350: "The Devastating Number"

The title is not mine. It's from an article on the significance of the number 350 to the 6.793 billion humans inhabiting planet Earth on 24 October 2009. I won't make it easy by posting a link that you will, in all likelihood, ignore. If you're not the ignoring type, then a) you already know about 350 or b) you will google it and find all the science explained by people far more clever than I. I know: at this point some have already clicked and sailed away from this blog. For the others, the rest of the story. Here goes.

On October 24th 2009, about 15 people (out of the above mentioned 6.793 billion) met on the old bridge between Valenca do Minho (Portugal) and Tui (Spain) to participate in the “biggest climate action ever”, known in short as “350”.

Let me say this now: I believe “350' is a flawed slogan – too obscure and unfathomable. Many of us don't know what it is. Most of us can't even begin to understand it. I try and fail to find a good comparison. Putting “Smoking Kills” onto cigarette packs comes to mind, and 350 is way worse than that.

At least, “Smoking Kills” means something. Two easy words. “Smoking” equals “pleasurable and pointless – and hazardous in the long term - activity involving rolled up tobacco and a source of fire, sometimes involving friends and family similarly engaged”. “Kills” ... Hollywood amply fills in the gap here. And yet, should any smoker actually read or think about the message, will his next logical step be: “oh – I MUST NEVER touch the stuff”? No. His reaction will somehow be along the lines of “not ME it won't” or, at best, “LAST one, I swear” before lighting up.

But “350”? It refers to the concentration of CO2 in the planet's atmosphere. It's not a random number. Below 350 we are OK. Above 350, “you couldn't have a planet 'similar to the one on which civilisation developed and to which life on earth is adapted” (Bill McKibben/James Hansen).

On 24 October 2009, we are at 390, yet everything around us seems the same. 350, or 390 or 400... just numbers, maths, all cryptic and impenetrable. They have no hope of reaching the warm familiarity of words, the reassurance of stories, the certainty of physical phenomena. They don't translate to dark spots on the face of the sun, a funny smell or a spectacular disease that befell the neighbour's husband.

What is required is a leap of faith. We – the 15 on the bridge in Galicia and the thousands who woke up this morning and joined over 5,000 actions in 181 countries – are asking the remaining billions to remember 350:

350 – the harbour, full of lights and laughter, seen as you sail out and straight into a storm
350 – the cliff where you stand and look at howling black waves below and, what-the-hell, you jump
350 – that serene moment you hit black ice, gliding like a god before you start to spin
350 – the cigarette that does it, the one that plants the first cancerous cell on the charred inside of your lung

So we stand on the bridge on the 24th of October and these thoughts are far from our minds. We talk instead about cats and children, tomato seeds and stonemasonry tools, as you do. It rains and rains, we are drenched and our banner is drenched and our leaflets are drenched. One old man crosses the bridge on foot and asks in passing “what Saint instructed us to leave our homes on a day like this”. He gets a sodden leaflet.

It says "350"!

Galo Desaparecido

One line: We had a rooster, now we don't.

Two lines: A friend decided our four hens needed a rooster, and somehow got us one. It stayed in the coop for half an hour, then fled. We couldn't catch it, then it was gone.

More lines: It was a beautiful rooster, burgundy feathers and a shiny black tail, bald neck and fiery eye. He arrived in a very undignified package, a white linen sack sent over by an old woman in a nearby village. Once let out, he took over the chicken enclosure with an arrogant gait and low, lofty clucking. Three of our four ugly hens fell silent and got out of the way. One of the harem stood up to him feebly, which made us consider the possibility that it might not be a hen after all. The big guy didn't appear to notice, just ruffled his glorious feathers and sang.

We sighed with pleasure and left them to it. As soon as our backs were turned the red rooster flew out and sauntered to freedom. For the first couple of days he still hung about the land. We tried to catch him, twice, with terror in our hearts because he was fast and fierce. On the whole we were running around, making insane sounds, wading through bramble patches, climbing rocks, waving sticks, sweating and swearing – while he just turned tail and ambled grandly to some other remote part of the garden. Easy.

Once we had him cornered in the outdoor shower. He turned slowly and glared, before flying right over our heads and, I swear, clucking something obscene over his wing while he disappeared round the corner. One late evening we found him asleep in the sink, and still he evaded us. It was almost dark, pouring rain, there were five on our side, all giving chase, none coming within miles of him.

At this point, thoroughly disgusted, he marched off the land and was gone for good. There were sightings somewhere down the valley, perhaps on someone's dinner table? I wonder sometimes. In any case, I don't hold any hope that he'll be back to rule his kingdom-of-four any time soon.

Holiday in Galicia

Beginning of September: one week of holidays left, after a month in Scotland and a month on the land. We are exhausted, but one week of sleep is too much to ask. A holiday, especially our particular brand (no planning, no destination, pure chaos, something between the frantic and the sublime) sounds so much like hard work... Still, since change could be great and chaos might be instructive, we pack all Monday and drive off into the sunset.

We have a vague starting point half way up the Galician coast, where some friends of friends happen to live and where there may be WAVES. We are off, listening to Lian Hearn's beautiful Otori trilogy, eating cream cheese and smoked salmon, stopping every five miles to pay more road tolls. As you do in Spain.

The friends of friends had been informed of our visit. Being half-Sicilian, half-Galician and incredibly welcoming, they do not bat an eyelid at being invaded by an unknown family of four. Instead, they buy a bucketful of mussels, wax their surfboards, uncork the wine and wait. And wait. And then wait just a little more. Having invited ourselves for lunch, we arrive just before nightfall and call the awaiting feast late supper. No time for surf, but time for a walk to the famed beach and a quick swim. Marinated mussels don't mind.

The sea is warmer here, but the coastline makes you groan. On the map a sinuous line of deep bays, vast beaches and tongues of dark blue sea. Get any closer and you find dry and lifeless geography. It features those squat cubes of cement we are taught to call home. It is criss-crossed by lines of dark grey proudly labelled motorways. It is powdered with soot. There are fish farms in every estuary, and noxious looking workshops on street corners. We pass a small port where every square inch is covered in mounds of coal and every building is black.

The local youth drives about in quad bikes. Kids find green beetles on walls and squash them with glee. Am I being too harsh? Is there another side I fail to see?

Oh yes. We hear of a famous waterfall, the only in Europe that dives directly into the sea from a mind-blowing height. Post script: the waterfall is only open on Sundays from 2pm. At all other times it flows straight into pipes that “channel and harness the energy of the water”. You look at the cliff and see scars of black plastic, lashes of grey tubing all the way down. No waterfall. It's only Monday.

For the next three days we play out the adapted story of Goldilocks and the three Waves. The first wave is too small. We camp between a hill and a hotel and play Settlers into the night. The wind almost takes the tent for a trip to Oz. The second wave is too big. We watch Moona paddle out and pray for him to be heaved back onto the beach in one piece. Eventually, a wave spits him out and he staggers back to the van muttering crazy stuff and leaking sea water.

The third wave has to be just right. The story says so, and why not? We drive about until we find it. What follows is an afternoon of such perfection – there at the very edge of summer, all warm sand and playful ocean and a soft, glowing sunset... No wonder we leave all reason behind and casually adopt a kitten from a litter spotted under a surfer's camper van. We later discover it's a tom, and name it after the surfer, Charlie.

We spend the night on the beach, wrapped in our blankets, and I wake up a hundred times. As always when camping, it's the lower back that wakes me, but tonight it's the stars that keep me awake. I spend the whole night gazing at a skyful of exuberant planets, feeling the wind circle the tip of my nose and a few exposed toes. Every now and again a deep sigh and another small nap.

Then it's daylight and the last day of this holiday. We go back to the beach-of-legend. Another dizzy session, and guess what? For symmetry's sake (and perhaps to prove that we are consistently insane), we drive home with Charlie AND his little sister. She looks like a grey-and-yellow tigress with black-rimmed glasses. We call her Lira. On the way home, we coo hysterically and squash the cats into cardigan sleeves and spare socks. They miaow for food like a couple of public mourners, then purr like industrial generators, and finally pee everywhere.

Of course, at this stage I wouldn't mind for the holiday to stretch on into next week, next month, next decade. It happens like this every time. Is it the magic of our journeys? The dread of unpacking? The certainty of hard work ahead? A first shiver of winter?

Your guess.

One Week in Scotland

Sometime in June we realised that we might find, could spare, did have and would like one week to spend in Scotland. Drive north through Spain, take a ferry to England, drive north again. One frantic week filling the van with our wish-list of things we ‘need’ in Portugal. A big party, catch up with friends around the camp fire at the loch. Sleep a little, load the van, leave the kids behind, drive south.

It went exactly like that except for the last part. We couldn’t leave the kids and we couldn’t leave Scotland. We’re still here.

Why this thing about the kids? Our friends and relatives routinely send their offspring to any grannies or aunties who will have them for any amount of time. Why can’t we? Why do I agree to do it, plan to do it (I have ferry tickets to prove it), and immediately feel like a condemned wretch, complete with gnawed fingernails, skin rash, hyperventilation, headache; panic that only grows the closer we get to the date of departure. It’s hell. I cast about for ways to get out of it.

If the kids are left with granny, then granny (or someone else) will need to bring them back to Portugal at some later date. After totally avoiding the topic for weeks, we start mentioning it around the breakfast table two days before we're due to drive away. It ends in non-commital grunts, every time. With dread in my heart, I do the research. Looks promising, I perk up. Plane tickets are too expensive. So is the ferry, should they feel like sailing back. Travel by train? I don’t even want to go into it. How can they make trains so impossible an option? (usually I rant about it; not today: phew!) Swine flu – could it close borders? Perhaps no one is available to bring them back? (must admit to ill-disguised hopeful note here, verging on hysteria). Also, surely they’re too young to travel alone. It works. We will change the ferry tickets and bring them back ourselves. We stay.

The thing is, they’re fun to be around. We love to groan over their torn clothes and muddy knees, we trail along on their adventures, we even like their silly arguments and generally relish their chaos. We’re not really longing for ‘time alone’ because – from the moment they were born - ‘alone’ is equivalent to ‘incomplete’ and ‘empty’. They fill our world.

We are staying.

Then there’s Scotland. Clear, stunning, breathtaking - these hills in the Borders have no equal. I hear the stream as I write, the lowing of cattle in the distance and a concert of small birds and there is nothing more I could possibly want. A few old trees grow on the other side of the valley. The shadows they cast on the soft slope are graceful and fluid, like dancers that never fade and never stop. I don’t think I’ve seen anything as elegant and beautiful. I could sit for hours looking, giving little sighs, closing my eyes just to open them again and be startled and soothed by this slow summer story unfolding on the hill.

This was the problem: we didn’t have hours. We had a van to fill, and ran around buying stuff and loading and carrying and calling suppliers and chasing the postman. Every glimpse of the lovely valley was laced with a mixture of guilt, regret and deep dissatisfaction. Unbearable, so screw it. We changed plans. We stayed. Hurray.

We are here for a month.

March to May

This could go on forever, but we all need to keep busy and sane, hence the rule: one paragraph per topic.

1.TIME UNDER THE BRIDGE. It was March and now it's May. Last day of May and then it's June. How can this be happening? Each day used to be bright and interesting, each day a different story. I suspect they still are, but I've lost my rhythm. I didn't stop looking, I stopped recording. In their turn, days faded and blurred, the world seen through thick dirty glass. Worn at the edges by routine and oblivion. Numbed up and rendered equal, a block of uncut, unused time once more... But now I'm back on the bridge, and man-am-I-fishing!

2.WEATHER. March - gentle, sunny. April – feisty, mad. And May wants to play. Blooms into summer, then sloshes about in puddles of rain. Today it's out to melt buttons-into-flesh, weld bra-strap-to-clavicle and toe-to-tar in the main square of Moncao.

3.TROPORIZ-CITY. A summer camp slowly emerged over the last three months: yurt, outdoor kitchen, oak-and-granite table, bath, garden, composting loo. The shower awaits finishing touches, a hot water system and solar PV are yet to cook. The adega lost its roof. The house? Does tidying up count? The renovation plans are gathering dust in an office downtown.

4.VISITORS. Friends from Edinburgh with their three children before Easter. Brother-and-sister-in-law, two children, Easter week. Parents, brother-and-wife, mid-May. A busy happy time, all in all. They worked loads, cleared the top ruins (good!), cut a small fig tree (not good!), consumed lots of whisky (no comment!) and chocolate eggs (this only after a long treasure hunt with cryptic-but-rhyming-clues). They left, I'm sure, with the firm belief that this was a place where the bramble ruled and rain never stopped. As customs officials waved them out of the country, the sun was also unerringly ushered in. (The only exception was Stephanie, who arrived in March and left before the Alto Minho got real moody and learned to turn on the monsoon..)

5.VOLUNTEERS. We've now had a grand total of four people staying between one week and two months. There was fun, there was work, there were things to learn, too many for one paragraph. There is a saying in Romania that possibly sums it all up, “omul sfinteste locul”, in very rough translation “it's people who make a place holy”, or “each person has the power to make all the difference”, ultimately “hey, it's up to you dude”.

6.TEACHING. I teach English to 8 year olds in two local schools. Kicking and screaming I drag them into very small classrooms to talk about pets, toys, days of the week and toss the verb 'to be' between us. I are, you is, he am. We all know old MacDonald and do exactly what Simon says. Highlights? Mine: worst – when I pour my soul into a really good explanation of something and when I finish, before I draw another breath, pupil X pipes up with a yawn: “what was that?”; best – when, defeated by dictation, they shut up for a tiny pinch of time. Theirs: worst – when my special Welsh bell rings (three warnings, first - 'you guys are really noisy' second – 'now this is pushing it, I'm serious' and third: 'no games'); best – probably when the school bell rings and they charge out to kill each other in the playground.

I see this can still go on forever - stopping now. Will be back with more later. Enjoy the Sunday afternoon. I myself will sit down on the balcony and wait for my surfers to get back from the sea. The sky folded seamlessly between eyelids, I'll doze off despite deafening birdsong. Coffee cold, book open, perfect.

Lavender's Blue

I've been away and now I'm back. Yes there's a gap in the story (there ARE gaps in all stories) and no I don't have a ready report tonight. Come back later, bring the billy goats if you must, but know that I might bring the troll (or a small wolf, if the troll is otherwise engaged).

Kira sleeps next door, her cd player still on. Lazy lullabies linger round the bed, ooze onto the balcony, into the hallway, down the stairs. I follow in a trance and observe how someone left both garage doors open. clunk. clunk. On my way back I step on the car keys and realise (the same?) someone left the car open. click-buzz-click.

no, at this point, although the tension thickens and suspense reaches unbearable levels, i don't jump in the car and drive off a) to fling myself into the minho, b) to meet mystery man, or c) to duel-at-dawn with the garage-and-car-door-neglectful-numpty.

this is because a) i still loathe driving, b) i've got the horrible blue slippers on, c) there's a half-full glass of wine waiting in the bedroom and d) i'm a little busy at the moment.

so where are we going then? upstairs of course, where the red wine awaits, the lullaby lingers and the dreadful blue slippers can disappear under the bed for the next six months.

on the way up, a smooth little song catches my attention. Simple and serene – like all good things – it seems to rhyme with senhor Felix in 1969, with us today (our March, our May...) A seed of house-of-happy history in 59 words and no dilly-dilly:

“Lavender's blue, lavender's green
when i am king you shall be queen

call up your men, set them to work
some to the plough, some to the cart

some to make hay, some to cut corn
while you and i keep ourselves warm

lavender's green, lavender's blue
if you love me i will love you”

Alentejo Acrostic

We were in Alentejo last week for a short holiday; two days' drive, three days there; distilled below, a taste of sunny South.

A - Alentejo stone. Alentejo, the sun-baked humpback, crumbles into a multitude of coloured pebbles. A first step into desert? Crumbs for poets and painters? Warm slate shines from fists of dry earth, yellow, white, blue, dark red like memories of ancient feuds. I spent three days in Alentejo dizzy between vast horizons and the endless mosaic of stone underfoot.

L - Lumbering up the hill to a windmill made of stone and silence. Loping back through layers of hot and cold air, like crossing the borders of rain and the seams of seasons. Or walking past sleeping dragons.

E - Elegant storks fly to their high nests of straw. I love to see storks glide – not so much over fields and forests these days, but over motorways and industrial parks. A new map, confusing, grey, unyielding. There are fewer nests. Who ever gave us the right to invade their fields? We've built vast citadels of metal and cement, and such incredible machines but look, the world is poorer for all that.

N - Naked Pythagora in the sand, where the sea cannot reach. On a beach in Alentejo, a man draws a triangle in the sand and teaches his children the Theorem. They are naked and won't sit still; running abound, into the waves and back, they shout: “The square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides”... The sun is warm, the sea blossoms and booms, people sip coffee on a terrace. Every day someone, somewhere, draws this triangle and little ones play Pythagoras until it's no longer Greek to them and knowledge lives on.

T - Tick removal surgery. Watching the fire one night, I suddenly became aware of a small lump behind my right knee. A torch revealed a red spot; on top of it, a black point, several black legs sticking out of it. The torch clattered on the floor, who would want another eyeful of That? Instead, waiting for Moona in the dark, I let alarming scenarios play themselves out. Most involved some sort of alien invasion. Slurred metalic speech, tentacle growth, green-and-purple vision would be imminent. When Moona walked in, I would automatically scan his liver, intellect, former bone injuries, both earlobes and the right eye then immediately infiltrate him. He wouldn't even know it until he started seeing green and poked himself with a tentacle. Together, hungry, we would walk into the hills of Alentejo, looking for larger groups of humans to colonise. Ahem, all right. Back to T-for-tick. Moona arrived and set to work with needle and T-for-tweezers and a dish cloth. Secret: there is little he loves more than minor surgery. His eyes twinkled with living firelight and badly suppressed excitement. He dug into my leg and pulled at the insect until I squealed and slapped the tweezers out of his hand. I picked them up and continued. The Thing felt hard and clung on. Then a few hairy parts broke off. Total disaster. Unidentified insect anatomy still burrows behind my knee. I'm almost used to it now. What's harder to get used to is M. calling me Bug Leg and U2 (You Two, presumably). Yeah, yeah, make fun.

E - English invasion. A few years back, I watched a TV programme that proclaimed the Algarve the best place to buy property in Europe. And so the flood began. Perhaps it was going to happen anyway, Britain sending its expatriates deep into the Algarve and neighbouring Alentejo. Is it a good thing? An anonymous Portuguese surfer thought not. Between waves, he complained of inflated house prices, idle foreigners and diluted culture. But as we drive through it, the province still looks ageless and almost Arabian. White villages, low immaculate houses with wide belts of colour around windows, foundations and doors. It may be Steve-and-Sally and the Joneses sipping white wine on the verandas but then, can you not see their point too? This is where the South starts, and the 'good life' – they spent years dreaming it, and once they've broken out of the rat race, this is where they came. We all did (but at least up North we remain a minority).

J - Jungles and jaws. Olive trees, stretching into the horizon. Cork oaks, gnarled or peeled. Trees don't seem to be left alone in these parts. Olive trees are pruned down to their arthritic shoulders. Cork trees are scraped and peeled every ten years. Sheets of bark pile high in every Alentejo courtyard, curled inwards, still hugging an imaginary tree. The mutilated trunks stand smooth and dark red, like the flayed body of the satyr Marsyas, who once offended the god Apollo with music of unsurpassed beauty.

O - Old couple in love. We pass them in the car every day of our stay in Alentejo. They cross the yard, bent on their slow chores, or stand side by side, watching time flow past their gate. As she takes the washing in, she buries her face in one of his shirts, hugging it with rough hands. He's chopping wood, straightens up and sees her. A small smile frays his grey moustache and lights up the space between them.