve coast but further to the east, approaching Spain. During one of our previous visits to Portugal we drove there as part of our random excursions (I think Andrea from the guest house had said it was somewhere she really liked). This time we had important business to attend to. We have needed to find local accountants to help us and in the end I found a firm in Tavira I thought would be good to engage as they work with foreign clients. They emailed me a number of documents that I needed to print, sign and post back by a specific date and a bit of me just couldn't be bothered with registered postal delivery Portugal-style so I asked if we could visit their offices to sign the paperwork instead. Mr Pedro, one of the many team members, said this was possible so we had our excuse for another Algarvian expedition. After parking up and popping into the office it was clear we were still in Portugal. Despite agreeing a time to attend, things were running late but there was absolutely zero sense of urgency about this. As with everything else, things will happen when they happen. We were in no rush and it suited us to take Ichiro for a nearby stroll. Once back, we left him in the van to go and sign the paperwork. Having driven for over an hour to get there, the signing took about one minute and I felt little bereft. I think I was expecting some kind of fanfare or coronation-type of event to mark the momentous occasion. No, Ms Dora assured us, that is all, you can go now. Not quite ready to leave, I drew her into a conversation about where we might sight-see and she said that people always visit the riverside. I didn't realise there was a river. When we had driven to Tavira last year we'd ended up at the sea and didn't take in too much before heading back to the guest house.

Tavira is really rather lovely. The riverside is getting a make-over but its many shops and restaurants speak to the tourist hoards that must pump through here in the high season. It's the kind of place that can still hold onto some foreigners even during low season. I could tell that many of the bodies were not from here. There's a way in which we move differently which gives us away. It felt strange to sit outside a restaurant where the waitresses initiated conversation in English and which served something other than local food. They even did their own coffee roasting but the price of the coffee beans scared me back outside to Harry and the dog.

During our wanderings I snapped some more doors.

I really like this door

This one's all right...

and has somehow made it on here twice.

Strong and stable

Cute backstreet

Additional security whilst still being aesthetically pleasing

This one is in need of a little love...

as is the neighbour.

I don't especially like the colour

Aged door

Aged and big door

The riverside promenade

A poinsettia tree (according to Harry)

A precarious balcony hovers over the water

They have red postboxes here too!

The Swedish government has a consulate here

Quite soulful

Slightly austere

We've already seen you, and yes, you are very nice

The colour of sunshine

At the end of our sojourn, not having a deadline to meet, we decided to drive back to Almodovar avoiding the A2 motorway and its taxing tolls. We found ourselves on the N2, a portion between Almodovar and the Algarve which we hadn't driven before, and which we may never drive again. It is the road of three thousand bends, weaving through mountain after mountain after mountain. I looked at the speedometer and we couldn't get much over 35 miles per hour. Like the road to São Barnabé, it's vehicle-unfriendly but framed by wonderful countryside. Just before getting back to Almodovar the mountains finally give up and the road suddenly straightens out to become a fairly navigable country lane where 60 miles per hour is once again attainable.

We move on now to another day and another trip. I can't remember the pretext on which we went to Castro Verde. It's about twenty minutes' drive up the N2 (north, away from the terrible turns), larger than Almodovar and has the world's best view from a Lidl. Here are two if its doors.

Half of our farm has been taken over by cows. Farmer Jorge, our nearby neighbour, continues to allow his animals or, in this case, actively puts his animals on our land. There are still chickens roosting in the house, pigs in their sty, goats and a lone ram wandering between our plots and now these cows have appeared. We've met two other sets of neighbours. A single man called Mr Arménio who can't be much older than us, lives in the Algarve and has a plot across the stream from us. He didn't take long to launch into his rivalry with farmer Jorge. He doesn't like the animals. He doesn't like farmer Jorge. He showed me along the stream and pointed out bits of land on our plot which I'd never explored. The other neighbours are further away but we drive past on our way to and from the farm. Farmer Artur and his wife (whose name I haven't been told yet). They also became animated when it came to discussing farmer Jorge and his cows. "They ruin everything! You shouldn't let him put his cows there!" and a number of other complaints. Farmer Jorge, for his part has said uncomplimentary things about his neighbours so it seems we've unwittingly ended up in the middle of an Alentejan war zone.

The cows amongst Holm oaks, ruining everything

Whilst clearing brambles around a second well, Harry finds some discarded pottery, likely to have been here decades. This one was used for storage.

This one was used as a chamber pot

We wandered off along a track and found this neighbouring, abandoned farm with wild chamomile covering the nearby slopes

We picked some of the chamomile and dried it at home

One day Harry decided we should go for a picnic. He fried some chicken and potatoes, prepared some cabbage and bundled everything up, including chopsticks and the dog, into the van. Presidente Dario had taken us to Boa Vista (Good View) months ago so we decided that would be a good spot to eat our lunch. It was quite cold in the wind of the exposed summit, so we ate lunch in the van with a delighted Ichiro who couldn't get enough of Harry's fried chicken.

I don't know how this got here. It has nothing to do with Boa Vista.

You neither!

The windmill at Boa Vista (still incompletely renovated inside, according to Ichiro)

Some of the good views

The nearest building below is the old primary school, now lived in by a couple we met with Presidente Dario

The view from the other side

And now for an assortment of photographic memories.

A prickly pear (a type of cactus) Harry is growing from a seed

A supermarket with a view. Looking out from Castro Verde's Lidl

We've had all sorts of passengers in the van

The landlord left us with one electric radiator to heat the whole house and it broke! Here, his mum is seen taking it away.

Just round the corner from us in Almodovar

Also nearby

Christmas Day with Andrea. She bought us this poinsettia from the Christmas market in Castro Verde a few days before

Very nearby, opposite the mini-square of São Pedro

Ichiro often manages to roll off his bed when visiting the farm

Outside Andrea's pharmacy. I popped by to collect some tiramisu her mum had made. I only had to wait for two hours before the queue of three had cleared and Andrea was free to fetch the dessert. You know I'm exaggerating but bloody hell does everything here take forever!

Harry broke the plastic attachment on his pruning saw but then made some modifications to attach it directly to the wooden pole. I told him the tool looks like the Grim Reaper's Scythe. Beware, branches: Death is coming.

Farmer Jorge has separated these calves from their mothers to wean them and popped them in our house's garden!

Harry up a tree, pruning

New Year's Eve and our first (and last) taste of sparkling red wine

We had very quiet Christmas and New Year's celebrations. Not having the buildup and family visits that we're used to was quite nice in a way, making the days feel more ordinary and calm. Andrea had to open her pharmacy on Christmas Day due to on-call obligations shared between her and the other pharmacy in Almodovar on public holidays. Her husband and daughter were out of town spending time with the extended family so poor Andrea was all alone. We invited her to spend Christmas lunch with us. Harry prepared salted cod (bacalhao) which is traditional in Portugal and Andrea brought some her mum had prepared. Although he grew up with bacalhao, Harry's not quite cracked the desalting so his Christmas dish was too salty in places. We haven't bought any more since but have determined we will leave it in water for a full three days before cooking in future. I say we. Harry. Andrea explained that in Portugal, traditionally people put the salted cod in the cistern of the toilet to desalt it. The frequent change of water helps to ensure a thorough desalination. I simultaneously love and hate the idea.

So on Christmas Day Andrea spent her lunch hours (note hours, not hour) with us and as she left somehow invited herself back for dinner so we celebrated twice!

Farmer Jorge had seen us on Christmas Eve as we were leaving the farm and invited us to come back the next day to share lunch. We politely refused as we had already made arrangements to host Andrea. In the lead-up to New Year, he caught us again and repeated his invitation. I was glad to take him up on the offer and Harry did what he always does in these situations: assents and then as soon as the person is out of earshot declares he has no intention of attending.

On our way home we popped into the local supermarket for a few things and saw sparkling red wine. I didn't like the sound of it but Harry was curious enough to buy a bottle. We opened it to accompany our New Year's Eve chicken curry and I actually thought it was all right. Harry had a different reaction. I suspect that one of the reasons he cooks so well and appreciates food and drink so much is his acute sense of smell. But when something smells to him, it really smells. In this case, he took some of wine, pulled a face and started to complain "it tastes of dog urine. Oh my god, it tastes of dog urine!" before boking, gagging and heaving and ultimately leaving the dining room. Similar incidents occur when meat has started to turn and he has just unbagged it to cook. With the force of a distressed town crier he yells at me to dispose of the satanic insult to his senses from a self-imposed exile at the other extreme of the house.

Come New Year's Day Harry repeated his unwish to go anywhere and this, together with days of mounting grumpiness in me, led to a falling out and us each going our own ways. Harry let off fumes by riding his motorcycle across the plains of the lower Alentejo whereas I hopped into Monty and went back to the farm to take up the invitation to New Year's Lunch.

When I arrived I was met with this scene and offered a seat and a beer. No, thanks. I'm driving. The man tending to the meat was Mr Norberto. He was a friend from the Algarve and knew farmer Jorge's family well. Farmer Jorge lives with his uncle, uncle José who I was sad to hear was in hospital. Piecing together what I could, I understood that he had lung disease (probably COPD) and had been in and out of hospital recently. At points I could hear voices coming from inside the house, including that of a woman, and wondered who she would be. At one point she emerged and came towards us, continuing to speak in a loud voice. I immediately noticed an abnormal gait and her uneven speech and thought she had cerebral palsy. Before she'd even made it over to us I started worrying that I would end up causing offence as my Portuguese comprehension is poor at the best of times and there'd be little chance of me deciphering anything she said to me. "This is my wife," explained Mr Norberto slightly off-hand. "She's had a stroke." I was comfortable, but surprised, that she totally ignored me, making one strong-sounding statement after another at her husband. When the opportunity arose I leaned forwards and introduced myself and she did the same. Mrs Vera. I took an instant liking to her and couldn't help feeling bad for the disgrace that had befallen her. Quite some time passed before lunch was ready to be served indoors. In that time I interacted with some of the many dogs, including a chained-up Rafeiro Alentejano which farmer Jorge told me didn't have a name before Mrs Vera barked from indoors, "Yes she does! She's called Borboleta," which means butterfly in Portuguese. "Oh, yeah," mumbled a nonplussed farmer Jorge. Borboleta is chained up and has those dog eyes that plead deeply for you to intervene, whether it be with food or freedom. "She chases and kills the chickens if she's loose," Jorge told me. I quietly wondered if she'd been the dog that killed one of farmer Artur's sheep. Another José – a farmer and "José das vacas" (cow José) to the neighbour Mr Arménio – was the other guest. I'd seen him back in the October before last when we came to see the farm as prospective buyers and had understood not a word of the mumble that came out his barely-moving mouth. Nothing had changed since.

Once inside, I took in what I could of my surroundings and had that sense of how different our lives had been until now. Perhaps once we move to our farmhouse things will look more similar between our rustic abodes. I sat nearest the old not-at-all-flat-screen TV which blurted out dubbed animated American movies. Ms Vera sat to my left, farmers Jorge and José opposite and Mr Norberto at the head of the table so that we made a horseshoe around one end of the longish table. When you learn a foreign language I don't think you come across this in the listening exam:

You're on a visit to rural Portugal and have been invited to have lunch with some locals. Farmer Jorge is friendly but will speak quickly so that you don't catch too much of what he's saying. Farmer José is also quite friendly but will mumble so that you understand nothing. Mrs Vera has had a stroke and has had to learn to speak again. Her husband will try and help you by repeating what you didn't understand that the others have said, but not too much. Good luck answering the following questions.

It turned out Mrs Vera was contender for best understood as she spoke slowly and deliberately, blasting out one word at a time.

Farmer Jorge looked sad as he said he had been looking forward to seeing 'my friend' (Harry). We had a conversation about it and there were many more conversations with the hosts and guests that day, somehow managing to share various thoughts and stories across the linguistic and experiential divide.

Borboleta, looking really sad

Another sodding door. I can't even remember where I took this picture!

This I do remember

A few days into in the new year I was catching up with a friend over the phone when music started to blare out from what I thought was the noisy miner neighbours. Each time they have a day off it sounds like all the mariachi bands of Latin America have congregated to let us know about it. They haven't quite discovered headphones, personal space or consideration just yet. Whenever the half-shouted, half-sung songs swing into our ears Harry looks suddenly depressed and remembers the trauma of suffering the same back in the day, 'back home'. On this day the terrible cacophony came surprisingly early and my tongue loosened as I went to investigate. It was disconcerting to find a band of what looked and sounded like nutters playing outside on the street at the elderly couple opposite. It appeared to be an uninvited serenade and the look on the lady of the house's face said it all. I quickly shut the shutters and hid myself before a loud BANG BANG BANG at the door suggested the music-stranglers had chosen me as their next victim. No way. No way am I going to get embroiled in some half-cocked conversation that tries to say I don't speak your language, no you don't understand, please go away, I'm trying not to upset you but please please bugger off. Thankfully, not responding was enough to send them packing up the road to prey on some other poor soul.

Pomegranate trees on the farm? In leaf? In winter?

Me and my wellies just before I jumped into the stream at the bottom of the farm

Mr Armenio had previously taken me for a tour along and around the stream which separates our properties. He confidently assured me that the line down the middle of the length of the stream represented the boundary between us despite my satellite image of the farm suggesting the stream sat beyond. He has been working on clearing the stream of debris and also helping himself to clearing invasive canes on our side. "I use chemicals. Is that ok? I know some people, some foreigners, don't like chemicals." Yes, I am definitely one of those. "The other gentleman is the owner," I schemed, "we'll need to ask him if he's ok with chemicals." We've established with Mr Armenio now that the other gentleman does not like chemicals.

On the day I took this picture I had decided to explore a relatively inaccessible part of the land where the slopes either side begin to converge creating a narrow funnel shape before a sudden limit at the handmade drystone walls. Within this patch there are thick canes, brambles and struggling olive trees. Mr Armenio had previously checked with his mother who used to live here and reported that there is definitely at least one other well within this area. So we needed to be very careful, lest it be covered and we accidentally fall in. Falling into a covered well is an occupational hazard out here. Undeterred and motivated to leave Harry to his bramble-clearing, I ventured into this deadly zone. After climbing over a low wall and struggling down a steep bank, I came to a flat area that was squidgy underfoot. I was not happy. There could be a death-trap anywhere beneath my feet. I started to freeze with fear but was strangely enticed by the promise of discovery so tentatively took steps deeper into the growth using one of Mr Armenio's cane victims to probe the soil as I went. I pointed at the ground as though about to cast a spell on it before gently pushing the tip in at an angle. I met no resistance for a worrying depth before hitting something solid. It must have been well over a foot. Shit. What have I done? Time for Plan B. As though I was walking through a mine field, I continued to stab the soft soil in front of me and take a step, hoping it was not my last, and kept repeating this until I got to the drystone wall which was the closest point of safety. I was taking so long that Harry rang me. Where are you?! Oh, you should see how deep the soil is around here, I boasted. You idiot. You'll fall down a well! Satisfied that I'd answered and wasn't therefore dead at the bottom of a well, Harry hung up to get back to his labour and I now had to work out if I could jump off the wall without breaking my ankles.

Having safely lowered myself off the crumbling drystone wall, I started taking pictures of the stream.

Moo to you too.

I had initially contended myself with the pigs' inevitable slaughter by how ugly they were. Annoyingly, each time I walk past they get cuter and cuter.

Farmer Jorge has a selection of animals he keeps for the sake of having them. This mare is one of them. This is one of the tracks that can bring us to the farm. The fence on the right is our boundary and to the left is farmer Jorge's.

You'll get cold sleeping on the ground, you nincompoop.

As well as poison with chemicals, Mr Armenio likes to burn plants he has cut down.

After sunset as we head back to the van

Back home, pyromaniac Harry adds fuel to the fire, pouring leftover cooking oil to get it going.

Another day on the farm, another band of trespassers. This time it's the small herd of farmer Jorge's goats and random horny ram.

Although currently free to walk as he wishes, a few months ago we took Andrea, her husband and young daughter to the farm, and the rampant ram was engaging in inter-species harassment chasing after the female goats. So farmer Jorge tied one front leg to one back to limit his speed and therefore ability to pester the caprine ladies.

Here you can see how the cows "ruin everything" with large swathes of the ground cleared of their green cover.

Nearly there...

Ah!

Without warning or explanation, one recent Thursday morning the water was cut off. Some nearby neighbours said that there were water works nearby and it should come back again in a few hours. Great. I hadn't yet brushed my teeth or washed my face. Thank goodness I didn't need a shower. Normally at this time I'd be sweaty from yoga but it was a moon day so there was no practice. The experience of having to use bottled water to perform my morning ablutions really brought home how wasteful I can be with water. When the water eventually came back on later that day the taps all ran with filthy water. The scream-like noise that came out of Harry as he turned on this tap was priceless.

Ichiro. Farm.

Guard cat

It looks like this float is being taken for repairs

Harry fashioning a pestle from some firewood

Unable to find the axe he swears was in the van when we left Oxford, Harry bought another one from the agricultural shop round the corner. We were on a dog walk at the time and on our way to have a coffee. "Please can you wrap it for us," he kindly asked the shopkeeper. "I don't want people thinking I'm an axe-wielding maniac!"

I found the colour co-ordination of this line-up very pleasing

And again on another day!

I can explain

I imagine you glaze over when seeing yet another door but hear me out. This door is on a common route we take with the dog but it has been hidden for months due to building work. Not only is it another door, but it has an old "animals prohibited" sign still stuck on it. Amazing, I think you'll agree.