Well there is rain and then there is the rain we’re in at the moment!
I’ve never seen anything like it! To call it torrential doesn’t do it justice. It’s what it must be like to stand under a waterfall.
The windscreen wipers on the car couldn’t begin to deal with it, not even on that crazy fast, smack-back-and-forwards setting that is so rarely used. We just had to pull over, along with half of the drivers on the EN 17 and wait it out.
The other half? They’re the ones who carry on, hazard warning lights flashing, as if that’s all that needs to be done to prevent aquaplaning. Of course, they are the idiots that cause the accidents, aren’t they?
We finally made it home, through the really slurpy and sticky mud which our track had become, using low-gear four-wheel drive, and waded into the porch.
Actually, the porch was fine; the cobbled area around, however, was ankle deep. One of the cats was paddling around and shaking her feet, hoping to remove the water with each step. The other cat, together with the dog, was more sensibly cuddled up in the bed by the log fire.
I must just expand on the four-wheel drive thing, though. I really like it! It makes me feel very intrepid and adventurous. Sort of Bear Grylls-ish. What kind of a name is that to give a child, anyway? Bear? It’s almost cruel. Anyway, there is something most satisfying about engaging the low-ratio four-wheel drive and just crawling around, allowing the vehicle to sort of drag itself along and slowly traverse boggy bits which defeat ordinary, lesser vehicles.
February seems to be the wettest month, by far, in our little corner of Portugal. People go around the village in all manner of wet-weather gear and it can be quite eclectic at times. The oddest was our neighbour, Julio, who was outside doing something with his sheep; it looked like he was moving them from one bit very moist grass to another, equally moist bit, but I bow to his much deeper and profound knowledge of things ovine.
He was sporting a natty little hat, clearly modelled along sou’wester lines, but fashioned out of a carrier bag. The handles of said bag were tied under his chin and the words ‘intermarch’ and ‘mais barato’ (cheaper, in Portuguese) could be discerned as he stomped around, dragging the reluctant sheep behind him. He also wore a poncho, which looked rather like a large old potato bag, with holes, for arms and head, ripped out.
Somehow, despite hauling three unhappy sheep around, he managed, in his other hand, to have an umbrella held aloft, mostly vertical, but buffeted by the fickle wind which was throwing bursts of rain at him from shifting angles.
I admired him; not for any sartorial appeal, but for ingenuity, pluck and perseverance. Eventually, he made his lonely way back across the field to his little house, where a great gout of smoke from the chimney heralded the warmth of a blazing hearth. I hope so, for he deserved it, if anyone did.
l Mike Gaunt is a former headmaster at St Christopher’s School, Bahrain
– mikegaunt@gmail.com