By PAUL MCKAY features@algarveresident.com
Teacher, Paul McKay, left London to live a self-sufficient existence in the Monchique hills with his partner Martyn. He keeps an assortment of animals and grows a variety of crops in an eco-friendly way – all on a limited income.
All good things must come to an end. A change is as good as a rest. Quit while you’re ahead. So many clichés, so little time.
This is to be the last Month in Monchique column – for a while at least. Like all good serials, there may be the odd Christmas Special but the monthly column as you know it is over.
There are a few reasons for this. Firstly, the desire to avoid repeats. After living and working on a Monchique smallholding for eight years, the number of new topics to write about begins to diminish.
There are only so many times you want to read about my pig escaping, my hens refusing to lay, my lettuces wilting and an outbreak of blackleg culling my turkeys.
Sadly, history tends to repeat itself (annually on a farm) and it would be unfair to inflict my misery on you repeatedly.
Also, I must confess, that sometimes not a lot happens in these hills. To put things into perspective, let me tell you about the track outside.
There is a public right of way which passes my front door, goes down a small path to a bridge and crosses the river. The last time a human (other than us) took this route was about 12 years ago, when a young courting couple wandered past.
She carrying a small posy of wild flowers, he with a glint in his eye and something more substantial in his pocket. Stimulating as they were (we talked of nothing else for weeks), this level of passing trade does not generate much literary fodder.
To compensate, one ventures out…further…and further. Eventually one gets so far from home that the farm and Monchique hardly seem to feature at all.
Another reason is the ‘going native’ issue. The longer one lives somewhere, the less one notices its idiosyncrasies – one becomes a part of the madness.
There was a time when neighbours lacing food with cement to slowly solidify the rat population struck me as macabre.
The tiny village shop stocking up with a thousand pairs of flip-flops seemed a trifle queer (five years on, eight hundred pairs remain).
The man sat on the leatherette armchair in the olive grove, the twirling lady who shouts at cars, the 2cv run on vegetable oil, the insurance agent with soft porn above his desk.
These things used to seem newsworthy; now, after 20 years, é normal.
The final reason, which is a confession as much as a reason, is that I now work full-time. I feel a little fraudulent portraying myself as a self-sufficient farmer living the eco-warrior life when all along I’m working full-time and dashing into Continente when no one’s looking.
So there you have it – absolution at last for another hypocritical hippy.
Now I’ve purged myself, I can move on.
Saturday, 5th June
It is surprising how little light a mobile phone emits when you need it. I found myself scurrying up a mud path behind my house at midnight having just remembered I’d left an irrigation tube running.
The moon was on holiday, the phone as good as useless and my neighbours’ cat was playing trip up the blind man.
I don’t know if this is unique to us but every time we buy a torch, it only seems to last about a fortnight before dying in some spectacular fashion.
The irrigation was running because our land seems to have made the transformation from wetland to desert overnight.
Last week we were digging ditches to deal with the excess of water, now we are charging around at midnight switching taps on and off.
Saturday, 19th June
Martyn has returned from a three-week visit to the UK. Unfortunately, most of his stay was spent in NHS establishments undergoing x-rays and the like.
Something odd happened to his knee on the Madrid metro, resulting in pain spasms shooting up his leg unexpectedly. This incapacitating predicament meant he was confined chez family for longer than normal.
Fifteen days of rain, Welsh moaning and excruciating pain resulted in rising stress levels which were increasingly evident in telephone calls.
Mother, stepfather and I would all be speaking simultaneously about different subjects, not helped by jumpy Skype connections.
Tension was apparent when I was put on hold to hear him say, “will you both please SHUT UP so I can hear what Paul is saying.” His holiday has taken its toll, so he is now back in need of bed rest, valium and counselling.
Saturday, 26th June
I received an email from a friend today that simply mentioned some wonderful tablets he was taking and a link to a site selling a ‘super mini’ support wrap.
No hello, how are you etc. This message, I assume, is for Martyn and his knees. I guess this is about as exciting as emails get as one heads for 50.
These routes are made for walking
Onwards and upwards as they say – well strangely enough, that’s my intention. Over the next 12 months I intend to road test some of the Walking Guides to the Algarve and beyond.
Every couple of months, I will rope in an (un)willing companion, dust down the leather boots and head for the hidden hamlets and hideaways Portugal has to offer.
These physical endeavours will be endured to bring the great outdoors into your air-conditioned villa, so armchair hikers can have as much fun as us khaki clad pointy stick types.
After each walk, I will feed back with all the relevant facts such as cafés en route, local characters to avoid and the peaks and pitfalls of every excursion.
The more adventurous among you could try the walk for yourself and details of the guide books used will be provided. If all goes well and I do not end up being mauled by wolves (or Chelsea fans if I veer too close to Albufeira) then I may make tentative steps to discover my own walks providing you with full details.
Details of good routes will be gratefully received and a good guide with a little bit of knowhow, even more so.
Previous excursions into the great outdoors has seen me pursued through a forest by an amorous octogenarian, scrambling on all fours across a disused aqueduct and getting hopelessly lost while avoiding aggressive cows on Christmas Day. I look forward to seeing you en route (with a cuppa) – look out for the new column about this time next month.
