Breakfast at the Deli

Had breakfast at Olympia Cafe & Deli in Kalk Bay today. Sweaty runners and cyclists in those ghastly pants jostled for position with the less sporty of us. Bicycles valued at thousands of Rands were stacked against the wall. Fractious toddlers whinged and kicked at table legs under disapproving glares. Prams clogged the spaces between tables. Flames shot up high from the grill where grillhands tirelessly churned out plate after plate of freshly prepared delights. The buzz of animated conversation drowned out the clatter of dishwashing in the kitchen. All in a space of about 30sq m.  With waiters clearing and serving.

That's what brings people back again and again. Exceptional food (to die for!), no bookings (put your name on the board), friendly service (they recognise you), a fascinating mix of people (you always see someone you know) and, if you remember to look, a spectacular view over the harbour and across False Bay.  The decor hasn't changed in 30 years - in fact there isn't any - but nobody cares.  I doubt whether anyone leaves there dissatisfied with the experience.

Kommetjie #4

It's spring tide under a new moon in Kommetjie.  Below the lighthouse, a vast expanse of slippery, seaweed covered flat rock is exposed at the lowest tide and everyone is down there to do the things they can only do at springtide. Mussel pickers are filling their bags with black mussels which cling to the rocks, usually safely protected by the shore break, but are now high and dry. The flat rocky ledge is the top of a sea cliff which drops straight off into deep water. Skilled crayfishermen stand with their bamboo poles, a bait bag attached to the end having been lowered into the depths to lure the crayfish to an easy meal. A catch net is at the ready to grab the crayfish which drop off the bait as they are lifted from the water.  A little way off shore, those who can afford a boat are also chasing after red gold.   Young girls lie on the rocks soaking up the sunshine.  Children are gazing into rock pools, paddling in the icy water.  Dogs splash past them on their way to the next seagull. A diver rises from the kelp and clambers onto the ledge, his bag full of crayfish - a successful dive for dinner.
  No sounds disturb the scene - everyone is going about their business without interfering in anyone else's.  All is calm under the lighthouse. A drift of air from the sea keeps us cool as we clamber over the rocks and make our way back home along the boardwalk.
  In an hour's time, the sea will once more cover the rocky ledge and the sunbathers, dogs, children and fishermen will have to retreat from its advance until the next spring low. It is easy to forget that the scene is so different in winter when the north-west gales rage around the Cape. That is the fascination of the sea. I never grow tired of it.

Kommetjie #3

I'm sitting on the rocks at Kommetje in the late afternoon of a balmy early summer's day.  The lowering sun casts a peach light on the rocks which are exposed by the very low tide. It's almost full moon and it looks as though someone has pulled the plug out and the water has all drained away.  The waves swell gently through the kelp beds on their relentless journey to the shore, the wallowing kelp heads glistening in the soft light. The view across the bay towards the back of Table Mountain is as stupendous as ever, changing every day with the movement of the sun.

There isn't a soul in sight - what a treat. Absolute silence except for the sighing of the sea and the calls of the hundreds of birds which live here on the island during summer.   They are all going about their business -
terns wheel and bank in their distinctive flight. A pair of oyster catchers guard their territory. Two egrets appear to be doing a courtship dance. In the Kom, gulls are picking at the remnants of last week's sardine run.

The sea is calm today, ordered waves rolling in and breaking at precisely the same spot, the crests blowing off in the wind. The sun luminesces through the swells as they peak, picture perfect.

What a place to be.

A Clovelly Childhood #2

Christmas is the time that the clan gathers and when we were young it was usually in Clovelly, at my family home.  There is a large cemented area where about 30 people can comfortably gather (appropriately called The Big Piece of Cement). An ancient vine covers a pergola, providing shade for the last hours of sunlight in this sheltered corner of the garden and the view across the golf course and the Fish Hoek mountains and sanddunes is spectacular as always.  An old home movie has been converted and put onto our computers so that we can once more enjoy seeing ourselves 40+ years ago.  There I was, in a purple outfit my mother had made (she made all our clothes, a very skilled needlewoman) which consisted of a long top covering hotpants, which were barely visible, making it look on the movie as though I was wearing a daring micro mini. It was the early 70s and the men all had sideburns and long hair and the aunts and uncles were so young!
  Seeing myself in that outfit took me back in an instant to that Christmas Day 40 years ago.   I went to visit my good friend, Mandy (Hi, Mandy, in Australia, remember that day? You made a movie of us and that is why I know I was wearing the purple outfit.) We were playing darts outside and I looked up at the mountain and saw a thin wisp of smoke rising from the other side.  The southeaster was blowing fiercely over False Bay and the fire spread and burned all day and night.  There was great excitement in Clovelly because the first house in the path of the fire was thatched and had to have its own fire engine.  Hundreds of sightseers clogged the road, getting in the way of the firefighters and causing pandemonium.  We were warned to be prepared to evacuate our house if the flames came any closer, but fortunately the wind died down and we weren't in danger.  There were a few close calls for other residents and it came to light that the fire had been started by a sailor from a visiting British ship, who went back to his ship and sailed away, leaving us with a devastated mountainside and incinerated reptiles. I wonder if he ever thinks about it?

 

Tales of Europe #1

As someone who has to plan even the shortest outing around the ease of access to a toilet, I can quite safely say that I have no qualms about a short trip into the bushes at the roadside and the call of nature can be answered by a brief scan of the environment for snakes, scorpions or ants' nests. However, the densely crowded cities of Europe provide sparse access to suitable vegetation and you are forced to use public facilities.  Being used to the freely available toilets at every garage, shopping mall and restaurant in South Africa, it was surprising to find that you had to pay for using public conveniences in Europe. How can they be convenient if you don't have 1 euro on you?
    Suddenly there is nothing more important to you than getting into that toilet. As you dig frantically in every pocket for coins, you break out in a light sweat. Perhaps you can get rid of it that way?  No. The deepest recesses of that huge tote bag you thought would be so useful could hold the kitchen sink, but no small change. Suddenly the rose bushes outside the toilets seem quite enticing. But no again. Too many people around.
    The lady taking the money seems unmoved by your agitation or attempts to ask for change as you hand over 2 euros. A R25 piddle. It costs more to get rid of it than to drink the water in the first place.
    So if you see people lurking in rose bushes and behind tree trunks in Europe, don't be alarmed.  They aren't about to mug you. They're tourists carrying Cash Passports and credit cards, not loose change.

Sssnake ssstory

 Mom and Dad saw the cobra for the first time this summer.  It lives a little way up in the garden and has a hole that he goes into when he doesn't want us to see him.  He is about 6 feet long and we don't know which generation he belongs to.  We have always had snakes in our garden in Clovelly.  There is no fence between us and the mountain and a variety of wildlife roams freely through the garden, eating Mom's cherished plants and leaving only their droppings for identification.  But the snakes have always been the exciting part.  As children we would play on the mountain and often come across snakes, particularly puffadders which never bothered to get out of our way.  They are not at all frightened of people. Many a time we would rush back down to tell Mom about the snake that was lying in a crevice of the rock we were climbing. But most of the excitement has occurred in the garden itself. 

 The cobra has been around for about 20 years as a permanent resident, coming to feed on frogs at the fish pond near the back door. From time to time he is taken away and released on the mountain far from houses.  He either comes back or there are many more than we think.  Sometimes he ventures to other parts of the garden and we are startled as we go around a corner and see him lying in the sun on the path, warming his golden body.  Another favourite spot is a large flat area at the top of the steps which go up to the house next door.  It's a source of some amusement to see unsuspecting visitors going up these stairs and then spotting the snake as they reach eye-level on the steps.  One step forward and three steps back!  The postman stopped delivering post up there many years ago.

 It's been a privilege to grow up in a place where we can learn to respect nature and in Clovelly we have been brought up to appreciate birds, snakes, porcupines, buck and even the odd baboon.  None of us have ever been harmed over the years, which proves that giving them their space and the necessary caution enables humans and animals to interact and not overreact, in comfortable co-existence.

High cost of living

My son had an emergency appendectomy this week.  It started with agonising pain, which was diagnosed as gastroenteritis despite not having those symptoms.  Two injections and some pills and off to bed.  That night, he is writhing in pain. I phone the doc (he answered!) and asked if he had tested for appendicitis. Yes, but the symptoms weren't presenting. 3.30am more writhing and a temperature. Off to the doc first thing - sends off blood test just to make sure (apparently 60% of appendectomies are done in error) and by mid-day we are off to the surgeon. Within 45 minutes, my son is in theatre and is there for an hour and a half while they clean up the poison from the ruptured appendix. He is subsequently in hospital for a further 4 days and told he was in a bad way and is a very lucky young man (is this a reference to having survived?). Still on painkillers and antibiotics for another 10 days.
The point of this story:  I got the anaesthetist's bill.  On it are 2 items for after-hours and away from rooms attendance.  I phoned the accounts lady and queried this. She informed me that if you have an emergency operation, the doctor is allowed to charge certain extra fees for having shifted his existing appointments. Question from me: Can you reschedule an emergency operation to an appointment and if so, will those charges fall away?
Answer:  Errr, yeeess? 
Q: Is the purpose of an emergency operation so that you do not die before the appointment?
A: Errr, yeeess? 
Q: So we are being penalised for the inconvenience of having a life-threatening emergency? 
A: Well, I suppose if you put it that way....
Q: Who has set these fees?
A:  A medical authority.
Q:  Do they have a brain?
A:  It doesn't seem like it... 
Q:  Would you like to have an emergency operation?
A:  Not really...
Q:  So you agree that this is just an excuse to raise an extra fee because nobody will choose to die rather than live?
A:  It seems like it....

So there you have it - the high cost of living. 

World peace

 There will be no peace while Man pursues his own interests at the expense of his fellow man.
 While there is no compassion for the oppressed, the abused, the bullied; while there is rejection of those who dare to be different, who refuse to conform to society's straitjacket and who are prepared to stand up and be counted; while there is judgment and fingerpointing, superiority and sneering, intolerance and selfishness, greed and hatred, Mankind will fall further and further into the abyss of fear.
 The only way to climb out is by understanding that we all come from one source and that we are all aspects of each other.  To hurt another is to hurt yourself. Do you feel good at the expense of another's feelings about himself?  When your interaction with people brings you only good feelings, you will realise that fear has no power over you.  The way in which you react to every situation will dictate the result, and the only result that you would seek would be one that makes you feel best about yourself.
 Everything you say and do is a statement to the world of who you are. By making a conscious decision to strive only for an outcome of the greatest sense of happiness, you will have discovered the way to a life where you are responsible for your own happiness and can live without fear.
  Without fear, there is no aggression.
  Without aggression, there is no war.
  Without war, there is peace.
Peace = harmony = togetherness = unity = oneness.  We are all one.

One of our cars is a Golf. It has nothing that can go wrong. No electric windows, no onboard computer, no air-conditioning, no power steering, no airbags. Just a basic car. It is very nippy but the drive is like a tin can on wheels. When you lift the bonnet there is plenty of room to put your arm through the engine parts - a far cry from my old Beemer which was wall-to-wall engine.  However, the sound system is fantastic and makes up for the lack of driving pleasure.
 One day as I idled in the rush hour (now there's a misnomer) traffic going up Wynberg Hill, I noticed steam coming out from the sides of the bonnet. Aaarrgghh!  A quick look at the temperature gauge showed nothing amiss, so I hung in there until I eventually reached the parking garage in Claremont. As I turned off the engine, it was as though I had flipped the release knob on a pressure cooker.  Steam blasted out from every available exit of the engine and a large puddle formed underneath the car.  I decide to leave it to cool and go off to work to ponder my next move.
  Later I eased over to the nearest garage (I thought it would be a good place to leave it) and parked under a cool tree before opening the bonnet.  A quick call to my husband (aka He Who Can Fix Anything) to summon him to the scene - in the meantime, I got a bottle of water from the garage shop (for me, not the car). While I waited, I stuck my head into the engine compartment to see what I could see and (I kid you not) immediately noticed a hole in the bottom of the engine block which looked as though a bolt or suchlike should be there.
 He Who Can Fix Anything duly arrived and I pointed out the apparent defect. "Oh, the welsh plug has corroded." What a team!  He sent me off to the nearest motor part dealer to buy a new plug. Living dangerously, I bought two. They cost R8!
 In a few taps of a hammer and a refill of the water, I was on the road again.  If I had taken it to a mechanic, I'm fairly sure I would now have a new cylinder head, water pump and radiator!

Italy #2

Siena. August 17. Just missed the Palio - run the day before. Poor planning. Temperature 34 deg. Humidity 70%. We move from gelateria to gelateria. Thoughts turn to something more substantial. Hard work tramping up and down hilltop town. Man passes on electric wheels - sensible.
  Spot deli - dive inside to escape sun. Festooned with huge fake hams. Why?  Usual ham and cheese pannini - 6 euros.  But wait! Delectable aroma from kitchen.  Enter chef bearing half a pig.  Crisp, glistening golden skin. Succulent herb-laden porchetta.  One of those, please!

  Mmmm. Sit at side of road, feet in gutter.  Mmmm. Bus goes by our faces.  Too hot to care.  Mmmm. Food of the gods. Envious glances from ham-and-cheesers.  Mmmm.  Share crumbs with family.  Mmmm.
 Still dream about it.  Will go back one day for more.

Fresh fish from the freezer

  I was given some fish today.  While I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, unfortunately it did not come packed neatly in a carton with interleaving plastic to facilitate a quick toss in the batter and into the frying pan. No, what I received was more like a seafood sculpture.  Three large whole fish had obviously been tossed straight into the freezer where they had wound themselves into a loving embrace which no man shall put asunder. These fish, tightly frozen together to form one big fish, cannot fit into my fridge because they are 3 feet long. I dare not leave it in the sink because I have visions of the cats chewing on it in the night.  The only solution is to cut off the head and tail.
  I place the frozen mass under the tap and run a gentle stream of water along the groove where they have fused together.  Grasping a sharp knife in one hand and gripping a fish head with the other, I start sawing.  After 10 minutes of concerted effort, success - the head is in the sink.  I chop off the tail at the other end and now have one tail-less fish and one headless fish stuck to a whole fish.  Still doesn't fit in the fridge.  At last I am able to get the blade into a gap and separate the fish, take off the remaining heads and tails and put them in the fridge to thaw.  I mention that at this stage almost the entire kitchen is covered in scales and bits of sawn up fish and I have broken out in a light sweat.
  Tomorrow I will be able to descale, skin and fillet them and then, joy of joys, batter and fry them. You can only imagine what the kitchen will look like after that, with trails of batter running across the stove plates and bursts of oil popping out of the pan on contact with the moisture.  Of course, it will taste so delicious it will be worth the pain.
  So thank you for your kind and generous gift, but please spare a thought for the poor fishwife next time you toss your catch so carelessly into the freezer.  I'll pay you to clean it.

Plaster disaster

I needed a plaster the other day. An altercation with the lid of an open tin of tuna resulted in a deep slice through the cuticle of my index finger, the part closest to the bone. You wouldn't think there was room for a blood vessel there, but the blood flowed as though I had put a pick through the carotid artery.
With my finger tightly bound in a tea towel, I scratched a box of plasters out of the cupboard. I managed to open it and a wad of plasters cascaded out, resembling those old sets of postcards tourists would buy at curio shops.  I snapped one off with my teeth and set about opening it.  Have you ever tried to open anything with your thumb and third finger?  Couldn't work out how to open it, so just used my teeth again. Eventually I succeeded in extracting the plaster from the wrapper.  It had four covering flaps but no instructions.  I pulled one off the sticky side, which immediately curled into itself and became a useless blob. I pulled the other half off and stuck it on my finger, but then had no corresponding half to hold it down.  I pulled the top flaps off and couldn't identify what purpose they had served.
I wrapped my finger, still bleeding profusely, back in the tea towel, threw the useless plaster in the bin and pulled another one off the cascade to repeat the process.  Finally I got a mangled plaster on to staunch the flow. If it had been the carotid artery, I would have bled to death by now.
I cannot imagine who designed this so-called basic first aid item, as the conclusion is:  useless in an emergency.  I think the best idea is to open every plaster long before you need them and lay them flat on greaseproof paper, ready to be lifted straight onto the wound with the minimum of fuss. I am sure there are many mothers who can identify with the plaster disaster!
(NB: to those who think you could apply a plaster to a burst carotid artery:  do not try this at home.)

Cleaning out the garage

Spent the afternoon sorting out the garage. again. How is it possible to accumulate so much stuff? Fishing rods unused for 35 years after the first overwind. 3 gearboxes and a V6 engine. A bicycle that no one has ridden since 2008. Two rusted microwaves, not working. 3 sets of racing tyres. A TV set. 3 Persian carpets waiting for the cats and dogs to go to pet heaven so that I can put them down on the floor again (I don't expect to even remember the patterns by the time I see them after all these years). Mother-in-law's old imbuia dressing table set with stool and two side cupboards 3 brass portholes and a ship's bell. Enough wood to build a small cottage in the back yard - that's why we've got it of course - our retirement home. A rope that can moor a trawler. An old safe that we bought on auction and were quite sure contained a stash of jewellery or valuable old share certificates - it took two days with oxyacetylene torches to cut through the door and find nothing inside! Outboard motors, oilskins, oars and other fishing paraphernalia. Thousands of nails, screws, washers, nuts, bolts, bits of wire, rubber, electric cord, piping. A fully equipped bar and accompanying decorations, racing trophies.  Wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with STUFF.  Definition of stuff:  anything that fills an empty space.

All of these things don't really qualify for garage space, but have found their place amongst a collection of tools that a hardware store would envy and, oh yes, the 8 cars that live in the garage.  We found one at the back that we had forgotten about.

One day we will have a garage sale to end all garage sales. Then we can convert the garage into a 3-bedroomed house. I can't wait.

We decided to have a cup of tea and sit under the milkwood tree outside and leave it for another day. 

Italy #1 - This is a long one!

A few years back I stayed with my nephew, Michael, in Milan.  He is a keen mountain-biker so one day he packed his bike and me in the car and we set off for the Alps. Eventually the road began winding up a long, steep, narrow valley with low cloud cover.  We were going up to where he snowboarded in winter and he had never seen it without snow.  Now he was going to take the last skilift of the season to the glacier at the top, because he thought it would be a good idea to ride down the mountain.
Suddenly there was a break in the clouds and my jaw dropped.  Straight ahead, reaching thousands of metres into the sky, was an awe-inspiring lump of rock which I recognised instantly. "That's the Matterhorn!" I squeaked. "That's in Switzerland!" A few hours before we were on the plains of the Po valley. It's quite a challenge to take in how small Europe is and how immense the Alps are. "Oh yes, but we're on the Italian side, so it's called something else." As if that matter(horn)ed.  Familiarity breeds contempt and all that.
 We got to the end of the road, to the rather ugly resort town (can't remember, Cerveto??) which didn't have a magical layer of snow to redeem it.  Full of massive Heidi-style chalets/apartments/hotels.  Bleak, uninviting and rather shabby.
 Michael's plan: we go up to the 3rd station (can't go further because then we're in Switzerland and I didn't take my passport), then he'll ride down and take the lift back up as many times as possible before they closed (it was the last day of August and everything would shut at the end of the day for maintenance). So up we went.  Milan was 34 degrees. Top of ski lift 8 degrees. Same clothes - shorts, shirt, sandals, thin jacket. He could have warned me.  However, the view was too spectacular to worry about the temperature.
 Michael got on his bike, said "See you later" and was gone. And there I stood, completely alone, at the foot of the Matterhorn, 3500m up in the Alps, next to a glacier. Not a person in sight, not a bird, not a blade of grass, not a breath of wind. Not a sound.  The mountain and I were one. 
 I eventually noticed that amongst the grey gravel there were actually minute plants, like succulents and other tough vegetation with pretty flowers, none much higher than 3cm.  But apart from that, bleak. And the mountain towered still higher.
 I decided it would be best to go back down to Level 2 station, so I went back inside and got into one of the little cablecars.  Did I mention that I am reluctant to climb a ladder? And that on the way up the cablecar had stopped for a few minutes and we had hung above the steep slopes, swinging gently to and fro?  The prospect of doing this again was not exciting, but I couldn't walk down.  A brainwave struck (all this communing with nature) and I put my eye to the viewfinder of my camera, effectively blocking out my surroundings and allowing my brain to forget the journey while it focused on the smaller view.  Try it, it works.
 No sign of Michael on the way down, but lots of dangerous looking paths at the edge of precipices. For all I knew, he could have gone over a cliff.  Did I have the car keys?
 How surreal is the next scene:  I'm walking through a desolate ski station, 3000m up the Matterhorn, nobody in sight, alone in a place I've never been before.  Down the steps comes Michael, pushing his bike, passes me, says "I'm going back up, See you later" and he's gone.  I'm alone again.  What were the chances of us passing on that mountain?  Synchronicity?
 There was still a lot of cloud cover and I hadn't got a good shot of the Matterhorn. I went into the Ladies toilets and on the wall was a magnificent tourism poster of the mountain bathed in sunshine, surrounded by Alpine meadows and a gushing stream.  I took a picture of it and photoshopped the edges - everyone thinks I was there in beautiful weather and am a really good photographer.  For the record, they were the worst toilets I have ever been in, and I could write a book on the toilets of Europe, or maybe a blog...
 I count that day, when I was privileged to stand alone on that immense mountain in that huge silence, as one of the most important and valuable experiences of my life.

A Clovelly Childhood #1

I went walking in the Silvermine River valley with my two sisters last week.  It was the first time we had been back there in 43 years.  It seems like yesterday.

We used to go there as teenagers when it was the Sunbird Nature Reserve.  Our 'crowd' of kids from Clovelly would walk across the valley from the Fish Hoek side along the track which ran behind Clovelly Golf Club to Noordhoek and spend the day at Sunbird.  There was a swimming pool fed by the Silvermine River and horses to ride if you were brave enough, but I think the main attraction, for the girls anyway, was the company of the handsome young rangers who looked after the reserve.  They lived in old-fashioned gypsy caravans amongst huge old gum trees.  It was their private paradise and we were privileged to join them.

As I write this, the hit song of that long ago summer, He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother, is on the radio.
It brings back those memories so vividly that I can feel the sun on our backs as we walk down that track, hear the crunch of the gravel beneath our feet, smell the warmth of the horses grazing in the field, see the cold clear water of the pristine Silvermine River gushing down the valley in eddying pools and tinkling falls.

Today the caravans are gone, the trees burned down by wildfires, the horses are grazing in the Elysian fields  and the swimming pool has been reclaimed by the river.  The valley is part of Table Mountain National Park and the public may freely roam across the grassy meadows along the riverbanks.

But I think I preferred it when it was 'ours'.

The Beemer #1

I once had a BMW 7-series automatic.
I had never thought about owning one.  I was driving a Toyota Conquest at the time.  One day my husband says: "We're taking a drive up the West Coast."  Who am I to argue - I love a drive in the country and we are seldom in the same car.
We get to a small town about 200km from Cape Town and he pulls into a car dealership, goes into the office and comes out with a bunch of keys. "Let's take this car (a large red BMW) round the block." Well, ok. So we go round the block and back into the yard.  He gets out of the car, says "I've bought it for you. See you at home."  (This may seem a trifle odd, but he is not big on discussing things and works on a "need to know" basis.)  He gets into his car and leaves.
So there I am in this huge car, never driven an automatic and his dust has already settled. After figuring out how to adjust the seat in 4 directions so that I can see over the steering wheel, I start the engine, lever the gearshift into Drive and ease out into the street.  I nearly find myself back in the yard thanks to power steering and drive with my fingertips after that. Thank goodness for a Saturday afternoon in a small town - not another car in sight! The onboard computer tells me all kinds of things that I've never needed to know in the Conquest - I've hit the big time now!
It doesn't take long to get used to my new posh car, after all, BMW drivers aren't rocket scientists (well, some may be) and anyway the car drives itself.  It surges forward at the slightest pressure from my foot and it isn't long before we are bowling down the West Coast road at an easy 160km/h.  Ah, the recklessness of it all!  (In my defence, there were no other cars on the road and it was only due to the extremely comfortable and quiet ride that I was unaware of my speed.)
My relaxed journey comes to an abrupt end as I approach the first hurdle, a traffic light, after about 150km. I have to start thinking about how to stop, where's the clutch, there is no clutch, which foot should I use, what do I do with the gearshift?  It is no small panic, I can tell you.  By the time I get home I am exhausted but well able to handle the animal.
My husband was home long before me. "What took you so long?"  How fast did he drive?

Before dawn

This morning we took our dogs for their Sunday walk along the boardwalk in front of Kommetjie lighthouse. It was not quite sunrise and the air was a balmy 16 degrees. A waning moon hung over the sea, its bright whiteness dappling the unruffled surface, smooth as a silken sheet.
 Behind us, our flock of sacred ibis, 200-strong, snaked across the dawn sky, the leader far in front, two straggling pelathons behind and a lonely back-marker bringing up the rear.  Their flight followed the contours of the Slangkop headland, taking advantage of the lifting air currents.
 Two early surfers bobbed on their boards at the Outer Kom, which was promising some big surf on the rising tide.  The reef breaks made no sound as the offshore drift of air took it out to sea.  It was like watching a silent movie, with Table Mountain as a backdrop.
 A little way out to sea, a whale sounded, treating us to a lazy wave of a tail before sinking below the surface.
 Sound too good to be true?  No, if anything, it was better - words don't do it justice.
  As I write this, the sun has replaced the moon, the wind has lifted the sea into little white horses and people are going about their business.  It's just another day, but I didn't miss the best part.

Life's too short to stuff a sardine

I'm busy sorting out my recipe books. Some I have never tried and some I have never even opened.  Before putting them on the charity pile, I had a recce for old times' sake and opened one that must be 30 years old - "Hot and Cold Hors d"Oevre" or as they are better known, horse divorce.
  Did you know that you could be served "Fried Eggs on Toast with Wine Sauce" at a dinner party?  Or even "Egg and Potato Puree - serve cold"?  Perhaps my tastes are not very sophisticated, but I'm afraid that if I was served that as a starter, there would be a good chance that I would be too nervous to stay for mains.
   Of course, if I was given "Avocado with Crab" then I would know I was at the right kind of dinner party and it would probably be safe to stay until the coffee.  Perhaps that is where the saying "stay the course" originates, although I always thought it had to do with steeplechasing for some reason.
  "Brain and Lettuce" seems like a good reason to excuse yourself with a stomach bug, guaranteed to clear a room.  I put that on a par with mopani worms.
  "Eel Pate" sounds a little too like smooth snake.  Ssshudder!
  "Stuffed Sardines":  Take 6 fresh sardines, de-head, de-bone, de-tail, clean and scrape.  Then stuff.  Stuff what? How big is a sardine.  In today's hectic lifestyle, when few people have time to stuff a mushroom, who would stuff a sardine?
  So it's onto the charity pile.  Although maybe I'll just try the "Chicken in Aspic" before tossing it.  I do have a free afternoon next week, and it may be my only chance of ever eating an hors d'oevre.

Fish Tale #1

Years ago, as keen crayfishers but not having our own boat, we went out to sea in a friend's rubber duck. Not the ideal boat for fishing from.  The ring-nets were set and we pottered up and down the Kommetjie coastline while waiting for the crayfish to start feeding on the bait.  There was a gentle breeze and the sun glittered off the azure sea.  Life was good.

Time came to pull the nets up.  Everyone leaned over the side in anticipation.  It's heavy, must be a jackpot!  One last heave and a net full of tail-flapping, water-gushing crayfish was dumped into the tiny space in the rubber duck, accompanied by a 3-foot shark.

Panic ensued as the shark thrashed about. Nowhere to go except overboard! Not even a gunwale to stand on.  Instead of grabbing the shark by the tail and giving it its first taste of space flight, somehow an oar got involved and smacked the shark's head against the air compartment of the rubber duck.

"Phhhhhhttt! as the air gushed out.  The shark's teeth had ripped the rubber!

Within seconds it was overboard, laughing airbubbles at us as it disappeared into the depths, leaving us with a rapidly deflating side of a small boat.  Strong hands held the side up to prevent us from taking on too much water as the skipper revved the engine and we headed back to shore at the rate of knots before we slid unceremoniously into Davy Jones' locker!  Much bailing of water took place on the way.

In a manner of speaking, we had had the wind taken out of the sails of our complacency, and we were once again reminded that the sea should be respected at all times, as the slightest incident can turn into a possible disaster when we are out of our element.

Although we have laughed about it ever since, we have never fished from a rubber duck again, and any future fish tales will be told from the deck of a sturdy 19-foot GRP skiboat with 2 engines and full safety equipment!!

Horse riding in Drakensberg

I recently fulfilled a long-time dream to ride a horse in the foothills of the Drakensberg.  It's some 40 years or so since I rode regularly and the body is not what it was then, but I didn't give it a second thought. I saw the horses, read the sign and seized the day.  Arriving at the appropriate time, I was alarmed to see the state of the horse, head drooping, hip bones sticking out. But again, I wasn't looking for a racehorse, just a gentle stroll through the grasslands.

The Zulu groom, with whom I communicated in body language, indicated that my grass hat was not right and I must wear the grimy plastic hat he gave me. Oh well, what's another sweaty head! They probably wouldn't let me go without it. A flash of perfect white teeth (not from the horse) indicated that I was right.With a little assistance, I heaved myself into the saddle. It was one of those moments when I wished that I actually did have a bigger bum. The saddle had no padding and appeared to be made of hardwood. Too late to turn back now. I slid my feet into the stirrups and grasped the reins casually in one hand, making a loop to spur the horse on.  And off we went, single file along the hillside.

The scenery was breathtaking, the air like champagne.  I was riding a horse in the Drakensberg.

It soon became apparent that my horse only responded to the pace and clicking of the groom in front. We lurched involuntarily into a brief and incredibly uncomfortable trot and I thanked my lucky stars for all those riding lessons way back.  We crossed the river twice, like they do in cowboy movies, and passed through a field of grazing bulls. At the end of the field, we came to a donga and although the groom's horse went down and up, mine had aspirations to be a showjumper and leapt over the gap. Did I grip with my knees!

The scenery was breathtaking, the air like champagne.  I was riding a horse in the Drakensberg.

We rode out of the valley and up into the hills, passing a small herd of eland on the way. From the crest of the hill we could see the way ahead.  It was a wide grass road, possibly 500 metres long and the groom turned around and gave a huge smile and nodded.  Body language for: Ok, that's enough dawdling, time to
stretch their legs. And we were off!  Shades of Clint Eastwood galloping across the plains. The adrenalin was pumping as I clung on desperately with my legs, yet exhilarated as we thundered up the roadway.

The scenery was breathtaking, the air like champagne. If I didn't get off this horse soon, I would just slide out of the saddle and fall to the ground.  They could fetch me later.

As we passed other guests on the way back to the stables, I wondered if we looked as if we were born in the saddle, or just plain saddle-sore.  I couldn't get off the horse.  I had to pull my leg over with both hands, and slid onto the grass where I just lay and laughed and laughed.  I couldn't sit for 3 days and had bruised and chafed legs, but it was still the best.

The scenery was breathtaking, the air like champagne, and I've ridden a horse in the Drakensberg.  

My Dad

It's Father's Day today. In our family we don't 'celebrate' Father's Day.  Every day is Father's Day. Everyone thinks that their Dad is the best and that is true - he is the best for you.
My Dad is the best for me.  He has always been there when I've needed him, helped when I've needed help, stayed silent when he felt criticism would not be constructive, advised when asked and never judged.  He has been an example to us all throughout his life, and we have yet to discover his faults.  His interest in everything life has to offer has been passed on to his 3 daughters and at a very young 83 he is still an active member of many clubs and societies and strives to learn something new every day.  He is currently grappling with the huge source of knowledge on the internet, and I hope that he will find this letter to him as he surfs today.
Thanks, Dad, for being you.

80's flashback

Most memories of my life are triggered by music, a scent in the air, or a certain way the light falls on the mountains (I know, that's a strange one!)
I'm having an 80's flashback, sitting here watching VH1 Top 40 80's.  Stevie Wonder brings back memories of sailing along the Atlantic coast between Hout Bay and Cape Town on a variety of yachts, fishing boats and pleasure cruisers. For everything there is a season, and it was our season for sailing!
The tang of the sea air as you leave the protection of the harbour wall and head out into the open sea invigorates like nothing else.  It must be the sudden access to large quantities of ozone, combined with the swishing of the waves as the bow cuts through the swells. My favourite place to be on a boat is in the bow (I did it before TItanic!), with my face to the wind and the rise and fall of the bow as it surges forwards.  In big seas the adrenalin sure can pump, but that is the point of standing there - to put yourself in a controlled life-threatening situation for the thrill of it.  It doesn't take long to get into the rhythm of anticipating the next wave and flexing your knees to cushion the jarring.  (That's probably why I have dicky knees today - not caused through any other form of exercise!)  After a few hours of this, it is really weird to walk on dry land again. You feel as if gravity has increased 5 times.
A fishing friend tells me that he never had to worry about fitness on long sea trips, as every muscle gets exercised just to keep standing in rough seas!
Time to go sailing again.  I need something to blow my hair back.

Kommetjie

Cotton-puff clouds scud across the sky, silver-lined by the sun, heralding the coming storm.  It will coincide with tomorrow night's total lunar eclipse. I don't know if we will see that now as heavy rain is forecast. The eclipse will bring unusually high spring tides due to the tugging of the gravitational forces of the sun and the moon. It seems that our storms coincide regularly with the full moon and the resultant huge seas create chaos along the Atlantic seaboard, breaking windows of houses close to the sea, washing vast clumps of kelp up the roads and into gardens.  Body boarders surf over the lawns of the Kom, normally 6 feet or more above the high water mark, and when the sea recedes, huge boulders are left on the lawns like glacial moraine.
I went down to the rocks this evening to see where the sea lice were.  They are the best indicators of how high the tide will come as they make sure that they are well beyond it, even crossing roads and climbing garden walls.  These fascinating creatures were still on the rocks, so the storm will probably only make landfall later tomorrow unless we are lucky and it blows itself out.
A small yacht was passing and it brought the words of John Masefield to mind:
"I must go down to the seas again
To the lonely sea and the sky
And all I ask is a tall ship
And a star to steer her by".

A bit of poetry that encompasses (sorry!) the yearning of many to escape the ratrace of life!

Kommetjie

I just have to tell you about the magnificent days we are having here in Kommetjie.  It is June in Cape Town and the weather couldn't be more perfect.  Blue skies, the lightest breeze, the sea like a mirror.  The loudest sound is the crashing of the waves at the Outer Kom.  Yesterday they were 15 - 20 foot on the reef and only the bravest surfers were out there.  As the sun goes down, a flock of Sacred Ibis pass overhead, a long V-formation stretching across the sky.  They are heading to their night-time roost in Hout Bay and tomorrow morning at first light the V will fly over my house again. leaving only the whisper of their beating wings to indicate their passing.  The robin is calling in the milkwood tree and a small flock of guineafowl have come to scratch on the front lawn.  The setting sun casts an apricot glow on the mountains of the Peninsula, the shadows changing from week to week as the sun moves northwards.  As the sun sinks into the sea, we look for that rare flash of green that can be sometimes be seen as a final salute to the day.
Soon our real winter will set in and we are expecting some mighty storms soon.  It will be time for the sea to wash up into the beachfront gardens and up the road next to my house, depositing benches in trees and kelp in the roads.  Those are also magnificent days in Kommetjie, when we look at the awesome power of nature and can't imagine that the sea will ever be calm again.  We are amongst the luckiest people on earth, we Kommetjie dwellers.

Hotel rooms - I considered sending this to the travel agent

  Have you noticed that when you book into a hotel, whether there seem to be other guests or not, your room is always the last one at the end of the passage?
  I check into my hotel just off Oxford Street, London, impressed by the facade and foyer.  After taking the lift to a mid-level floor, I follow the numbers down interminably long passageways until I reach what looked like the last broom cupboard on the right and find that it matches the number on my key.  I haven't passed a soul on the way.
  Stumbling through the door like Scott of the Antarctic, I prepare to behold my luxurious suite, which is costing me an arm and a leg, and find that Oh, no! it is the broom cupboard.  They've managed to squeeze in a double bed, two bedside cupboards, a writing desk, wardrobe, coffee table, 2 chairs, TV set, luggage rack and a fan.  A fan?  It's about 30 degrees in the room.  Throwing back about 3000 yards of green satin curtains, I observe that my airconditioner is the 3-inch gap in the sash window which is stuck.
  Further bad news - I have a magnificent view of the fire escape stairwell, giving me uninterrupted viewing into the rooms of similar unfortunates.  I can't tell if it's the building next door, or part of mine.  I close the curtains to give them privacy and turn on the fan.  Clambering back over the coffee table (there is no floor space), I lie down on the actually rather comfortable double bed and contemplate the ceiling.  It is very far away and reminds me of the Sistine Chapel, sans paintings.  The room is twice the height of the floor area, bringing new meaning to the word 'double-volume'. I could see now why it was so expensive.  They had booked me into the floor above as well.
  But wait!  A further treat is in store.  There is an en-suite bathroom to explore.  Toilet, bath with shower (Please ensure curtain is on inside of bath before turning on taps) and basin in an inviting shade of avocado green.  Enough soap and shampoo for a month, but no shelves.  The top of the toilet cistern is the only storage space.
  More excitement in the wardrobe!  A table with a tray of goodies and a kettle. Yes, inside the wardrobe.  I presume I will take this out if I want to hang any clothing inside.
The kettle can be boiled if you put in on the floor in the corner of the room, because that's where the plug is!
  And yet the hotel appeared to be almost empty.  Sound familiar?

MY FIRST BLOG

This blog has been established so that I can record events which have happened throughout my life which could be interesting,informative and occasionally amusing, particularly with regard to the people who have passed through my life, and deserve a mention for posterity.  Too many people hide their light under a bushel or believe themselves to be without any talent or boring.  This is because they have fallen prey to the conditioning of society which diminishes our ability to develop to our full and unlimited potential.  Life is for living, and it should be lived with passion and abandon, and only tempered by the proviso that what you do should cause no harm or distress to any other living being.

This blog will cover random days in my life and sometimes an event at which I was not present but am sure you will enjoy.  Names may be changed to protect the innocent but if they want their 15 minutes of fame, I'll give it to them!