Going south

January 26, 2009

The bedding is airing under a sheet of blue sky and I have flung open every door and window to blow away three months of fustiness.
Olhao is in quiet winter mode. It is bliss to bask in radiator sunshine and sip meit de lait coffee by a limpid sea. There are a few weathered fisherman in thick socks and wellingtons, the odd back-packer clasping a beer, and small children dressed in sensible woolly hats and gloves, like children used to be. Fashion backwater this is, there are headturning sights: finely figured gypsy men and women in black suits and swirling skirts from head to toe, could have stepped from a boho peasant advertising shoot. In the unseasonal cold, dark glasses and heirloom furs hauled out of the wardrobe for the aged devotees of Sunday mass look very la dolce vita or whatever the Portuguese equivalent would be.

The winter rains have tested my samples of limewash mixed with pig fat. The results are encouraging. Where I have patched up areas of faded limewash, the sticky animal cum mineral mixture has stuck well. A very effective defensive membrane against the elements, and the salt which weeps out of Olhao’s old walls. The recipe is mediaeval in composition: roughly 40kilos of lime to 3kg pig fat (buy from the butcher) for an oil drum load. The process involve gloves, and standing well clear when the the lime bubbles like a caustic boiling soup on contact with water. Left to mature, the mixture, soon ressembles soft ice cream, and the liquid it sits in is like the milk used by fresco painters

I had hoped the works for the room on top might have begun, but unsurprisingly the camara says that the entrance door must be moved because it is too close to my neighbour, even though the distance in question is a planning requirement for a house, not a room. The architect’s drawing make it clear that this 4 x 4 metre cube is hardly house or even flat sized, but together with a couple of other issues, it suggests that whoever has looked at the application has not attended to the detail. No matter, the revised application goes in next week. Meanwhile, more of the waiting, and because the euro is so strong against the pound I’m not exactly unhappy about holding onto funds.

It is Sunday afternoon. A flock of homing pigeons swoop and beat their silvered wings in fluttering unison. The house is breathing in fresh air and sunlight. I fill a bucket with hot water and clean the dust and dirt from windows and ledges. The streets are narrow here, and the close buildings create a comforting murmuuring resonance when you hear footsteps or passers by in conversation.

After the hard work it’s clams for supper. I buy them in net sacks from the market or one of the shellfish specialists on the seafront. Olhao is on the estuary of the Ria Formosa where 80 percent of Portugal’s clams are produced. They are therefore always fresh and sweet. I give the clams a wash and throw out any broken ones. I take down a flat pan and fry garlic in oil, add a splash of white wine, chuck in the clams and cook them for a few minutes until all the shells are open. Sitting under the stars in thick layers, a candle, and steaming plates of these fishy delicacies is my idea of heaven.