Now that I've lured you here with a blatantly misleading title I have to 'fess-up' that I am taking this opportunity to ostracize this fixation on trees!

There must be a multitude of aberrations that are much healthier to obsess about, and I shall make it my crusade to go away and focus on a few, after this post.

Since the phone-cam was apparently doing a good job I decided to continue making an effort to capture things I had already vaguely planned to use for a post. And it is an effort. Phone-cam in one hand trying to manipulate buttons that are microscopic, electric boxer on lead tugging me 'every-which-way-but-loose' in the other!

David, here's the gauntlet thrown down; come collect my boxer and then see how well you can compose 'raw' shots without resorting to Photoshop! Rant over.

I mused about the microcosm of life I can always find within the small patch of green that I visit daily. A line of trees along the cemetary wall gives sustenance to a variety of feathered friends. Pigeons are by far the most numerous, but there are colonies of 'escaped' parrots, the ubiquitous sparrows and even a few doves. The birds feed happily off the fruits, berries and insects that the trees serve up. And a right royal feast it is, too.

At ground level, in the underbrush, the killing fields, live the killers, the feral cats! They sit and wait patiently for unwary pigeons to wander into their kill zone (the other bird species are far too intelligent), and then it is a matter of 'pounce' and 'off with its head'. I've observed feathered remains almost daily, but have only ever witnessed one kill. And I have to tell you that, unlike domestic cats that appear to 'play' with their prey, feral's don't waste too much energy. Their kills are swift and deadly, and even though I cannot say it is nice to observe, I can understand how their need to do it is rooted deeply in their instinct for survival. More so when they have a family of cute little kittens to raise.

I thort I thaw a puddy-tat!

So, it is a matter of keeping one's eyes peeled. The dog knows they're there because he can scent them, but I have to spot them earlier than he does so that I can issue my "Straight On!" command. Or I end up being dragged unceremoniously into the bushes!

As I mentioned earlier, this is a microcosym of life being played out daily on a very tiny stage. The trees feed the birds, the birds feed the cats, and the dog and I, at the top of food chain, conspire to make life difficult for all of them. I guess that is the way of the world.

On a different tack. This is a little extra for 'townies'; the 'country-cousins' are already familiar with this phenomenon.

During my 'fieldcraft' training in the military, one of the lessons taught was how to navigate terrain without the aid of a compass. Not as easy as you'd think. Unless you are American! It has never ceased to amaze me how my American colleagues in the military were always able to locate NORTH without even breaking sweat. Conversely, they found it difficult to get from point 'A' to point 'B' driving a car on European roads because of the hairpins, switchbacks and roundabouts they encountered. A symptom of familiarity with how their towns and cities are built on a grid pattern.

But they could always tell you which way was North!

Well, here is a bit of information that will always help you, even in the deepest, darkest forests of your mind. And even in town if you are unfamiliar with the locale. Look for the moss on the trees, and the side that displays the thickest layer is the side that is pointing NORTH.

North to Alaska!

For the sceptical amongst my readers, I regret I didn't have a compass with me when I took that shot so that I could have shown the compass needle pointing to the big red 'N'. You will simply have to take my word for it.

Helpful information, or what ... ?

The word describing the fear of Friday the 13th, the title of this post, is a word derived from the concatenation of the Greek words Paraskeví (meaning Friday), and dekatreís (meaning thirteen), attached to phobía (meaning fear). This is a specialized form of "Triskaidekaphobia", a simple phobia of the number thirteen. There endeth the Wiki-reference, for what it's worth. Now let's get on with the reason for the post.

Since my perceptive readership will not have missed the fact that this is/was posted on Friday the 13th, I expect you want to know the reason. That's an easy one; I should have stayed in bed, like all discerning Paraskavedekatriaphobes probably did today!

Flashback. I remember the mild apprehension that Wyndham's Triffids induced in my youthful psyche, and even if I can say without fear of contradiction that that particular sci-fi hasn't troubled me as an adult, it appears there are lingering vestiges buried deep in my subconscious.

I am no 'tree-hugger', but I do enjoy their beauty and grace and will go to great lengths not to harm or destroy one. Nevertheless, on days when a high wind animates them more than their gentle rustling I can't help feeling that there is a malevolence about a tree when I am in close proximity to one on a windy day. Almost as if they want, like their sci-fi cousins the Triffids, to take a step in my direction and crush the life out of me. A bit fanciful? Perhaps!

The weather here in Portugal has taken a turn for the better. Bright sunlight and the temps into the high teens. But on the night of the 12th the departing wind decided to give us enough of a blow to remind us that it will return later in the year. The dog and I took our usual walk and were surprised by the amount of debris on the green and in the park. A couple of trees down and the remnants of the winter clothing of the eucalyptus trees strewn over just about every square metre of pathway.

Off with the old, on with the new.
Old shredded bark stripped away. New layers ready for the spring!

Walking the green, quite unconcerned, I gave silent thanks that all this happened during the night when we were safely tucked up in bed, and not now. Here is a poor resolution shot (phonecam, low-res) of one casualty ...

Right across my path.

When I looked at this tree lying right across the path I and the dog normally traverse, I had this feeling that had the tree been a bit smarter, and a bit quicker in its movement, it might well have made short work of decapitating me. Darn, but a seed of doubt was sown in my mind as to whether the trees were out to get me!

The dog and I strolled on to the end of our walk, the place where the tramp usually pitched his tent, when there was an almighty crack behind us followed by a subdued thump where the branch of another tree hit the ground. Right on the spot where the dog and I had been only moments ago!

Jeez, these critters were getting smarter - and quicker!

The dog can speak volumes.
I think he is telling me I am a 'dumbass' to stay any longer!

There was no wind, the sun was shining, and all was right with the world. So you have to ask why that particular tree saved up that branch to hurl at me and the dog just then.

Paranoid? Perhaps! But here's fair warning; don't speak, or even think evil about the trees around you.

They know, you know ...

I know, I know! The lyrics say '89, but I've decided to resurrect it for 'oh-nine'.

[ More than 20 ^{thanks for the correction, Cath!} ] Nearly 30 years on (the song was first released in 1979) and they're still good to look at and listen to.

Such memories!

Poignant, or what?

Roll out the old, roll in the new ...

This has been posted to lift your spirits a little if you feel that the frantic preparations are getting you down.

Noddy and the gang (Slade - as if you didn't know!) are a perennial hit, and I can't remember a Christmas since the release of this song that it hasn't been played for everybody's enjoyment.

Well, Enjoy!

See you again in the New Year ...

Crunch!

Like everybody else, we haven't been able to avoid the effects of Le Crunch! But we are now conditioned against delays, frustrations and disappointments.

We simply keep bouncing back!

The plans continue in the background. The two extra specialist reports are almost complete. When they are, and when they've been paid for, we can peddle our complete begging bowl to the various lending organisations to see who is in a position to cough up. We are actually quite optimistic about the situation. We already own the property, so the collateral is secure. We aren't asking the lenders to give us the money to buy the property from scratch, we are asking them to fund the building project. If they are prepared to take the risk that they could be stuck with another property if things go TU, then we should be home and dry (pun intended)!

I should be able to post more on the progress in the next few weeks. Joana, our arquitecta, is excitedly impatient (or is that the other way around?), and is pushing this project as if it was her own house that she is building. She talks in positive terms like, "When you're living here, we can ..." Nice to be able to actually appreciate a professional that you've tasked with something you need done.

Until then, you will be served with a few more tales of past memories and some other bits about the pets.

But we'll try to make them as interesting a read as we can manage ...

This is the 'world-famous' Fletch recipe for Sangria. Even the Portuguese and Spanish are envious of it. People from many countries in Europe, and even as far away as Australia, have called around to sample the brew.

I am soooooooo consumed with pride!

The ingredients. 500ml cheap red wine 1 med orange 1 med lemon 3 x 33ml cheap gin (shot glass) 2 x 33ml cheap vodka 1 x 33ml cheap brandy 3 heaped serving spoons sugar
Add 3 heaped serving spoons of sugar to the 500ml of wine. Mix well.
Quarter the fruit and then slice each quarter into 3 segments. Trim the pith and de-seed the fruit. The pith and seeds tend to leave a bitter taste, not to mention unseating your drunken guests dentures! This is you being a good host!
3 x 33ml of cheap gin ...
... 2 of really cheap vodka ...
... and 1 of really, really cheap brandy!
Add lots of ice and top up with sparkling lemonaide which gives it a fizz. You could substitute a really awful 'sparkling wine' and call it a 'Champagne Sangria'! Your choice.
Preparations complete. Give it a good final stir. It is now ready to be served.
I would strongly recommend that you use smaller glasses, especially if there are many guests, or you'll be running in and out of the kitchen to make more, and MORE Sangria!

Endnotes:

• A normal Sangria Jug will serve 6 people if the glasses are half the size of the ones shown in the picture.
• If you decide to make a batch that will serve more, say 12, double the ingredients, but DON'T double the quantity of spirits. It will knock your guests for a six!
• You might want to experiment by adding small quantities of apple or peach to the fruit. More than half a peach will make the drink taste 'sickly'.
• If you think there isn't enough orange flavour, add about 50ml of concentrated orange juice to the mix.

Enjoy ...

This post has turned out to be a bit of a PITA. It has been composed and ripped apart several times, and was eventually put on hold so that 'Giant' could go up.

The problem is the subject matter. To generalise, it is about survival, but it has nothing to do with 'human survival'. The will to live is the strongest instinct of any living thing, but sometimes it takes a bit of outside help to attain that state of grace. In retrospect, it is still an up-beat tale, despite the hero being a BIRD!

I will try and compress the story into as few words as possible, but you get fair warning at this stage that some of the images will not sit well with the squeamish.

Fast rewind to 3 years ago. Isabel, Maria's friend, offloaded a ball of feathers on to Maria due to her inability to provide the constant care the little chick required. The chick had been kicked out of the nest by one of Isabel's breeding couples. Maria took on the challenge and I dubbed the fluff-ball 'Beaky' on the grounds that that was all she appeared to be; one massive beak that needed constant filling! Later, when she started to show signs of maturity (egg laying and nest building are a classic giveaway) we got her a mate. Fully adult, very nervous and totally incompatible with the female. She rejected him and he sat in a corner fluffed up and looking dejected. Maria refused to accept this standoff, so she grabbed one in each hand, held them beak-to-beak, and gave them a stern talking to. She then put them back in the cage, and I kid you not, within minutes they were billing and cooing like the lovebirds they are supposed to be! The rest is history.

 
 

The last pic is of only four of about 30 chicks that the original pair have produced (we've lost count), and they have another full nest even as I write. The problem is to find homes for the offspring with people we consider 'suitable'. The vetting procedure is stringent and so far, bar one 'escapee', we have been satisfied that they are all being well looked after.

FF to September this year and the couple two floors down from us, recipients of three of our birds (they had the 'escapee'), asked timidly if we could look after their birds as they had managed to snag a late 10 day holiday. The reason for the request was that their pair was now breeding and had already produced one chick from a nest of four eggs. Could we manage? Damn silly question, since all these birds came from this source in the first place!

The day after they'd left, the second chick was born. Three days later Maria observed weird behaviour by the adults. The female appeared to be spending too much time off the nest and the male was making no attempt to feed her or the chicks. Maria checked, and to her horror this is what she found.

  

Maria donned her nurse's uniform (always like it when she puts on her nurse's outfit) and set to work cleaning up the mess. 'Água Oxigenada' was applied liberally and flaps of skin were gently manoeuvred back into place. Two-hourly feeds from a syringe were started and by the time the couple from downstairs came back 7 days later, they were able to take home two relatively healthy babies. Feathers had started sprouting to disguise the wounds, and apart from having to be hand fed for several more weeks, they were as 'normal' as any hatchlings.

Why did the mother attack the chicks? Dunno! Maybe she is not ready to be a parent as yet.

Sadly, the story didn't end there. About ten days later the woman from downstairs, totally distressed, phoned Maria to tell her that the little chick had suffered a setback and now had a twisted neck. We invited her up so that we could have a look at it. Sure enough, the poor little sod couldn't hold his head up and was carrying it, bent, beak down, at a 90 degree angle to the norm. Decision time. Looked like it would have to be the chloroform bottle as this wasn't something you could rectify with the magical 'Água Oxigenada'. Maria asked her to leave it with us, reassuring her that we would be as kind as possible when the time came to put this wee one out of its misery.

After the woman had left, Maria offered the chick a bit of food from a syringe. He gulped it down and then took aboard a copious amount of water before lowering his beak to the floor and promptly going to sleep. A quick trawl of the internet threw up the information that 'love-birds' and 'budgies' sometimes suffered from this disability, and that they were referred to as 'Stargazers'. They could apparently live fairly normal lives; walking, climbing and flying, compensating all the while for the disability. It was also suggested that this condition could be caused by an inner-ear infection and that it was treatable. Voilà! The chloroform bottle was returned to the top shelf.

Off to the vet the next day. She specialises in avians. Yes, she had seen this before, and yes, it was often treated successfully. No promises, but she prescribed a course of antibiotics to clear up the ear infection if that was what the problem was. Two days later the little blighter was holding his head up straighter. Not that we believed our eyes, you understand! We felt more that it was wishful thinking on our part.

We didn't take any pictures of this period of his life because we felt it was inappropriate to photograph a bird that was about to be put to sleep. The earlier pics were fine because we needed photographic evidence to show the owners, especially if things had gone bad. This time, we knew instinctively that he had reached the end of his travels, whatever the outcome!

I've bestowed on him the title of 'Rambo', based purely on his apparent ability to overcome all the odds. The difference is that this little guy is for real. He continues to improve by the day. He still flies like a brick, but he is getting stronger and more adept as time moves on. He still begs to be hand-fed if he thinks he can get away with it, but he has begun to discover the bins of food laid out for him, and we often find his crop is stuffed full without any help from us. The one ritual he continues to observe is to stridently demand to be let out of his cage when he hears movement in the house.

Here he is nearly three months later ...

This little fella is here to stay. He is slowly beginning to bond with the adult birds and appears to tease them now that he knows he can fly out of danger when there is threat of a winged attack. He doesn't have an inbuilt fear mechanism, certainly not with humans or dogs!

Don't believe me? Take a look ...

If you've stayed with me this long I am sure you'll agree that it was a tale worth telling.

Even if birds aren't your bag ...