Thursday January 6 2005
As the raucous renditions of Aulde Lang Syne got lost among the explosions of New Year’s Eve fireworks, our black pig, Bacon, became quite ill. Early this month we noticed her getting fatter, in a rather irregular way. She wasn’t the normal shape of a pig, more like a beer barrel. We assumed she was merely putting on fat, until a more knowledgeable friend saw her and asked us: “What on earth’s wrong with that pig?” With the guilt of negligent parents, we set upon a mission to sort out the problem, no expense spared – next stop, a vet.
After a great deal of running around, we finally discovered a new vet in Monchique – Dra Ana Silva who specialises in pigs. She called round to our farm today and the fun and games began. Many local farms keep their pigs enclosed in a very small shed and the lucky ones have a few square metres of outside space. Although not particularly pleasant for the porkers, this does mean the animal can be restrained fairly easily for veterinary inspection.
Our two ladies have a fair bit of land to gallop around in with an open house and no enclosed area. Dra Ana sensibly waited in the wings while Martyn and I attempted to catch the patient. After one failed attempt, Bacon sussed out the rules of the game and the show began. As she ran one way, her sister would cut across our path heading us off, skilfully leading us into the biggest, juiciest piles of pig poo she could find. The poorly pig turned out to be surprisingly nimble and it quickly became apparent that our half-hearted attempts were doomed to failure. After a good 10 minutes of joint jarring jaunts, Martyn’s Welsh heritage finally showed through and he executed a death defying rugby tackle bringing the animal to the ground. After a thorough inspection, the vet informed us that poor little Bacon had picked up a few nasty parasites and was also retaining water. We will be popping up to the surgery to pick up the necessary medication later today.
Friday January 7
During a brief interlude in animal husbandry, I managed to follow a guided walk with a couple of friends, Dean and Andrew, who are over here from London. The walk from Fóia down to Marmelete was quite straightforward, until we arrived at a signpost directing us left towards a hamlet on our route. This seemed to be at odds with the directions I was following in my guide. Against our better judgement, we followed the sign and ended up in someone’s back yard. Although out of our way, it was quite pleasant to meet a friendly, elderly couple living the rural Algarvean life, with chickens and geese pecking around the front door. We explained our mistake, asked directions and after a bit of a struggle managed to set off. The farmer, a cat weasel type in his 70s, was rather insistent on knowing what we were doing, where we had been and where we were off to.
We continued downhill for 20 minutes or so, then became aware of a car creeping along behind us. There, behind the wheel, engulfed in cigarette smoke, was our over-helpful farmer beckoning us over. I approached the car, only to hear he had nothing to say other than all the questions we had previously answered at his house. There was something about the encounter that didn’t make sense. I politely refused all offers of a lift, explaining that we were walking for the joy of it. Some people up here find it hard to believe people walk for pleasure.
Getting away from him was an issue again and I began thinking the man may be a bit ‘simple’. As he departed, we discussed his rather bizarre behaviour. Andrew rather facetiously suggested the old boy had the ‘hots’ for me. Around 20 minutes later, when I had finally purged my mind of such thoughts, pootling back towards us from the other direction this time came our intrepid kerb crawler, grinning inanely and beckoning us towards him again. Our walk in the country was slowly turning into a horror movie, plagued by a dirty old man.
Remembering Little Red Riding Hood, I wanted to ignore the man, but my friends insisted that would be rude. As I was the only one with a smattering of Portuguese, I was elected to approach the car again. This time, the Big Bad Wolf had developed a rather menacing glint in his eye and kept gesturing me closer to the car. As I reached the window, he muttered something unintelligible and made a lunge for my pelvic region! We scurried off rapidly leaving the kerb crawling pervert behind. The moral of this story? Never trust a man, no matter how old he is!
Saturday January 15
We have now had over a week of injecting our sickly pig, twice a day, every day. I have already mentioned the trial of catching the poor creature, but to end the chase with an injection hardly inspires her to be more compliant the next time. The whole saga did give some insight into just how intelligent pigs are. Because we only ever chased and injected her together, she very quickly worked out “two men bad, one man good”. If we went down separately, she would quite willingly come up to us, allow us to tickle her behind the ears and generally trust us. If the other arrived, she would shoot off and take position for the chase. She learned to avoid corners almost immediately and became very fond of standing so that there was a tree between us, making capture more difficult. Once the injection had taken place, she relaxed and knew the chase was over. There was no continuing fear. It would be nice to think that she also understands the injections are for her own good.
Monday January 31
During one of our routine visits to the vet, I suddenly became aware of the fact that Martyn was wearing shorts, in mid-January, in Monchique! This event was not entirely due to our globally warmed existence – he had been playing tennis and hadn’t had time to change. Feeling vicariously self-conscious, I felt obliged to explain his attire to the vet which led on to one of those bizarre chance events that seem to happen in life. The vet announced that her husband was a tennis coach and has just started coaching in the Algarve. Martyn has actually been promising himself tennis lessons for years but been putting it off, so this co-incidence seemed too good to be true. One thing led to another and now Martyn has regular coaching at a very reasonable price. The upshot of all this is that Martyn’s tennis has improved dramatically after just four hours’ tuition, and I now face hours of humiliation on court, watching specks of yellow whizz past me – such is life…
