Something Afoot

They say that the definition of being a grown-up is when you find out that there’s no such thing as grown-ups. But there are some real grown-ups – wise grown-ups – who give good advice, especially when it comes to health and safety, and especially when you move to the countryside and have no idea what you are doing (and they do). It’s been the story of my life for the last six years, since deciding to move off the grid into rural Alentejo, and by necessity of having to do everything myself because it’s so hard, time consuming, or expensive to find anyone else to do it. I arrived here with the sense of indestructability which follows war correspondents who end their careers without even a scratch from a bullet, let alone a piece of shrapnel lodged somewhere, and without being haunted by any deeply disturbing recurring nightmare. But it seems life in the countryside can be just as dangerous – physically if not mentally – although I would be surprised if there were no post-traumatic stress disorder diagnoses for those navigating Portuguese bureaucracy. Every three years as a journalist I had compulsory hostile environment training – I know how to recognise the sound of incoming rather than outgoing gunfire (crack-thump rather than just bang) and how to get out of a minefield (very slowly, with a pen or something similar...to push in at an angle to find mines on the path ahead without triggering them). Wearing good footwear wasn’t taught – it was presumed as common sense – and it’s fair to say I was hoist by my own petard (or blown up by my own bomb to give the cliché its literal meaning), both in what I put on my feet and then what went through one of them. I wear metal capped safety shoes for strimming – that annual weight loss programme which sees some of our toughest and most persistent plants and shrubs cut back to avoid fire. I had inadvertently created a minefield of short, sharp, wooden spikes which were waiting for me to stumble into with inappropriate footwear. I’ve had near misses before: safety shoes on a wet tile roof are not safe. After a cartoon banana skin slip and an almost terminal slide stopped just short of the roof edge I realised bare feet are *more suitable* in certain circumstances. The rip in my trousers left by a running chainsaw mid tree fell should have inspired a safety trousers purchase – but the order didn’t arrive and I never followed up. While cheap plastic shoes are fine inside our Clubhouse, for serving breakfast, or for navigating guests to their rooms on the gravel, it seems there are two very good reasons why they are not suitable for tramping through deep bush. Thanks for reading Off-grid and Entertaining in Portugal! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. One is they provide absolutely no barrier to stop sharp remnants of *Esteva* rock rose plants piercing right through the sole; the other is the top straps secure the foot nice and tightly so the sharp wooden root can impale the foot as deep as it wants depending on a combination of motion, momentum and gravity. Dancing down the hillside through some scrubland to get some lunch like a fairy elephant, I managed to plunge the full force of my not inconsiderable weight at the perfect angle. The wooden spike didn’t go all the way through, but it wasn’t far off. In the rush of adrenalin and amid the deep sickening feeling of something being seriously wrong, I don’t recall snapping the end off. But after hopping hurriedly down the hill amid the fear of a catastrophic bleed, my initial reassurance to Ana that it was “just a scratch” and to “get some tweezers,” for the splinter faded with the adrenalin. I immediately understood why torturers favour the feet. After years playing rugby, my pain threshold is pretty high, but my sharp inhaling and twitching in the local health centre waiting room over a couple of hours encouraged something of an uprising as my fellow patients urged the nurse to give me some decent pain killers. The next few weeks became a blur of daily tramadol medication and hospital visits from the Algarve to Lisbon, as a series of scans eventually revealed what I already knew: there was half a tree lodged deep inside my foot. X-rays are marvellous for metal but rubbish at plants, and ultrasound couldn’t see deep enough. Only an MRI scan and the highly trained eye of a radiologist identified the size and location of the log jammed between a couple of metatarsals which explained why my foot was still throbbing weeks later. I was mostly just relieved I hadn’t been making all this fuss over nothing. I knew it wasn’t going to get better before a surgeon made it worse, so it was a holding pattern of nasty drugs and waiting – knowing this was not healing time, but just waiting time. The surgery followed, and after telling me how difficult it had been to find the remnants, my fabulous orthopaedic foot specialist surgeon Dr Marta Gomes explained how she “had to stick her little finger in” to find the three pieces of wood – one 2cm long – which she rattled at me in a little jar with a grin as the anaesthetic was still wearing off. The foot is now on the mend – the tramadol weeks a distant blur – but happening as this did in August at the height of our busiest season, it piled a lot of pressure on Ana and daughter Oda who thankfully had come to visit us to help from Los Angeles and kindly extended her trip to keep things rolling. The stitches are out and I’m off painkillers altogether, but as soon as the foot goes back to its usual size I shall be investing in and evangelising about some proper safety shoes – for me and anyone else who will listen. Oh, and I’ll get some chainsaw-proof trousers as well. I did survive a couple of years on our building site in flip-flops, and I suppose I’m lucky this hard-learned lesson didn’t cost me a leg or an arm (the bills were quite reasonable actually). It’s probably the most difficult thing that’s happened so far on this crazy new adventure, but was a good reminder of my own vulnerability, mortality and the fact that I’m no longer indestructible...and of course never was. And it’s not just the greater emphasis on health and safety which comes with *grown-up* wisdom and responsibilities such as starting a small business at 50 and having to balance the books...there’s also the inevitable part of ageing which adds to the sense of waning immortality. Thanks for reading Off-grid and Entertaining in Portugal! This post is public so feel free to share it. It’s something that came up both in conversation with old friends who stayed with us recently, and with the loss of a former rugby playing friend from Newcastle. Stevie Walters was working and living as normal, when out of the blue he got a terrible cancer diagnosis, and then even worse news a week later – it had spread and it was terminal. He posted with advice: live your life to the full, don’t put all that extra time in to your work when you can spend it with your family; use your time well. I wasn’t sure what to do and pondered it for a couple of days. I realised that some people want to talk in these situations and others don’t – the only way to know is to try. Many people are too afraid to call – not knowing what to say. So I decided to give him a ring. When I asked a friend for his number he broke the news that Steve had died the day before – about three weeks after his first diagnosis. It was devastating for his family and shockingly quick. Visiting friends shared similar stories – I guess it’s now the stage of life we’re in. Nick from South Africa had been asked by a friend how many “good summers” did he think he had left? His answer was maybe 15...summers where you’re fit enough to travel as now and do normal active things. Being a winemaker and civil engineer living between the UK and Stellenbosch, Nick took this to heart. He wants 30. Winter in Britain is of course summer in South Africa: doubling his summers by playing the hemispheres. I like that idea. Maybe we’ll reach the point where we’re grown up enough to double our remaining summers...as long as the entrepreneur industry treats us well. Starting a new business is tough, stressful and tense, but in just year two of the “making money” phase we’ve enjoyed another wonderful summer and met some fantastic people. We still haven’t had a bad guest yet. But all of this is a good reminder to make some time for ourselves amid the madness – running an off-grid lodge is how we are able to live here, not why we came here. It’s a long run now through until Christmas, but here on the southwestern coast of Alentejo it’s the best part of the year – warmer seas, plenty of sunshine, and lower prices – the best summer for those in the know. Not just for you – who I encourage to come and visit us – but for us as well. I think today we might take the dogs to the beach...but probably an easily accessible one. This is a public episode. 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