STILLNESS OF THE NIGHT

The Karoo can be unnervingly quiet for city dwellers, particularly the hours of darkness, when unfamiliar calls carry across the kloof in the stillness. Was that a baboon calling from the crags, a nocturnal insect, or maybe even a leopard? 

A quick trip to the Ceres Karoo/Tankwa found us lodged in a secluded kloof at the very edge of the Cederberg mountains,

with no other visitors in the well-spaced cottages. We were entirely alone - something to be sought eagerly during daylight hours, yet strangely fearsome once darkness descended. This is one of the truly dark sky areas of the country, with a Bortle 1 rating, even better than Sutherland, and as a result the Milky Way lives up to its name - a milky white splash across the firmament, unbroken by individual star patches as the billions that make up our home galaxy become accessible to our eyes. We should have spent hours gazing up and outwards in wonderment at the vastness of our insignificance, but those unfamiliar sounds with no way of knowing any distance kept us inside after a pathetically short time.

How marvellous it must have been for the original inhabitants of these mountains, who were intimately acquainted with every living creature, many of which were recorded for posterity in the thousands of rock paintings scattered throughout the range. They would have known which should be feared and which were merely coexisting in that harsh environment. The very fact that they stayed in the area must be evidence that water was always available, although in limited amounts, and the thick salt deposits in the waterways reveal the ancient history of this once seabed. Today's inhabitants filter the borehole water up to four times before drinking.

We scoffed when the farmer told us guests from Europe were frightened at night. Perhaps we were too quick to judge, or were just a little too far out of the comfort zone. I am sure that a longer stay would have soothed our nerves, but there are indeed leopards.

Returning to my original blog - stressless and less stress

 Having learned from harsh experience that not everybody cares as much as one had hoped, I have abandoned my Eye on Life website and returned to my first writing platform: Pamela - A day in the life. Back in 2011, my nephew said, 'Why don't you write a blog?' and ever one to take good advice, I immediately set about same. With no thought about a title for the blog, and as always having music on in the background, what would be playing but Abbey Road ... I read the news today, oh boy ...  You know the one: A day in the life. And there I had it. Over the years it grew from musings on a weekly basis to an almost daily scribble, which gave me such pleasure in relating and was originally intended to keep my parents informed of my activities when I couldn't find enough time to visit them - only 14km away. They loved my wordsmithing and encouraged it always.

 And so here I am again, not hoping to gain followers or monetary compensation (those ghastly adverts blotting my copy), but merely indulging myself in the love of the written word without disappointment or dejection. Looking back over the years, I can see a different me in different stages of life, and this new journalling journey will surely reveal a new zest for life! You can join me if you like.

An expanded view.

After almost 10 years of blogging under this site, I have now expanded into an online magazine. This will initially consist of my own articles on a broad range of subjects, with the intention of expanding to select guest contributors who can offer content that is unfamiliar to me. For the moment, I can draw on many interests for inspiration, inculcated in me as a child by parents who participated in many activities right into their late 80s and who gave me a childhood grounding that has enabled me to find joy in the simple pleasures of life as well as appreciate the finer things, such as art, photography, birding and the natural world.
From the first time I learned to write, it has been my passion. That is not a phrase I use lightly or even readily, as I do in fact find Life is my passion, and cannot single out a particular aspect as being the most important. But somehow writing has enabled me to share the experiences I have enjoyed most with others, usually unknown and from far-flung places, and knowing that someone, somewhere, has taken the trouble to read my scratchings and appreciate them in the brief time needed to do so has made the effort so worthwhile. It is my small effort to bring a little light into the world.
So thank you for your readership. This blog will continue, but should you wish to share my world of travel, trips and trails with some food and drink thrown in, you can find me at https://eyeonlifeonline.com
It's all about fun!

Floral fantasy on Slangkop

Despite a dreary day, those irrepressibly cheerful yellow daisies bloomed undeterred on top of Slangkop yesterday! We slogged our way up the zigzag path from the lighthouse (only the beginning really, as the upper path is very easy on the legs) with one thing in mind - to see the fabulous array of spring fynbos currently adorning our mountain. I say 'our' because I live near the lighthouse and have been privileged to see the changing seasons and flowers for nearly 40 years now. The verges become a snowy white carpet of rain daisies, followed by the lovely dark yellow daisies, and beware anyone who mows the lawns in Spring! There are places in Kommetjie that rival the West Coast displays for coverage, if not size, and it seems that nobody ever tires of exclaiming about the flowers, year after year.
It's such a pleasure to hike in cool conditions, where you don't have to bother yourself with how hot you are and can concentrate on the restoration of the soul, but nonetheless the approaching clouds were closely watched. The sea was like a pond, with appropriate reflections from the mountains across the bay, and the breeze was imperceptible, but still the curtain of rain crept closer.
The walk across the plateau is one of my favourites. Roaming these upper mountain areas of the Peninsula is one of the simple joys of life - sandy quartz paths, low-growing fynbos dotted with big mimetes and pincushions, their trunks gnarled with age, miraculous survivors of many fires over the years, gentle sea breezes and views for miles in all directions. It is easy to identify the cut-off levels for many species, some growing only on certain slopes, others above 100m or below - definite preferences. And as you walk there over the seasons, you remember where you saw a certain plant and look out for it to see if it has survived another year. Always exciting to meet an old friend again.
A little sunshine would have warmed the air sufficiently to encourage the jewel-like vygies to open, but a few patches that were sheltered under bushes made breathtaking splashes of pink among the yellows and blues. Positive thinking held off the rain until the minute we finished another delightful morning in the mountains.

A revived garden

An unusually long winter and abundant rain has transformed my once parched and sparse garden into a veritable jungle! Where once bare sand made up the majority of the lawn, we now have lush daisy lawn that continues to creep in all directions, making it easy to fill in the gaps at the outer edges and between paving stones. Indigenous pelargoniums have grown into large shrubs that can be pruned quite severely with no ill effects, and the aloe collection multiplies as new plants shoot out from the main stem.
The granadilla planted last year has literally gone wild, climbing visibly each day and almost covering the netting put over the now abandoned vegetable patch. This will provide natural shade which is essential to prevent the more delicate vegetables from scorching in the sun, and also reduce the amount of watering required. The sandy, oily soil is not a gardener's delight, but is ideal for growing onions, so perhaps that should be my crop of choice. This plan can only come to fruition if the baboons remain out of Kommetjie, which may well be the case, and vegetable patches and fruit trees can return to supplement our small efforts at self-sufficiency. Onions may not be attractive to them, anyway.
The area under the milkwood tree, which I have been eyeing nervously for the last few years as it loses more and more of its canopy, has surged back with a vengeance, and one almost needs a panga to cut a way through to my peaceful haven under this beautiful tree. The potato bush with white flowers has always suffered from heat and drought and been bare twigs in the main, but it too has revived to such an extent that it has covered half the area. When taking photos today, I noticed that the end of one branch has suddenly produced dark purple flowers (a throwback to its origins, I would think) and then my eye caught a bi-coloured specimen with more buds to open. Exciting times in the garden!
I only hope I will be able to keep them alive in summer. The water table has risen by a good 70cm on last year's level, so prospects look good.

Spring flowers and greenery

A walk around the base of Lion's Head, or any part of Signal Hill, is a must in Spring, as there is a huge variety of flowers to be seen at this time. The fire earlier this year devastated (from the Latin, vasto, to lay waste) much of the area, which sadly destroyed many of the old proteas and silver trees, but also promoted regeneration of the fynbos which can be very dependent on fire. The watsonias pop out in such an orderly fashion, nicely spaced and looking as though a horticulturist has been hard at work, and will make for a magnificent display later in the year.
The burning away of the bushes now allows for an unobstructed view of the majestic Twelve Apostles, all the way down the coast to the Oudeschip promontory where we walked last week. There is also no place to hide for any would-be criminals, which is always a good thing on the mountains. New growth is everywhere, fed by the abundant rains of winter, although on the down side there is evidence of erosion and landslips as the mountain has shed the rainfall too quickly. One section in particular has narrowed the path somewhat.
With a gap in the rain between the weekend and tomorrow's cold front, the sun was warm but the air a little chilly, which made for perfect hiking conditions. We passed many people enjoying the fresh air, or rather, they passed us. It was like old times.
There is much I would like to comment on relating to the restrictions, but will forbear in view of this being a blog that is intended to uplift and be enjoyed. And for that there is no room for current affairs.
A delightful day in the sunshine, fresh air, bountiful Nature and congenial company.

Tiny spaces

When I was a child, one of my favourite pastimes was making an indoor tent with a sheet draped over chairs and pretending I was living in a very small house. I have always lived in a medium-sized house and doubt that there is any deep-seated trauma to be delved into by a psychologist! I think it was just a forerunner of my great love of caravans! Family holidays were usually camping in a tent, so I am used to the outdoor life, but a caravan was always my ultimate dream. In fact, my only item on a bucket list is to travel somewhere, anywhere in the world, in a Winnebago. Or even live in one, although that carries a slight hint of trailer parks with the accompanying stigma. What I really need is the latest design where you press buttons and rooms slide out from the body of the bus, a small car is stowed under the sleeping area at the back, and a little speedboat is on a trailer behind. This whole contraption would be impossible to take shopping, hence the need for the little car. Of course, the cost of one of these dream vehicles is prohibitive, but I am putting this out there, just in case there is a patron out there who would like me to finish the books I am writing.
It is possible that my yearning for a small space is in direct proportion to my dislike of housework. I cannot see why I should spend my latter years polishing the brass (haven't touched it for years), washing windows inside and out only to cover them with blinds to keep out the damaging sun, or dusting daily when the southeaster blows. Shelves of ornaments have no place in my home. I keep the minimum of mementoes behind glass doors, and even they are being considered for re-homing, As for shelves and shelves of books that haven't been looked at in decades, nor are likely to be, I am sure there are many charity shops that would be glad to shake off their dust.
Both my grandmothers ended their days quite happily in homes for the aged where they just had a single room. I remember visiting them a long time ago now, in the 1960s and 1980s, and despite being a small child and then a young adult, I couldn't help thinking that it would be nice to have just one room.