Night owls

It's 3am and I'm wide awake. The mind is buzzing with random thoughts, sometimes of things long put off that need completion, sometimes of friends in far-off places, suddenly recalled in memories of a childhood that seems like only yesterday, then back to the present and things I did today. What makes us wake with a flood of thoughts spinning in our minds? Is there an 'off' button, or is sleep the 'off' button for the noise of daily living and the 'on' button for our memory bank? Perhaps this is the time when the mind has been stilled for long enough to bring important ideas to the surface - they are always lurking in the background, but can never make an appearance in the clutter of daily living. Sometimes these thoughts arrive in a dream - I know I have dreamt whole books! - but on waking, they disappear again, sometimes never to return, yet often recurring until you feel as though you are receiving a message but can't quite decode it.
A flick through social media will show you that many people are awake, thinking the same thoughts and wondering why it is that we have to wait till morning to act on these thoughts, and simply toss and turn until an alarm rings to tell us sleep time is officially over. Perhaps some of us are meant to work in the early hours and rest in the heat of the day? Seems sensible. We might be a lot less stressed if we didn't worry about being awake while everyone else is asleep. After all, every body runs on its own clock. But somehow I don't think the rest of the household would appreciate a burst of energy and a spot of vacuuming at 3.30. So it's a cup of tea, perhaps a sudoku and back to sleep.

Gazania gazing

Aren't gazanias amazing? They are startling when in full bloom, and unless you make the effort to go out into the garden and see what they are up to, you will miss their spectacular display. I don't always have great success with these plants, but the latest planting in the revamped ex-lawn area has exceeded my expectations. Here are a few photos of today's flowering that I almost missed had I not gone to fetch in the washing. I think I should plant hundreds!

All these different hues on one plant

This one is economising on stem and just nestling among the leaves

In the shade so not as sunshiny as they could be - closed soon afterwards

The daisy lawn is looking as though it will cover the grass soon = no more mowing and watering

My favourite colour

A sudden gale

A gale just blew up out of nowhere. I was standing next to some pine boards propped against the house when suddenly they all fell on top of me. If I were elderly, I would have been squashed. This is how quickly the weather changes in Cape Town. Another pile of planks just blew over and a whirlwind of gravel dust has covered me from head to toe - I am chewing on grit as I type this.
We have been relatively spoilt by the windless days recently, with the southeaster backing to southerly and bringing very pleasant conditions. But the southeaster is back without warning, bashing the poor palm trees, and dragons are chasing each other over the crest of Chapman's Peak.

The wind is singing its own ghostly tune as it finds its way through the cracks around the exterior of the house, and the blinds have been sucked out through the windows - time to batten down the hatches for a while. The lid of the Weber has been snatched from its perch and clanged onto the brick paving, where it will echo as it rolls to and fro until I go downstairs to retrieve it.

The little birds must have their tiny claws in a vice-like grip around the twigs as they resist a buffeting by the gusts. I doubt whether they would have much control over their flight in these conditions. Even the seabirds are clinging to the rocks, beaks facing into the wind for least resistance. The sea has been whipped up from a glassy surface to frothy slashes of spray across the bay, the sunlight gleaming glass green through the rising face laced with foam from a spent swell. It's wild out there!

Up Elsie's Peak in a gale

A huge weather system in the South Atlantic with the strength of a tropical cyclone has lightly brushed the southwestern Cape, bringing unseasonal gale force north westerly winds and a promise of some rain later. As luck would have it, the morning hike up to Elsie's Peak in the south Peninsula would be clear but subject to strong winds as can only blow down the Fish Hoek valley (in both directions, popularly known as Hurricane Alley), so we knew it wouldn't be a hot walk.
The initial stage was tough going, a two-stick hike for those who are even slightly unsteady, with a very rocky and steep path (in fact it was easier to walk along the gabions if you didn't mind the drop off the side!). The fresh wind at our backs kept us cool as we toiled upward and eventually reached a sandy track winding up through low fynbos, still recovering from the fire a few years back, and it was a treat to be able to take our eyes off the path and enjoy the multitude of blue, purple and pink flowers that predominate at this time of year.
As always, the path steepened again and quite a bit of scrambling ensued, with more loose, rocky sections - caution should be exercised, says she who is still recovering from the sprain up the mountain at Cape Point. The wind freshened some more, becoming strong enough to wobble the unwary. Lovely views in all directions made it all worthwhile and we eventually reached the mast and settled down for refreshments in the shelter of the heavily burglar-barred building (presumably housing equipment for the relaying of signals, etc.). There were plenty of others enjoying the blustery morning up on the mountain, all accompanied by their dogs, and there was a cairn at a fork in the path where a bottle of water and a plastic bowl have been carefully inserted to ensure a supply of water for the canines.
The hike back down was into the wind and at times we almost went backwards, but we enjoyed lots of laughs as we were blown hither and thither and that's what it's all about. Companionship, enjoyment of nature and getting your hair blown back!

Scorching sun

My garden is wilting, wilting, wilting. Somehow the earth seems to be hotter than last year and it is hard to believe that any roots can withstand being cooked in the soil. Even the toughest groundcover is taking strain. Today we threw bagsful of wood chip mulch on all the exposed areas - hopefully this will bring a little relief, and if that doesn't work, I give up. I think the potplants are also stewing their roots as the sun beats down from all sides. I dragged them all into the rather inadequate shade of a tree, as it seems unfair to expect them to survive on brick paving.

If I look at photos of the garden over the years, I can see how it has deteriorated from fairly lush to semi desert, with a corresponding reduction in rainfall and lowering of the water table. It seems that lawns are a thing of the past (they are overrated anyway), but the garden is far too big for pretty pebbles and stone chips that work so well in townhouse situations. The conversion to beds of indigenous, waterwise plants and swathes of mulch will continue for the foreseeable future, as none of us knows what the rainfall patterns will be and a self-sustaining garden is the best I can hope for.

Of utmost importance is that we continue to provide bees and birds with the plants that provide them with the necessities of life, and to persevere in calling for the banning of all pesticides and weed killers. 

And with that the sky fills with clouds and covers us with a cooling blanket to soothe the scorched earth.

Searching for disas

Today's hike was in search of the beautiful Disa Uniflora, which grows in the Table Mountain chain in waterfalls and flowers at this time of year. They are not big, as we are misled by the incredible photos that appear in the fynbos reference books that are more than life size, and cling to the rock face high up. Unless you have a good zoom, photos are less than satisfactory.
The hike began at the entrance to Ruyteplaats in Hout Bay, and we were headed for the waterfall in Myburgh Ravine. The initial climb to the contour path was steep and relentless, and after a 4-week break I needed to pause frequently. But I knew it would level out soon, and we plodded on through the fragrant pine forest, a gentle southerly wind at our backs.
Once we broke out into the sunlight, we were grateful for having set out early, as the sun reminded us that it was now January and the trail would be dry and dusty. The vegetation is close to the path and high in places and so, although there are patches that allow you to look at the breathtaking views down the valley and across to Kommetjie, most of the time you need to watch your footing on the rough and rocky sections. A little scrambling is needed, but not arduous. I would say that the only downside of this hike is the closeness of the bushes that shelters you from any breeze that would keep you cool; otherwise it is a very pleasant place to be.
When we reached the ravine, there was no sign of any water, and only a few of us decided to continue upwards to see if the waterfall was running. It was a very steep scramble, necessitating a short crawn under some branches, and I could see why most had stayed perched on rocks enjoying coffee and munchies below!
The waterfall was a trickle down the cliff, but there were disas high up - unfortunately they were still buds. But nevertheless, we reached the waterfall, saw the disas and most of all, had a great morning out on the mountain, enjoying wonderful scenery, not too terrible heat and good company. What more could you want?

A scene from Deliverance?

 

A big Thumbs Up on the skyline!

Not so many berries

The Cape White Eyes are busy gorging themselves on their favourite food - the sticky orange berries of the coprosma. Of the five coprosmas in the garden, only one has even borne berries, so I must assume that the others are all male trees. Naturally, the most useful tree for the birds is the one that died in the drought last summer, and only the tips of a few branches remain. This means that there is only a fraction of the food supply this year and the birds will eat all the berries long before autumn arrives. The ground beneath the tree is brick-paved (all the other non-bearing trees are around what used to be the lawn), and for years the summer months were a time of scraping sticky remains of berries and their painful seeds off bare feet. This year there is no wastage and hardly a berry reaches the ground. The seeds sprout all over the place and there are always new plants coming up, but never in a convenient situation. They don't take at all kindly to transplanting and the intense heat tends to cook their roots in this dry, sandy soil.
The milkwood has surprisingly recovered after last summer, when I thought it had come to the end of its 45-year life - I was given the sapling in a tin when it was ten years old (talk about stunted growth) and it took a while to get established out in the front garden thirty years ago. On reflection, a good watering twice a week would have been beneficial, but it was on the other side of the existing fence, and we are by nature quite lazy creatures, are we not?
Thousands of berries scattered on the ground beneath its gnarled and fascinating branches, and many of them have grown quite strongly, but having a long tap root from a very early stage, they are also not pleased to be moved from their home of choice. It looks as though I will end up with sixteen in a pot at the gate! Two have grown very successfully in pots further down the garden, dropped by birds who love to feast on these purple, messy berries that stain everything better than any beetroot, and in time they will burst out of the confines of the pots and take their rightful place as fully established Kommetjie milkwoods - one of the great charms of this seaside village. I look forward to that.