By: PAUL McKAY
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.
Friday August 10
You could be forgiven for thinking that all we ever do up on this farm is inseminate the pig. That is definitely how it has seemed to be over the past few months.
Eggs, the family pig, although coming into season with monotonous and hazardous regularity (every third Wednesday the pig terrace is no place for the innocent to roam), now seems determined to have her fun but steadfastly refuses to ‘take’.
The family pig seems unable to get in the family way. The upshot of this is that every third Wednesday we are lustfully charging around our lower terraces after a salivating pig. To our neighbours and all around, we must appear to be bestial perverts persistently pursuing the petrified porca with medieval looking sexual implements. Last Wednesday was the last occasion when ‘show time’ commenced, during which Eggs appeared to be suitably pleasured, judging by the groans and excessive salivation. We are now looking forward anxiously to the 29th with the hope that the whole circus does not begin again. It’s costing us a fortune in sperm apart from anything else.
Friday August 17
My morning jogs on the beach are no longer the peaceful, solitary affair they once were. Back in June, I was able to drive the car right up to the beach, change in relative privacy and gently jog barefoot across miles of unpopulated sand. The gentle breeze from the sea and the distant horizon served to be both relaxing and invigorating.
Now, in mid-August the story is somewhat different. Arrival at the beach has to be planned with militarily precision, not only does one need to plan the attack to secure a reasonable parking place but to consider an appropriate exit strategy.
A speedy exit can only be executed if one parks in a locale where one cannot be hemmed in by a platoon of silver rental cars, who park three abreast assuming every vehicle is there for the month.
Rent-a-car drivers park with the assumption that every other car on the road is also a Corsa and will have no trouble fitting through the smallest of gaps. On more than one occasion, I have been tempted to use the pick-up in combat style and simply barge the Puntos aside.
Once the parking has been dealt with, one then has to advance across the trenches to reach the waterline. By 9am, the Portuguese have dug in deep, with encampments accommodating up to four generations. These fortresses can be spotted from some distance not only by the rat-a-tat-a-tat of constant bat and ball games but also by the multitude of Olá and Super Bock parasols obliterating the horizon.
Once one has crossed the frontier and reached the waterline, the daily debacle of stretching begins. Back in June this was a comforting, gentle, quite private affair. Not so in August.
One immediately draws the complete attention of the Belém eating throng. Overweight middle aged women laugh and point openly, while toddlers run alongside and imitate the operation. This would be less stressful if the toddlers in question were not quite so proficient at the said exercises.
Stretching over and the jogging commences. One immediately needs extreme vigilance in order to avoid a complex network of landmines, in the form of deep holes and castles laced with cut-throat sea shells. As the jog progresses, the crowd thins and soon Alvor and its summer inhabitants are disappearing in the rear view mirror of the mind.
The only hazards now are the shoreline strollers, chasing dogs and the distraction by occasional nudists who enjoy flashing from the dunes.
On the return journey, one encounters a different sort of army. By 10am the sun is up higher in the sky and the Portuguese troops have been joined by the English, Irish and German platoons – allied forces no less.
These three groups tend to favour chemical warfare and attack the senses by means of foul smelling creams and oils that they spread liberally over their entire bodies, leaving the defenceless jogger coughing and wheezing, fighting for fresh air.
The Irish have another interesting diversion at their disposal, not unlike a flare, causing temporary blindness. One in every ten of the Irish holidaymakers is the colour of an over-ripe incandescent tomato. The glare emanating from these individuals can lead to a momentarly loss of concentration, enough time to wander into one of the booby trapped castles or straight into a wooden bat mid-swing.
If one is lucky enough to reach the homeward stretch intact, it is vitally important not to relax. The throng will have by now reached thousands, most of whom insist on standing at the exact point of the waterline. Young children are redeployed as exocite missiles, being fired out randomly from the crowd at an alarming speed. Footballs, frisbees and various inflatable devices are put into active service making a safe return, unscathed, virtually impossible.
Cooling down and stretching is incredibly difficult at this hour unless you are lucky enough to be joined by ‘thong man’. The obligatory five-metre exclusion zone afforded around this creature allows one to cool down in relative tranquillity, as long as one can suffer the hostile looks one receives for such blatant rule-breaking.
Friday August 24
Last week we booked a five-day break to Madrid. The following day the car was broken into and Martyn’s driving licence and passport wwew stolen. Martyn reported the theft to some very helpful GNR officers in Armação de Pêra but there seems little hope of getting his items back. The race has now begun, what will arrive first, the due date for our holiday or his passport?
Work on the farm has been a little sporadic of late, as it usually is in August. Every time I pick up any gardening tool, I seem to puncture a water pipe, which is becoming quite tiresome, necessitating a great deal of faffing to repair the pipes in sweltering temperatures.
Friday August 31
The summer is almost over, the crowds are thinning and jogging on the beach is becoming pleasurable once more. Still no sign of the replacement passport. Eggs has now been four weeks without a season so hopefully she is pregnant, at last. Watch this space.
