Thatchwick Cottage

2011-10-20T08:14:00.004+02:00

Our cell group (life group or small group in some churches) decided to ride the Guatrain from Hatfield Station to Sandton City last Saturday and take a bite of Jozi's Big Apple! Not everyone could make it but those who did voted the day a great success. The train and stations are entirely disabled-friendly and so Wilma had her first ever train ride.

The Guatrain is an 80km mass rapid transit railway system in Gauteng Province linking Johannesburg and Pretoria or both cities to the OR Tambo International airport. The Pretoria- Jozi link only opened at the end of July. Commuters are voting with their feet and the train is a great success as its 34 minute scenic journey cuts out a frustrating car ride on an overcrowded highway. But the greatest fun is had by the number of families, couples and groups that are 'doing the Guatrain' just for pure fun. A festive mood reigned on the platforms on Saturday and we were not the only group having photos taken.

Here we stand at the feet of Nelson Mandela's statue (apologies to Madiba whose stature makes a full length photo shot impossible with a Nokia phone camera). You can see that Ermelinda and Gytree enjoyed the magnficient shopping in Sandton square. The train ride was a pleasure. I enoyed the beauty of our inland urban sprawl. Both suburbs and industrial areas are tree-rich and the grasslands in between are spring-green. Everywhere jacarandas are in bloom.

Friday 16 September: Shopping for sandals in Tauberbischofsheim

2011-09-16T09:35:00.010+02:00

1 The pitstop at Tauberbishofsheim was a snap en route decision. It certainly did not include wine and asparagus but an early morning coffee at a open cafe. My main concern was the need to purchase a pair of stout German crafted sandals, suitable for foot-slogging over the cobbles. The climb through the vineyards to the castle at Wurzburg in South African-made sandals designed for a stylish trot around the mall had left me with blisters on the soles of my feet. Now sore feet can ruin an overseas trip in a jiffy and turn one into a most undesirable travelling companion, so I deemed a new pair of sandals a must.

The most ergonomic, health-wise sandals were purchased with ease thanks to toursit sign language, a friendly German shop assistant and the wonders of my credit card.

Side benefits were colourful window boxes.

Painted icons which lit up the darkness of St Martin's cathedral.

And a medieval skyline.

Monday, 5 September '11: Kaela update

2011-09-05T14:01:00.008+02:00

Kaela has settled in remarkably in just a week. Where she was nervous and skittish (who wouldn’t have been?), she now strolls confidently through the house and has appropriated the rug in my study as her special place. That suits Gal who prefers to flop in the dining room. Instead of being terrified of the world on the pavement, she ventures out of the gate cautiously for a short walk. She socialised in a most elegant fashion with everyone who arrived for Bible Study on Thursday evening, before obediently retiring with Gal to the kitchen.

Galahad? He is experiencing a new lease on life. He gets far more attention simply because he is awake more often to demand yet another tummy rub. Every now and again he wrestles Kaela on the mat, noses his way with her through the jungle of budding spring clivias or enjoys a companionable swim in the pool.

And at last I have someone to do ‘girl’ things with – a dog who observes with concentration when I put on mascara and who agrees to lie still and watch ‘Swan Lake’ on television.

Tuesday 30 August 2011: Adopting Kaela

2011-08-30T14:03:00.007+02:00

Kaela's adoption took place on Saturday in a flurry of excitement for Galahad, tears for her former owner and with some trepidation on my behalf. All has gone remarkably well. A friend and dog trainer, Erna was at hand to give advice and take control. But in the end it was up to the two dogs to get acquainted.

Kaela is gaining confidence daily and adapting to the rhythms of a new household. Here she is an inside/outside dog; previously she was an outside dog.

And Gal, an nearly 11 year old who likes to snooze the day away has encountered a lively lady friend. Kaela's previous companion dog was a very exuberant 5 year old, who, I am glad to report, has also found a new home.

So we are all in the interesting process of forming a new three-dog life. Gal has discovered new energies; I am firmly using the Sit, Down and Stay commands to endorse good manners; Kaela is happily proving a ready and intelligent pupil.

Friday, 19 August 2011: Living life backwards

2011-08-19T14:09:00.005+02:00

In February I was awarded the Chancellor’s Award for Research at my institution. A prestigious prize that I was very surprised to win. Dear friend Leone, Events Co-ordinator of any friendship circle, arranged a celebratory luncheon with book club friends, work friends and just plain old good friends. The Blue Crane Restaurant overlooking the Austin Roberts Bird Sanctuary was the venue for vegetable quiche, salad and chilled sauvignon blanc.

Jansje regaled us with her story of childbirth in a Spanish village during the 60s. She, lying on an old iron bedstead and accompanied by the village midwife, struggled in the upper room; downstairs the rest of the village gathered to see what an Englishwoman (she’s full-blown Dutch) could do. Each time her moans became audible, the padre fell to his knees and besought Our Lady for aid. Succour duly given, a healthy baby girl entered the world.

What fun a ladies lunch party can be! You guys have just no idea!

Back home the family gave me this bunch of sweet pink roses which would have been the envy of any bride. Mmm, February 2011 had its moments.

17 August 2011: First stop - Wurzburg

2011-08-17T11:54:00.009+02:00

Wurzburg on the Main - our first stop on the Romantic Route through southern Germany. We arrived at Frankfurt airport, at 6am on Thursday, 16 August and found the railway station and a fast train to Wurzburg.

What a magical introduction to Germany this peaceful town was to the three of us – with the Mareinberg fortress set high above the vineyards and the River Main winding lazily below.

This is an old unversity town, episcopal see and the former home of the medieval woodcarver par excellence, Tilman Riemenschneider, whose altars topped our To See list during this trip.

A glimpse of St Kilian's Cathedral.

Giant strawberries bought on the marketplace, a warm ham roll and a generous mug of German coffee offered a wholesome antidote to jet lag and a bad 11-hour night flight in cramped economy class.

I felt a new person and map in hand, ready for the day.

Next travel instalment later. If I am to sustain blogging, I realise must aim at frequent modest entries. To come - Rothenburg, Neuschwanstein, Linderhof Palace , Oberammergau & Munich. Then Prague, the beautiful and other Bohemian gems.

Thursday, 11 August 2011: Could this work?

2011-08-11T14:40:00.002+02:00

Could this work?
This morning I went to meet Kaela, a 6 year old spayed Labrador bitch, who is looking for a new home. Will Sir Galahad find the lady as sweet as I did? She loves to swim as you can see but has not been walked on a lead.

Will I manage?

7 August, 2011: Turning sixty

2011-08-07T16:45:00.018+02:00

I celebrated my sixtieth birthday with a party two days ahead of the official date, 11 July.

Saturday, 9 July.

Ruth, the toast maker, raises her glass.

The event was passed in a happy blur of activity. I had arrived back from Europe just two weeks’ earlier and shopping and preparation for my brother and his wife’s visit and the arrival of Ruth and family was squeezed between the pile-up of work that occurs when one is Out of Office for any length of time.

The winter lunchtime menu was simple: homemade minestrone, garlic ciabattas from Woolworth’s Deli, my and Catherine’s lasagne made according to each’s favourite recipe and open salads.

The dessert, a hybrid between a chocolate truffle and a cupcake, were catered by ‘Nice things’ and were - very nice!

The crowd represented all aspects of my life: family, work, church, book club, embroidery and quilting and those in the category of simply friends. The day was aptly recorded by Rhoda’s quick snaps.

Bookclub gals!

Cath and Jethro

The Ya-Yah sisterhood from Unisa.

Rhoda of the canny camera.

Holding a party for nearly 50 guests ranging from 16 months to 70-odd years is a challenge in the dead of a particularly nasty winter. But the Highveld sun shone, the sky was blue and most guests could gather for at least the first hour on the winter-yellowed front lawn. The veranda was not too chilly to serve the drinks.

My special appreciation was to Graham (on the left) and Di for making the long journey to Pretoria. It is not every day that a Capetonian will brave the ‘lang pad’ (long road) to the interior. Capetonians simply don’t understand why anyone would want to live here anyhow! Gray and Di have been wonderful in keeping up contact with me since our parents, and then Richard, passed away – with phone calls and invitations for holidays and general concern.

So now I am officially a SC – senior citizen. The visits to the Botanical Gardens are free on a Tuesday and I have a SC card for the mall with all its discounts. For the rest, I feel quite ageless at present. And looking forward to the next moment as always.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011: Goodbye to an old friend

2011-08-02T14:09:00.005+02:00

My faithful companion of 14 years, Tristram, handsome black Labrador, was put to sleep last Monday. His aging had become increasingly apparent since the beginning of this year. His back legs sagged, his eyes and his hearing was dulled and nodules appeared on the leg from which a melanoma was removed last August. But still he nudged me for impatient attention, had the occasional back roll while he grinned happily and constantly begged for his favourite treat, a slice of fresh brown bread. The pace of our early morning walks had grown slower and slower and he sometimes stumbled and fell, leaving me apprehensive as to how I was to get him and Galahad home in the pre-dawn darkness.

When I fetched both dogs from the kennels the morning I returned from Prague, Trist was noticeably weaker, although his large frame remained deceptively solid. Some evenings my heart leapt when I hugged his sleeping form on the mat in front of my bed; other days, his perky spirit made me feel he would live forever. Then the nodules began to produce large weeping sores which would not heal in spite of medication. I noticed that he seldom wagged his tail. The morning we drove to the vet I did not think about it being his last trip. In the reception area he still glanced suspiciously at a large cat in a crate with a notice: ‘Looking for a home’. But his poor condition was obvious.

“I think it’s time. Or would you prefer to take him home for a few days and think about it?”

And so the decision was made. He died with his head on my lap: “Ouboet (old brother), you’re a good boy. You’re my old chap! Tristy-boy!”

Now it’s just Galahad and me.

Wednesday, 2 February: Who's for a cuppa?

2011-02-02T18:10:00.004+02:00

If I was an artist, I would paint a still life of this gorgeous expresso served to Trudie and I in teeny kitchen shop in Nimes, Provence. We actually did not require a cuppa; our needs were more basic and pertained to the use of the Ladies Room. But if we had to down an expresso to clinch the deal, that was fine. And what a work of art our expresso was, accompanied by its chocolate-coated almond. I have never mastered the art of throwing back the contents of a miniscule cup with a cube of sugar clenched between my teeth, but I enjoy an occasional expresso taken straight after a heavy meal.

Alas, my heavy coffee-drinking days are over. I could hold my own with any coffee-holic, consuming cup after cup of black filtered brew every morning. Today, I manage a single daily mug of home made cappucino, half coffee and half frothed 2% milk whipped with my handy Aerolatte. My earliest coffee drinking experiences were cups of milky Nescafe served to my brothers' friends. Coffee was for grown ups and grown up I felt at 16, when instant coffee became part of Mom's shopping list.

A sojourn in the modern day Namibia (then South West Africa) taught Richard and I that life was too short for poor coffee. Coffee beans had to be bought freshly ground from Woermann and Brock and brewed with filtered water. A habit I have never lost.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011: Look who's visiting!

2011-01-26T13:05:00.006+02:00

Look who's visiting Thatchwick at present? A grey hornbill pair and their rather large chick. The grey hornbill is a resident of the thornveld and is a common in the northern part of southern Africa. A nesting pair of hornbills is uncommon in a suburban garden in Pretoria.

I have encountered hornbills passing by during the last two or three years - stopping usually for a scratch around my compost heap. But this time, they are here to stay and doing very nicely on a diet of Hills omega enriched pellets for elderly dogs! A bag of Hills JD diet for Tristram costs me a sizeable amount each month and now the expensive treat is being shared by my honoured guests.

Early mornings after our walk, I am summoned by the loud: "Phee Pheeoo Phee" and the pellets are placed on the wall at the kitchen door, much to the chagrin of the 0live thrush pre- invasion was sole privy to this treat. On this wet summer's day, a morning snack was required and the birds were remarkably tame, allowing me to approach the wall and take photos of Junior feeding just behind the bay tree.

Friday 14 January 2010: What's your working style?

2011-01-14T09:44:00.003+02:00

Today I enjoyed the unaccustomed treat of an early morning breakfast meeting at Bugatti's with colleagues eager to describe a recent fact-finding tour of US campuses. In contrast, my usual journey to work is to cross the dining room from my bedroom to my study. I flick the start up button on my PC , throw open the study doors onto the veranda and allow the fountain's babble of water drown out rush hour traffic rumbling past the walls of Thatchwick.

At 6.30 am this morning, pleasantly expelled from my insular workaday world , I was amazed at the individual 'offices' rapidly set up on nearly every table. Waiters took orders for bacon and eggs, waffles and juice, coffee and croissants while laptops flickered to life, Blackberries appeared, diaries opened and briefcases overflowed with papers and files. Then the 'offices' filled up as a companion or two arrived, similarly equipped for that 6.45 am meeting.

Where does everyone come from? Are conventional offices too quiet, too sterile, too much like routine? Is it the bacon and eggs over a latte, so much more attractive than a quick bite in one's home kitchen? Do ideas sprout more effectively in the anonymous buzz created by just-as-busy strangers? Being alone in the crowd?

I am fascinated by idiosyncratic working habits. Churchill wrote or dictated a couple of thousand words a week sitting up in bed. Marx was more conventional and worked in tomb-like silence (I would imagine) in the British Musem from opening to closing. Alice Munro wrote in 'slivers of time' while she did loads of washing and watched over toddlers. And your working habits?

6 January 2011: End of the summer holidays

2011-01-06T08:26:00.006+02:00

The long summer break has come to an end, at least for me. I returned from holiday to my home office - just a step a way - on Monday, 3 January. There were no exotic locations this year; but as you can see, a good time was had by all, right here at home in Pretoria.

Two dogs, a boy and lots of crystal clear water are a recipe for success. Catherine's best school friend, Natasha, and hubby, Egmont, and children travelled from Jo'burg for a day of good food and renewed friendship here at Thatchwick. Natasha was like a 'third' daughter to us when our own girls were growing. How nice that she still wants to spend time at her second home.

Jethro had a chance to try out his spiffy floral swimming trunks within the careful shelter of Mom's arms.

Galahad is an avid swimmer, with or without company. But the presence of two small friends made him grin with special pleasure. Trist prefers to keep a safe distance from the splashes. As a puppy, he was taught, of necessity, to swim in a chilly pool during winter. The experience put him off for life.

4 January 2011: Midsummer Christmas

2011-01-04T13:57:00.006+02:00

Our forebears bequeathed us in Africa the images of Christmas amongst snowdrifts, with holly bedecked halls, Yule tide logs and heavy, rich Christmas cuisine. At last we are developing our own style of midsummer Christmas suitable for a hot Highveld day with late afternoon thunderstorms to cool down the air.

Surrounded by the palms on my sister-in-law's patio, sunlight played on the table as we waited for the starter. Turkey and cold gammon were served with old-fashioned favourites: Ouma Ray's potato salad, Carla's choice of carrot salad and bowls of tossed greens. Dessert was cherry trifle and it was washed down with a crisp savignon blanc, merlot, juice and jugs of ice water.

Jethro made Cath and Carla smile.

And the two cousins struck a formal pose for Jethro's first Christmas ever.

Carla and Reinhart sorted the presents just to be sure that the piles were accurate.

25 December 2010: May your Christmas be full of bright-eyed joy

2010-12-25T11:59:00.003+02:00

May your Christmas be full of wide-eyed, bright-eyed joy! Jethro is delighted with his first Christmas ever.

Monday 27 December: The new kitchen

2010-12-23T10:07:00.008+02:00

An unanticipated and unplanned development of 2010 was the complete gutting of my old kitchen and the installation of a completely new kitchen, down to the tap fitting and tiles. It all started with a casual remark over a coffee. "I would love to renovate my kitchen, " quoth I, "but lack the courage." My good friend, Trudie, an even greater optimist than myself, retorted,"What is three weeks' of chaos compared to the rest of your life?" I took up the challenge even though the three weeks were closer to eight!

My kitchen was old, functional and boring. The walls are crooked which made measuring a designer's nightmare. I wanted a romantic French Provencal look, complete with chandeliers. The latter were the cheapest item and the easiest to find: Mr Price's Home store.

The old wooden door leads to my pantry, which only needed new tiles and a coat or two of cream paint. A curtain bought earlier in Provence was just the thing to cover the glass panes.

My choice of wall tiles changed at the last moment. The tiler was already at work, using with the accent tile on the floor. I was doubtful but lacked initiative after weeks of dust and mess. Ria, my domestic helper, intervened. "Those tiles are ugly. They are spoiling your whole kitchen. Everyone (the installation team) thinks so but they are don't want to be honest. Now, I'm telling you!" Thanks to Ria and the salesman at Italtile, who made the exchange at 5 pm without batting an eyelid and no extra expense.

I just love my 'fireplace' with mantelpiece and glass cabinets which can light up at night.

I have since had blinds installed and am rearranging the displays bit by bit. The kitchen boasts pot drawers, a wine rack (still more or less empty at the moment), a pull out drawer for my Kenwood and a pull out grocery cupboard housed in the place of the former, unused broom cupboard.

The worst moments are forgotten; the best are still to come. Thanks to Trudie.

Wednesday, December 22: Cape Town reunion

2010-12-22T11:54:00.012+02:00

The butterflies on Diana's 60th birthday devil's food chocolate cupcakes seem to flutter in anticipation. A week ago the up-country family - myself, Ruth and the girls, Cath, Ryan and baby Jethro - spent a long weekend in Cape Town to celebrate. We had not seen Ryan and Laurie since their permanent return to South Africa after a sojourn of a decade in London. Two-and-a-half year old Oliver and baby Eva needed to get acquainted with their cousins...

And Aunt Ruth, who looks mighty glad to have a lapful of baby.

Ruth and Joelle and Jaelene and I in a pre-party pose.

Laurie iced the dozens of cupcakes baked late night by Charmel.

The labourer is worthy of his wage and the baker gets to lick her fingers!

Graham and Di posed under the gazebo in back garden before the guests arrived. The south-easter died down to permit a tranquil summer evening party with lots of friends. The adjective 'old' took on a dual meanings: I renewed acquaintance with a former beau of teenagedom and the pipsqueak brother of a school friend, who had suddenly become middle-aged overnight even if he has not lost his impish charm. How could we all possibly have reached the formidable age that our parents had been just yesterday? 60's music played in the background: 'Remember the Bee Gees?' 'I just loved the Beachboys, Sonny and Cher, the boys from Liverpool!'

The three cousins enjoy some ice cream sticks. Oliver commented. "Di, I really like the two J's!" Well, what sensible young man would object to the attentions of two blondes set to mother him?

There was plenty to eat other than the cupcakes but somehow they drew the most smiles. Here is a chuckle from Bids.

The day after the party we picknicked on the green lawns of Kirstenbosch Botanical Garden with the sky so blue and the mountains the backdrop behind us. Cath is a soliticious mom and Jethro looks satisfied.

Especially if there is a jar of strained veg around.

Thursday 2 September 2010: Petit dejeuner at Arles

2010-09-01T18:43:00.019+02:00

Together with friends, Salome and Gerrie, I breakfasted on coffee and pain au chocolat at Arles. Situated at the crossroads of the Rhone and the Roman Via Aurelia, Arles was designated the first city of Provence by Julius Caesar.

The magnificent more or less intact Roman arena which could seat 10 000 spectators is larger and older than its counterpart in Nimes. I had not expected to find so many fine examples of Roman architecture and engineering in Provence but, of course, it was exactly that in antiquity- Provincia Romana.

Turning a corner, slowly wandering half-lost down a cobble street, stopping to buy fine serviettes and linens, we came upon the Arles Saturday market.

Baskets of lavender.

Pans of steaming paella.

Tubs of carmine strawberries.

Mauve and white streaked bulbs of garlic.

Mounds of cheeses.

Snails bubbling in a tomato flavoured sauce.

Striped melons making a Cezanne-like still life.

Piles of purple and green rough-skinned avocadoes.

Bunches of pink and white radishes.

Artichokes reminiscent of an armadilo's rough plated skin.

And on the other side of the road, delicately embroidered chemises of yesteryear.

Friday 27 August 2010: Popes and carousels: Avignon

2010-08-27T13:14:00.020+02:00

Today Avignon is a city of carousels, boutique shopping and sidewalk eating in the sunshine. The sombre grey stone of walls encircling the old city and the ramparts of a fortified palace remind the passersby of days when beliefs and traditions were strong enough to make Kings bow low before religious leaders.

Avignon's famous landmark is the Pope's palace built as a fortress by Pope Benedict XII and added to by Clement VI, patron of the arts and lover of the high life. For about 70 years the Popes resided in Avignon, the years of the so called Bablylonish captivity. Clement V fled to France in 1309 to avoid papal power struggles in Rome.

Next to the palace is the Notre Dames des Domes, Avignon's cathedral. I found it a refershingly austere structure except for the gilded Madonna on the tower, a 19th century embellishment.

The courtyard of the older section of the Pope's Palace reflects Benedictine simplicity. However, the history of customs and traditions (relayed on the audio cassettes available for hire to guide one around a buillding which has explanations only in French) told a different story. Elaborate courtly procedures accompanied every move of the resident Pope, from sleeping rituals to eating and dressing. It all seemed a far cry from the simple, humble and unworldly example of the Christ whom the medieval clergy were tasked to represent.

I just had to snap the effigies of Louis II ' the good' de Bourbon and his lady, Anne of Auvergne, at whose marble feet lay their beloved and faithful pugs.

Le Pont St Benezet was built ostensibly at the instigation of a young shepherd boy during the 12 century. Over the years the floods of the Rhone took their toll and only three of the 22 arches remain.

The street of the Weavers once housed the dyers who supplied the local weavers. A branch of the river Sorgue flows in a canal down one side. Under the plane trees, the cobbled streets and the grey stone building a stall selling second-hand books caught my eye.

A quirky little cafe indicated what a can of green lime paint can do for two slatted chairs.

I am always on the lookout for something contemporary for Catherine amidst all the baroque. This little imp sits outside the city wall near the Pont.

The shops selling linens and Provencal prints abound. But you have to search the labels to avoid the telltale Made in China or Woven in India labels.

Wednesday 14 July: Ends and beginnings

2010-07-14T18:08:00.009+02:00

The end or the beginning?The end of a hectic six weeks. Both for me and for South Africa. And it is now or never – to begin blogging again.

Spain lifted the FIFA World Cup high. A very good time was had by all as the world enjoyed a wonderful sports event that we locals have anticipated for a decade. I have acquired a taste for the sound of vuvuzela’s, flown our SA flag from my car aerial and learned quite a bit about soccer.

On a personal note, I have travelled to Provence and tasted the sun-ripened tomatoes at a Saturday market in Arles.

Of course, attending conference in Aix-en-Provence does not mean you can't wine and dine.

I arrived home to make another three trip to Durban - not watch the games but to teach.

Then the girls arrived...

For a week of the extended holidays with Gran ‘all by themselves’.

I also turned a year older and had fun celebrating it with the family.

It’ s been a remarkable winter so far.

Hopefully now it’s time to get back into a routine. And record my meanderings in Provence in the next posts.

Tuesday, 1 June 2010: Got my travelling shoes on again

2010-06-01T15:00:00.002+02:00

Home seems sweeter than ever just before I leave on a trip. Safe, protected, familiar. Tomorrow I fly via Paris to Marseille to attend a conference in Aix-en-Provence. A destination that I have coveted since reading Peter Mayle.

Yet the butterflies always flutter in my innards as I pull on my travelling shoes. Doggos are off to the kennels; the budgies will chatter near Jethro's pram; my PC is about to be shut down; the Out of Office message on the email is set to operate from 6 am tomorrow and the last items tucked into my minuscule hand luggage.

I shall be back on 12 July to World Cup fever that is taking over South Africa. Back to home, sweet home.

Monday, 24 May 2010: Seraphine de Senlis

2010-05-24T09:28:00.006+02:00

Seraphine de Senlis was the topic of the movie, Seraphine (2009) that my artist friend, Rhoda and I watched on Saturday evening. I had no previous knowledge of this French painter of Naïve Art and I found her creations and the story of her life moving. Seraphine was born in 1834 in Arsy, France. Orphaned at seven, she spent her childhood in a convent; her early years as a shepherdess and the rest of her life as a household drudge. But Seraphine was driven by her desire to paint – through the nights in the shabby bedsit; through the shelling of her village during WWI; when encouraged by the German art critic, Wilhelm Uhde; and when forgotten and unappreciated in the post-war years until Uhde found her once again. Sadly, her childlike spending of her patron’s money alarmed his sense of caution during the Great Crash and eventually insanity ended her virtually hidden career. She died alone and friendless in a mental asylum in 1934 (some put the date at 1942). She never knew that some of her paintings, brilliant images of leaves, flowers and feathers which seem to swirl and quiver, hang in the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art, New York.

In the movie Yolande Moreau does a wonderful portrayal of the painter – scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots and washing linen in the stream. Gazing with affectionate worship at the image of the Virgin Mary, mesmerised by the sunlight dancing on leaves or the image of her own work worn hand submerged in a pail of water. Making her own paints of glowing colours, grinding her mixtures with mortar and pestle from concoctions of mud from river beds, wild flowers from the hedgerows, a vial of blood from the butcher’s bowl and molten wax from the votive candles at Mary’s shrine in the village church.

‘She was obsessed,’ whispered Rhoda to me in the dim light of the cinema. ‘Well, so are you when you get going!’ I answered back. In the seat next to me, a young girl sat weeping. It was that kind of movie. That kind of life – Seraphine de Senlis.

23 May 2010, Sunday: Falling in love with Jethro

2010-05-23T18:00:00.003+02:00

Isabella's with its pink and white candy stripe decor, its range of teas and luscious, decadent cakes is just the place to be seen in Pretoria suburbia at the moment. And who better to be seen with than month-old Jethro. I am not sure if he is enamoured of his Grandma or not; he is far too sleepy to decide. But certainly I am falling in love with Jethro at each tète-et-tète we have.

Tuesday, 18 May 2010: 'Olive Kitteridge'

2010-05-18T12:43:00.007+02:00

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout is not really a novel; it is a series of short stories spread over a period of some twenty-five years and held together together by location, a small town in Maine, and the indomitable character of Olive herself. Olive is a 7th grade school teacher who has taught more than a generation of the town’s children; the wife to a man much nicer than herself; and the overweening, tiresome mother to a rather unpleasant son. Olive is crusty, awkward and insensitive. Yet in spite of rather than because of her sensibilities, she often says something that is just right in a particular situation – a former student contemplating suicide, a wayward girl suffering from depression. But she is equally capable of putting her untactful foot right into it – usually when her nearest and dearest are concerned. Doesn’t that sound familiar? Olive appears as a middle-aged wife, an aging spouse, a widow, a mother out of touch with the vagaries of her son’s very 21st century lifestyle and finally, as a elderly woman learning to appreciate the clumsy comfort of companionship and even, new love. I enjoyed the humanity of this book and was delighted to discover the writing of Elizabeth Strout. This was an interesting choice for a Pulitzer Prize winner (2009), such a understated gem populated with believable, small and endearing rather than larger than life characters.

Saturday, 15 May, 2010: Time enough to smell the aloes?

2010-05-15T18:27:00.004+02:00

When will I have time enough to discover whether the autumn-flowering aloes have any scent at all?

Maybe when I retire. My thoughts turn periodically to this matter. Certainly I do not want to wish my life away. I have always been of the opinion that work is salutary for body and soul and have thrown myself into my job with enthused dedication for the past thirty years. Yet these days the notion of freedom from deadlines and quotas is increasingly seductive.

I fear that I have entered into the phase entitled Imagination, which the experts say is experienced 6-15 years before retirement. The next phase, if all goes to plan, will be ushered in with my sixtieth birthday next year. Thephase of Anticipation, of crucial importance to a fulfilled retirement. So, if the research is to be believed, I am not yet Anticipating, just Dreaming. Of afternoon walks in the park to enjoy the autumn aloes and gaze at lizards asleep in the sun. Of mornings cutting and piecing my untouched stash of quilting fabrics. Of packing cupboards straight and spraying the roses weekly and not sporadically. Of ignoring emails and trying out cookie recipes instead.

But again the experts caution that this blissful state of Doing What One pleases only lasts for the first year of retirement – the Honeymoon Phase. Followed by Disenchantment and Reorientation. Daunting prospects. Maybe I must just quit complaining and stay at my desk as long as I can.

Your thoughts?

Thursday, 13 May 2010: Mother and Child

2010-05-12T19:53:00.003+02:00

‘Mother and child’ should perhaps have been titled ‘Mother and daughter’. The movie newly released in my part of suburbia to coincide with Mother’s Day focuses on mother and daughter relationships within the context of adoption. The structure of the movie is ambitious – three complex stories which play out over more two years in the lives of three main characters. Annette Bennnng gives a professional performance as the middle-aged woman haunted by her experience of having given up her baby daughter for adoption when she was only fourteen. But her transformation from bitter, emotionally isolated and dowdy to nice, attractive and happily married in the space of a year was a little unconvincing. Naomi Watts portrays the daughter, thirty seven years later, as a gorgeous, promiscuous and emotionally stunted woman who also undergoes a transformation to pregnant and vulnerable. Like a Shakespearean tragic heroine, she dies, conveniently in my view, to allow the director to tie up the loose ends of her and her mother’s stories without the angst of a reunion between two troubled women. The third story is predictable so I leave that without comment except to say that it flows into the events of the other two tales. Personally I prefer the quirky realism of Pedro Almodovar’s Mother’s Day movie – All about my mother (1999). But that must wait for another blog.

‘Mother and child’ is a thoroughly women’s movie, not recommended by me for husbands or young children. Was it altogether too melodramatic, too contrived? I doubt it. Every adoption story I have heard from close friends and family with firsthand experience have all been stranger than fiction.

Tuesday 11 May 2010: Celebrating 20 years of friendship

2010-05-10T13:52:00.004+02:00

Dressed in our gladrags, on Friday evening Theresa and I shared a night on the town. Dining Italian at Capeesh, just a stone's throw from Thatchwick, we celebrated twenty years of friendship. 1990-2010. Fifty-somethings now; thirty-somethings when we met. Theresa was branching out from former journalist and full-time mum to publisher; I had just finished my doctorate with the idea of a little self-help book for women reentering the workplace a-bubble in my mind. It was a happy match.

Theresa is my inspiration friend! Just a few minutes with her and I am bursting with new ideas, insights and projects. Side by side we have travelled a few valleys too. Bereavement, serious illness, a beloved son's health in jeopardy. On Friday evening we drank a toast to life, friendship, God's abundant grace and future plans.

Monday, 10 May 2010: Kissing cousins

2010-05-10T13:41:00.008+02:00

Joelle and Jaelene meet their new cousins, a moment of some big-eyed awe.

Jethro making us all grin.

A little girl and the wonder of a baby.

A new nursery to explore - what toys does Jethro have?

21 April: Introducing Jethro

2010-04-21T08:52:00.006+02:00

Introducing Jethro, born 19 April at 22 hours, Pretoria East Hospital. A teeny-weeny sleepy bundle who has been gratefully and joyfully received into our world. And he is not named after any 70's rock band either! Jethro, the father-in-law of Moses, was the world's first Management Consultant and a wise one at that. He advised Moses to delegate lesser tasks of judgement to ten carefully chosen deputies so that Moses could focus on the task of leadership. Sound familiar?

Cath is delighted to hold the Bump at last.

Ryan seems a natural.

Gran's eyes are wide with wonder! Ruth, Joelle and Jaelene will arrive this weekend to welcome "Another J, Mommy! into the family.

31 March 2010: More family than friends

2010-03-31T10:51:00.038+02:00

Grandma's and great-aunts, nephews, nieces, cousins by the dozen, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters abounded at the joyous, carefree wedding of Rozanne and Minnaar - chums as toddlers, dating teenagers, long distance student buddies, reunited lovers and now bride and groom. Under the veil, Zan's smile was broad. So was Dad Pieter's.

Mom Rhoda designed and sewed the bride's gown, the bridesmaids' dresses and her own little froufrou number in midnight blue.

Years before Rhoda and Pieter had emerged as man and wife on the very same stone steps as Zan and Minnaar did on Saturday.

Madeleine the Beautiful

Men-in-anxious-waiting

Bridal attendants in cherry red.

Rozanne, professional chef par excellence, baked and decorated the chocolate mousse cake, lavishly decorated with roses and her homemade choc truffles.

Gorgeous gals were mother and daughter, Rhoda and Madeleine

Speeches were short and snappy.

How nice it was to take my pale green beaded mother-of-the-bride outfit out of the closet where it has been safely stowed since Cath's big day and enjoy it once again.

Wednesday, 17 March: No grumpy old men around here!

2010-03-17T13:20:00.003+02:00

No grumpy old men around Thatchwick! Just two courteous aging companions who have grown more than a little placid.

Tristram turns a grand ninety-one doggie years in June; Galahad is a relatively youthful sixty-three. But both prefer to snooze most of the day unless they catch a whiff of steak or the rattle of the breadbin. Galahad still appreciates his late afternoon swim and some leisurely water aerobics with his rather perished orange rubber ring. Trist will attempt to catch just one ball before he gathers all his old doggie toys in his mouth, safely out of my reach, and heads for his favourite spot on the veranda. Their best time is 4.30 am when we rise for our early morning walk. In the fresh early morning air, with the world to ourselves, eyes are bright, tails wag, and the leashes strain. Gal loves his backroll and tummy rub in the dewy grass in the park area. Trist limps along gamely warming up his arthritic back legs.

10 March, 2010: Eco friendliness - past and present

2010-03-10T12:40:00.004+02:00

Washing the linen this week was a great opportunity to try out my new Ecoballs which I bought to replace regular detergents and save the world! I was very satisfied with my wash - snowy white and soft. If things continue this way, my savings on detergents should be considerable. Those Ecoballs cost R200 for approx. 300 washes; a packet of detergent is about R 65 for 60 washes.

This adds to my general enthusiasm for recycling: organic kitchen waste to the compost heap; bottles, plastics, tin and paper to the relevant collection points. Electricity used with care especially with 25 % Eskom hikes in tariffs on the cards.

But how new is this all to do about the environment? My mom always kept a thriving compost heap for kitchen waste: teabags and coffee grounds, egg shells, veggie and fruit peels, even shredded newspapers. Milk bottles were rinsed and recycled and the silver milk bottle seals collected. Paper and string were folded to be re-used time and again. Christmas cards were collected for charity recycling. Plastic bags were rinsed and used again. The attractive curtains, cushions and bedthrows in Mom's home were often made from remnants bought at sales. Clothes were darned and mended. Sheets cut in half and sewn outer sides facing inwards. Fraying towels were hemmed and darned until they were demoted to the cleaning cupboard. Lights in empty rooms were switched off and not left to burn heedlessly. Her garden was planted with cuttings and seeds obtained from friends' gardens. She grew her own vegetables and scorned at buying flowers from a shop for her vases. Family celebrations took place at home with fare from her kitchen.

When did this all go so very off track? I confess, as a baby boomer, with the scramble after affluence and extravagance of the post-war, throw-away generation who rebelled against all that scrimping and saving. Now I don't want to advocate a return to parsimonous anxiety about having enough. Nor a militant activism. Just find out how easy it is, how much fun to be eco friendly.

Monday 8 March 2010: Surprise Baby Shower

2010-03-08T13:47:00.013+02:00

Surprise! Cath and Ryan (and the Bump) arrive at Thatchwick Cottage on Saturday afternoon. They found the sitting room filled with thirty-six eager guests gathered to celebrate the soon arrival of their first baby. My first grandson.

Ruth, Joelle and Jaelene had arrived the day before with a bootful of goodies: cupcakes still to be iced, gifts and party decorations. By noon Saturday we had just made it! And what better opportunity to wear the girls' special flowergirl dresses once again.

The banner was up and the table set. Time for the guests to arrive on foot. Cars had been parked in Marais Street to make allay any suspicions Catherine may have had. The plan to get her to the party unsuspecting? That was Ryan's task.

Ruth made the welcoming speech. "Catherine may be quiet and reserved but she has the most amazing circle of friends! Thank you all for being here today. Family, collegues at work and friends from church, university and school days..."

Each package a surprise.

See that special glow?

Thursday, 4 March: A gift from a poor man

2010-03-04T13:44:00.002+02:00

A late afternoon ring at my gate. An unexpected gift. Oliver, the security guard, whose regular beat includes William Drive, stood waiting. He had just returned from a visit to his home village in northern Zimbabwe. Before he left on the three-day bus journey home, I had given him a parcel for his mother. “Mam, my mother was very happy with the parcel you sent her.” He handed me a round, travel stained package. A supermarket bag enclosed a well-used red plastic container. “It’s honey,” he explained, “in the shell. Very, very sweet”. And so it was – honey in a honeycomb. Dark amber. Pungent. Sweet with the distinct flavour of the nectar gathered by a swarm of bees far off in devastated rural Zimbabwe.

“Thank you so much. Wonderful. I love honey.” I answered enthusiastically. Then I hesitated, a little uncertain about the protocol. But it’s my conviction, in a cross-cultural situation, to ask politely for clarity rather than blunder on regardless. “Would you prefer me to pay you for this?”. “No, Mam, it is a gift – for you. Not just because of what you sent my mother. Because of the way you talk to us when you walk with your dogs – the way you interact with us.”

While the comb was draining, I remembered the honeycombs my mother would purchase from roaming pedlars when I was a child living in Camps Bay. Huge fat honeycombs balanced over a chipped white enamel bowl. The sticky sweetness was redolent of the fynbos growing on the slopes of Table Mountain where those bees had gathered their store. A little bit of comb broken off for my brother and me to squash into waxy gold on our toast.

I have decided to bake a honey cake with this honey, this tub of honeycomb passed through the wrought ironwork of my front gate – a precious gift from a poor man.

Monday, 15 February 2010: Starting to weave again

2010-02-14T19:47:00.003+02:00

It's been a while, hasn't it? But here I am weaving a new blog beginning in 2010. Just a sentence or two. Just like this little southern masked weaver. Just a strand of grass on a stripped reed. As you can see from my header Barb and Sheila arrived from Minnestota to enjoy the bright colours and hot days of a South African midsummer. And it has taken a while to return to the rhythms of humdrum routine.

Wednesday, 30 December '09: Waiting for my American 'sister' on her first time visit

2009-12-30T17:31:00.010+02:00

I am waiting for the arrival of my AFS 'sister' and her daughter travelling all the way from St Paul-Minneapolis on their first-ever visit to Africa. A last minute re-routeing due to bad weather means they will arrive much later than expected. So as I while away the time, let me post a few holiday pics to show that our Christmas break at Wyndford Holiday Farm in the Eastern Free State was a blast!

The pool gave relief from temperatures in the early 30s C.

The food was scrumptious.

Ryan and Cath left the stress of 2009 far behind.

I was unashamedly lazy. And a very good time was had by all.

Saturday, 19 December 2009: Wishing you a happy Christmas

2009-12-19T16:00:00.005+02:00

A very happy Christmas to you all! My Bible study group celebrated Christmas with a lively bring and share party. Our ages range from twenty to seventy and so do our backgrounds. We really are the United Nations!

I leave tomorrow to spend Christmas with both my daughters and their families (Catherine's family is to be - a son in April 2010) at our family favourite, Wyndford Holiday Farm in the Eastern Free State, 17 km from Fouriesburg and overlooking the distant Maluti's of Lesotho.

It's a fully catered old fashioned holiday farm where the kids can run wild, grown-ups can chat, read, hike, play tennis or bowls and swim. May God richly bless you this Christmas! See you in 2010 (0r almost)!

Sunday, 13 December '09: 'Departures'

2009-12-13T17:08:00.003+02:00

Last Saturday a friend and I indulged in a little matinee movie-going at the local arts movie cinema in Brooklyn Mall. Our choice was Okuribito or Departures, the 2009 Academy Award winner for Best Foreign Film. The unusual subject matter of this movie - a wonderful mix of human interest, black comedy, cultural enlightenment (for me) and beautiful visuals and cello playing - centres around the ceremonial Japanese custom of encoffinment in which the 'departed', the dead, are respectfully and artistically prepared before an intimate circle of mourning family and friends before being placed in a coffin and ultimately cremated.

'Could that topic make for entertainment?' you may well ask. Oh, yes, profound, funny, interesting and heartwarming is the story of young Daigo, a cellist, who loses his job in an 0rchestra and moves back to his hometown, far from the glitz 0f Tokyo, with his delightful wife. Here he apparently takes a job at a travel agent, only to find that the 'departures' referred to in the job ad refer to the departures of the deceased. Against his better judgement and eventually incurring the censure of his wife and friend, he learns to carry out the highly ritualised procedures of encoffinment and to appreciate the reconciliation that often takes place among the mourning family members. When his own estranged father dies, his involvement with 'departures' becomes personal. It affords him a moving opportunity for forgiveness and healing.

The movie took ten years to make and its producer initially doubted its reception in Japan where the subject of death is taboo. Well, now isn't the subject of death taboo in most cultures, including Western society? My personal experience is that death is just only manageable to most people if it is sanitised, sentimentalised or kept at a firm arm's length.

Rent this movie for an evening's worthwhile viewing. It may be sad at times, but it is hardly morbid.

Tuesday, 7 December '09: Circles in the forest

2009-12-08T15:50:00.007+02:00

Dalene Mathee (1938-2005) , South African authoress, lies buried at the foot of the great tree on the fringes of her beloved Knysna forest. A fitting resting place for someone whose most acclaimed 1984 novel, Circles in the forest (cited on an international publisher's list of the 100 Must Read books) deals so poetically and poignantly with the exploration of the indigenous forests, the extermination of the Knysna elephants and the humble lives of the forest folk, the woodcutters.

"Like a mighty king it stood towering above the white alder and mountain saffron, the stinkwood, assegai and hard pear. As if God had planted it long before the others, its giant root anchored it to the ground like giant arms." These lyrical words have been translated from Afrikaans into fourteen other languages. Mathee's forest novels: Circles in the forest; Fiela's child and The Mulberry Forest, have thus reached around the world, even to Iceland.

But what of Big Foot, the doomed bull elephant of Circles in the Forest? Could he have ripped out this tree with his enormous trunk, leaving its carcass across our path? Sadly Big Foot has disappeared along with the rest of the elephants who roamed the the forest and fynbos areas in the southern Cape in the late nineteenth century. The elephant population declined rapidly as increasing numbers of woodcutters and hunters settled in the area. By 1908 the population status was estimated at 20 individuals, dwindling further to an estimated 11 by 1970. By 1980 a mere 3 individuals were believed to still roam the area.

In 1994, three young female elephants where introduced from the Kruger National Park in an attempt to sustain the presence of elephants in the Knysna forest area. The translocated elephants did not remain within the largely forested conservation area but progressively chose to range in more open habitat on private land, and were eventually relocated to the Shamwari Game Reserve in the Eastern Cape.

So Graham, Di and I walked the magic circles without any sounds of distant trumpeting or crashing feet. All we heard was the cry of the Knysna lourie and glimpsed the flashing of brightly coloured wings among the treetops.

3 December '09: Holy Trinity Church, Belvidere

2009-12-03T10:30:00.006+02:00

"Anything special you would like to see?" asked by my brother on the first day of the holiday. "Oh, yes! That little Anglican church on the lake somewhere just before Knysna," was my quick response. When we were children, my mother's favourite detour on our journey to her sister's farm, Assegai Bush, outside Grahamstown, was the Holy Trinity Church on the Belvidere Estate, on the banks of the Knysna River.

As children we would peek into its dark depths with its jewel-like stained glass windows, admire the handstitched kneelers and read aloud the gravestones under the oaks, wondering what adventures had brought the deceased parishoners from the English shires to the then wilderness during the mid-nineteeth century. The miniature church built in the Norman style of the 11th and 12th centuries looks quite at home in the lush landscape of the south-eastern coast of Africa. It was built by Thomas Henry Duthie, founder of the Belividere Estate from 1833-1857.

It is good to know that the little stone church is still a place of active worship for local residents and many visitors and the centre of a parish comprised of foresters and sawmill operators who work in the Knysna forests. The little white rectory with its English country garden delighted my sister-in-law and I.

Tuesday,1 December '09: The beaches of the Garden Route were My World for a short break

2009-12-01T13:58:00.013+02:00

Mid-November saw me take an unusual pre-Christmas break with my brother, Graham, and his vivacious wife, Di at Sedgefield on the south-eastern coast of the Cape Province.

This area stretching from Mossel Bay to Knysna and beyond is known as the Garden Route of South Africa, named for its spectacular beauty.

Graham is a keen fisherman. He tolerated our sallies into the little coastal towns and the indigenous forests of Knysna as long as he was granted his fishing: early morning and late afternoon. Sadly this area with a climate so temperate and its vegetation so green is now 'Water stressed', a euphemism for drought-stricken that I have not encountered before.

But the beaches with their pink sand and the never-ending rows of breakers are unsurpassed -some of the most magnificant stretches of coastline in the world.

What do the other folk at My World think?

Friday, 13 November : Aunty Helen

2009-11-13T15:39:00.003+02:00

Aunty Helen was a perfect aunt. She never scolded or punished. She could make up bedtime stories which carried on for weeks in a comforting, never-ending saga. She believed in fairies just as I did and didn’t mind tiptoeing on a damp lawn peeking in foxgloves and snapdragons, all excellent hiding places for the wee folk. She rubbed legs aching from growing pains until the sufferer fell asleep. The smell of 4711 Eau de Cologne marked Aunty Helen’s ministrations when I was fevered with tonsillitis or exhausted from throwing up last night’s dinner. She would generously sprinkle the astringent perfume from her precious bottle into enamel basin of tepid water and bathe my sticky hands and flushed face. Wordlessly she exchanged soiled nightclothes for clean ones and tucked a clean towel over the top sheet in the case of any other mishaps. She took me to symphony concerts at the Cape Town City Hall before I was the proper age and ignored my squirming on a creaky chair. Afterwards riding on the top deck of the bus headed for her bedsitter in Green Point, we talked earnestly about how music made pictures in my head: galloping steeds, dancing girls in silk garments, crashing waterfalls and placid streams. She heard my brother and my bedtime prayers and was persuasively behind our enrolment in Sunday School at a time my parents were only occasional churchgoers. She allowed me to brush her thick brown hair, which never greyed, into exotic styles, pinning it with jewelled clips and tying it with scarves. Then she would go downstairs and eat dinner with the rest of family without altering a single outlandish strand. When I had my girls, I watched her, thinner, wirier and wrinkled, do exactly the same for them, weaving a childhood magic they have never forgotten.

Was Aunt Helen happy in her spinsterhood which, according to family legend, was the consequence of her weak heart? Why did she arrive at our doorstep for an extended stay in the 50’s wearing a pixie cap of pink flowers and a set of leather suitcases embossed with her name? Was she always so reserved and shy, sometimes hardly speaking a word to the adults and favouring the children’s company? Did she really spurn a wealthy Scotsman because she didn’t like his bald head? With the self-centeredness of childhood, I never bothered to really find out. Later when these things interested me, she had become more and more taciturn, a precursor to Alzheimer’s and her last years in an old age home watched over anxiously by my mother.

Thursday 5 November '09: Tribute to a friend: Sir Tristram

2009-11-05T01:00:00.002+02:00

Sir Tristram (TristyBoy to his friends) has reached the rich age of twelve and a half human years or eighty-four canine ones. His eyes have a bluish tinge, his muzzle is frosty and his grin is gappy. He doesn't hear so well anymore. Just recently osteoarthritis has set in and our morning walk has been halved by two kilometers. Notwithstanding, his thick black coat still gleams. He remains a handsome knight of the finest kind.

Trist is my most loyal and loving friend. When Richard passed away, he mourned his beloved master for weeks. Then he assumed the part of my dedicated protector, a role which has caused him no little anxiety. The scarring on his leg, the result of obsessive licking to which Labs are susceptible, is probably the result of that trauma. To others he is a gentle warrior, with rather a distant air for a Labrador. But then he has Galahad, doesn't he? Galahad, the life and soul of the party, is always at hand to do the necessary socialising.

In June 1997 Tristram joined our household to follow in the footsteps of our previous black Lab, Valiant. His puppyhood and youth were expensive - he left behind a trail of chewed shoes, excavated irrigation pipes and dirtied dishclothes. But Richard, quick to anger and even quicker to forgive, said, "A dog must keep his spirit. You don't want him to become staid before his time." And spirit he had, also in the ring where he won a rosette or two or three. But Trist was not really a show dog. He never managed to hide his boredom at all the endless posturing and tended to sit down firmly when he received the command, 'Stand!' .

Old friends, like Tristram and I, don't need many words anymore. When he rolls on his back in my study, I scratch his tummy and he grins a wide doggy smile and murmers, "That's it! No, there, just over there!" When I nestle against the pillows with my opened Bible at the end of the day, he strolls to the bedside and says, "Oh, okay. But if you get to do any praying, say a word for me!" He gives me a nudge or two with his nose, while I sit hammering away at the computer keys in the mid-morning and remarks, "Don't take it so seriously, girl. Remember your in-basket will always be full!" I marvel at his wisdom.

How much longer do we still have together? In Tristram's view, that is a futile human question. "We're together today, aren't we? What more matters?" And I have decided he is right.

Tuesday, 3 November '09: The Union Buildings in a purple frame

2009-11-03T13:42:00.006+02:00

It's November and the jacarandas are still a treat. The Union Buildings, seat of the administrative government in South Africa, in Arcadia are framed by purple.

From Waterkloof hills the suburbs have a purple haze.

I get sidetracked when driving down streets under a purple canopy.

Wishing you a happy Tuesday from My world. Take a trip in cyberspace and explore other worlds too.

Thursday 22 October, '09: Hiroshima mon amour

2009-10-22T08:00:00.000+02:00

Watch Hiroshima mon amour (1959) with a carefully chosen companion - someone who appreciates the craft of fine movie-making, striking screenplay spoken liquidly in French (with English subtitles), a bittersweet love story and the gaunt simplicity of black and white film.

This unusual movie is no 'dime store romance' to use the words of the main character, a Frenchwoman who finds herself in post-war Hiroshima to make a movie about peace. She is expressively portrayed by the beautiful Emanuelle Riva. Riva was a stage actress at the time and was chosen by the director, Alaim Resnais, almost by accident, to star in the movie. Eijii Okada takes the role of her Japanese lover whom she meets by chance in Hiroshima, a city which has already been restored just 15 years after the atomic explosion. By 1959 the city has become a tourist showpiece fitted with flashing neon lights, a musem which artistically commemorates the atomic explosion, and many other tourist attractions which are beginning to trivialise the catastrophe and all its moral implications.

But could Hiroshima and its inhabitants have forgotten so quickly?
Can anyone dismiss a trauma with the rapid passing of a few years?

This is the question that is played out in this intense love affair. The emotions awakened by her love affair with her Japanese lover in Hiroshima evoke in the Frenchwoman a painful memory, a traumatic story of the war that she has never retold to anyone before. In a series of flashbacks she relates the story of her girlhood love for a young Bavarian soldier during the Nazi Occupation of France. When her lover is shot on the eve of the Liberation, her relationship with him is exposed and she is dragged to the city square to have her head shaven and to be shunned in disgrace.

This is a magnificent movie but it is a not just another Franco-Japanese version of Casablanca. It struck a chord deep within my own heart as I viewed it alone last weekend. Surely it concludes with the most romantic lines on celluloid spoken by two fine actors (screenplay by Marguerite Duras):
" You are Hir-o-shima!"
"And you are Nevers, France!"

20 October '09: I never tire of the jacarandas in bloom in My world

2009-10-20T13:38:00.007+02:00

I never cease to be captivated by the jacarandas in full bloom. The familiar streets are seen through a haze of purple lace; the pavements are pooled with great circles of mauve blossoms which go 'Pop' when stepped upon. In my front garden Tristram stands in the shade of a huge jacaranda with a twisted and rugged trunk of grey bark.

The view east up Marais street. While taking these shots, a passerby comments,"I'm from Durban and I always tell the folks up there to come to Pretoria in October if they are planning a wedding to have their photos under the jacarandas." "Wonderful, aren't they?" I agree, "I live here and I never tire of them. Every year I am out here taking still more pictures."

We strolled up William Drive in appreciative silence. The man paused again and glanced at me, "Do you know that heaven will be even more beautiful than this? I am a Muslim and in the Koran I have read that the next world will be far more magnficent than earth. Imagine the trees!" "Yes, I'm a Christian," I smiled, "and the Bible talks about eye not having seen what God has prepared for us." He nodded wordless and walked on..

Such is My World at present. What does yours look like this Tuesday noon in October? I'm off to the My World webpage to find out before my first student for the afternoon arrives.

Monday, 12 October '09: My back garden at 6 am this morning

2009-10-12T12:00:00.006+02:00

Friday, 9 October '09: Seeking solitude while 'Out stealing horses'

2009-10-09T09:09:00.003+02:00

Dominant themes in Per Petterson's striking novel are solitude and memories. Trond, a recent widower, retreats to a small cottage in the isolated forests of Norway (but within driving distance from Oslo) after the death of his wife. With his dog, Lyra, for a companion, engaged in hard physical work and in simple, uncluttered surroundings, he delves back into the past remembering the events of the summer of 1948 which he spent in similar surroundings and in close relationship with his father. Those memories spark off his reconstruction of what he had heard of the events during the Nazi occupation of Norway - events which eventually drew his father away from his wife and family and left Trond to face young adulthood and the rest of his life, fatherless. However, the most successful scene in the novel, in my view, is Trond's recollection of an outing with his mother - a single time when she rose above her hopeless situation as an abandoned wife and in which mother and son walked side by side in joyful companionship.

My two dear Norwegian friends have so often described the little wooden cottages with no running water and outside toilets in the Norwegian countryside which families hold dear as getaways both in winter and summer. I feel that I can see the wood stove, the scrubbed floorboards, the gaslamp, a brightly coloured woolen blanket tossed on the bunk and the stout door barricading the snow and cold outside. At present as the year hurtles to its closure, I wish I could escape to solitude in a hut in the snowy woods of Norway - just for a day or two!

Oh, and the enigmatric title? That refers both to boyish pranks and the code name given to 'outlawed' activities of the Norwegian resistance during WWII.

Tuesday, 29 September '09: Getting side-tracked in Bloemfontein

2009-09-29T14:05:00.009+02:00

Purchasing pot pourri from a sweet scented mix in a battered enamel basin at the Bloemfontein Organic Market on Heritage Day last week.

All things pretty, smelling of lavender and roses under the hot sun.

The syringas are covered in pale mauve blossoms against a blue sky. Goods for sale at the Organic Market related to a greener, cleaner world - bins for recycling, water-wise plants and worms to start one's own wormery. I drew the line at unbleached loo paper. I want to save the world but...unbleached toilet paper looked a little too natural for me!

Somehow I kept getting side-tracked from Green issues. Here are the ice-cream lickin' reasons: Joelle.

And Jaelene. The reasons for my visit to Their World - Bloemfontein (translated from the Afrikaans. Fountain of flowers) in the Free State.

I am rather late in posting. Just back from my short visit. But if you hurry, you will find lots of other interesting corners of the globe and equally nice folk on My World.

Monday, 21 September '09: Coco Chanel revisited

2009-09-21T14:21:00.006+02:00

I always loved to dress in a tailored suit, stockings, court shoes and pearls. I rather regret today's casual style where the occasion seldom arises for that kind of outfit. I find the simple oh-so-French elegance of Coco stunning. So, last weekend I could hardly have missed seeing Coco starring another favourite, Audrey Tatou.

The movie received disappointing reviews. 'A film about nothing', one reviewer remarked and in a certain way I did agree. The movie focused on Coco's rather pragmatic affair with French millionaire and playboy, Etienne Balsan, and her passionate and ill-fated love for the English buisnessman, Arthur 'Boy' Capel, who lent her funds to start her first salon. But the beautiful French interiors, Audrey's sensitive acting and the contrast of Coco individualistic dress with the period's overdone style made up for it.

I do realise that movie's aim was to depict the young Coco - before Chanel - but I would like to have known more about her childhood in the orphanage at Aubazine where the nuns taught her to sew and her life during the ravages of WWI. For her affair with the Russian composer Igor Stravinsky I shall have to wait for the release later this year of Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky which stars Anna Mouglalis and Mads Mikkelsen (both actors of whom I am ignorant).

Ah, well! If you have a classic Chanel tweed tucked away, I dare you to take it out of the mothballs. Wear the jacket mached up with your blue jeans and trainers to the Mall and let me know if you get any compliments! Who know? You may even start a trend.

Friday, 11 September '09: Don't disturb! Ladies at lunch

2009-09-11T15:42:00.002+02:00

One of life's small but important pleasures are my regular luncheon dates with my girl friends.

Today was a sidewalk lunch with Theresa. Ordering from the menu is easy. After years of lunching together we know each other's preferences, "Two glasses of water. Yes, ice and lemon, please. Two glasses of dry white wine and a tumbler of ice on the side."

And so the conversation begins: our current reading; the biography Theresa is writing and the upcoming publications her solo publishing company will soon produce; the latest in movie going followed by a lively update on each of our adult children. Friendship is toasted with a glass of Two Oceans' savignon blanc and the intricacies of mother-daughter relationships is teased out over fettucine and basil pesto sprinkled generously with parmesan cheese. We offer opinions on the economic meltdown and compliment each other on the canine virtues of our respective Labradors - her eight-month old Benjamin and my aging Trist and Gal. We philosophise about life's seasons (are we in autumn or is it still late summer?) and rejoice in each other's little miracles.

Eventually the bill is divided without a thought. The tip requires some fuzzy arithmetic to ensure our patient waiter receives his due. After all, he has hovered over us for two and half hours and managed to interject the enthusiatic dialogue twice to take our orders. At last we reluctantly part company. Where did the time go?

Tuesday 8 September: Verandah days in My World

2009-09-08T14:35:00.005+02:00

It's verandah days at Thatchwick Cottage. So wander up the path and admire the clivias.

Take a seat on the verandah and I will bring you a drink. Iced camomile tea laced with berry juice?

Galahad is happy warmer days are here again.

I love my out-of-Africa stoep as it is known in Afrikaans. This long tiled verandah under the thatch overhang becomes an extension of the house in the long summer months. And it is the best place to watch a summer thunderstorm.

Join friends all over My World to see how the seasons change as the globe turns.

Tuesday

Friday, 4 September '09: The ladies of Cranford

2009-09-04T11:05:00.005+02:00

Lace collars, ribbons and eight yards of Indian muslin or taffeta for a new gown present agonising decisions for the ladies of Cranford in the new BBC series available on DVD for hire or purchase.

But the delightful tale of the inhabitants of the small Cheshire village (in reality, the village of Knutsford thirty odd miles from industrial Manchester, England in the 1840’s) is permeated with several darker moments. The appalling medical ignorance of the times meant that death struck young and old without mercy in mid-Victorian England. A rigid class system dictated relationships, especially love matches, and condemned the poor to illiteracy, unemployment and crime. And the pastoral peace of Cranford is continually under threat of progress, in the shape of the approaching railroad.

The series: Cranford is based loosely on the Mrs Gaskell’s novel and two other short works. Judi Dench plays the main role. As the sweet, dithery and generous spinster, Miss Matty, she holds the episodes together. Michael Gambon makes a worthwhile cameo performance as her former suitor, a crusty but kind farmer chasing his peas around his roast beef with a two-pronged fork.

I first read my little second-hand copy of Cranford by Mrs Gaskell during an overseas trip. The minutia of English country life as seen through the eyes of four spinsters and several other eccentric characters soothed the trials of 21st century travel. The humour had me chuckling out loud and the values of kindness and neighbourliness of the Cranford characters touched my heart.
If you have exhausted the novels of Jane Austen, the Brontes and George Eliot, I can recommend the rather neglected Mrs Gaskell. North and South and Mary Barton are both excellent tales, as is her biography of Emily Bronte.

Tuesday, 1 September '09: Happy Spring Day from My World

2009-09-01T08:35:00.010+02:00

Today we celebrate the first day of spring although the vernal equinox is still about three weeks away. This year, after a particularly chilly winter, Spring Day in My World has dawned warm and sunny with a high of 30 degrees Celsius predicted. Straight out of the winter woollies into sandals and short sleeves! Spring means my garden is transformed into a spectacle of orange as the indigenous clivia miniata bloom and the tiny lilac blossoms on the buddlia draw the bees.

I divided the clumps of clivia in autumn and have made several new beds. Some gardeners say clivia take four years to bloom again after division. Not mine!

Watering began early this morning.

I live on a busy street - who would guess?

This is better than the gloomy underworld, isn't it Persephone?

Primulas add a note of purple.

The roses are shooting and the compost is rich and home-made.

Visit others in other climes at My World Tuesday.

Wednesday, 26 August '09: Easy Tomato Tart for Leona

2009-08-26T14:10:00.005+02:00

Leona, my South African friend of over 30 years, now resident in Linz, Austria has asked me for the recipe for my quick and easy tomato tart which I baked for my birthday in July. Here it is:

Mom Hammond's shortcrust pastry
1 cup flour
1 egg yolk
100g margerine or unsalted butter
One Tablespoon lemon juice

Rub margerine into flour until mixture resembles breadcrumbs. Add egg yolk and lemon juice and a little cold water if necessary to make a pliable dough.

Filling
50 ml olive oil
20ml crushed garlic
4 baby leeks finely chopped
800g Rosa tomatoes halved
50 ml fresh basil torn
30 ml white balsamic vinegar
salt and freshly ground pepper
50 ml grated mozzarella cheese

1 Preheat oven to 180 degrees Celsius. Roll out the dough and line loose-bottomed tart pan. Prick the bottom with a fork.
2 Spread the bottom of the unbaked pastry case with the basil leaves, leeks and mozarella in that order. Cover as evenly as possible with tomato halves.
3 Season and drizzle with olive oil and balsamic.
4 Bake for about 30 minutes.

There you go, Leona. Hope Franz enjoys! (You can also mix in a can of tuna for a more substantial tart. Or add olives and/or anchovies to the tomato filling. Black olives look lovely among the red tomatoes.)

Tuesday, 25 August '09: Vuvuzela's buzz in My World

2009-08-24T14:52:00.009+02:00

Love it, hate it? Makes no difference as the vuvuzela, that metre long plastic horn, blown by thousands at every soccer match in South Africa is here to stay. And that includes the 2010 World Cup which we are frenziedly preparing for over here in My World. Thousands of vuvuzelas together sound like a mass of angry bees, a sound carried clearly in the night air from the closeby Loftus Versfeld stadium through the windows of Thatchwick Cottage.

Up on Muckleneuck Hill, the Telkom tower boasts a giant soccer ball - spectacular at night. Maybe they need to add a vuvuzela!

The origins of the vuvuzela is said to be the horn of the kudu blown to summon African villagers to meetings. On 15 May 2004 when the announcement was made that South Africa would host the World Cup over 20 000 vuvuzela's were sold on the streets to blow in joyful anticipation of 2010 - a date that appears to have become a watershed as important as 1994.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em! So I suggest you buy yourself a vuvuzela the moment you land next year at Oliver Tambo International airport to enjoy the World Cup. There will be plenty of vendors making a quick rand or two at every street corner. Or if you are just going to watch on the telly back home, send a mail order now so that your tubular package arrives on time. You can start early practising for couch-potato cheerleading in front of the screen.

Visit My World for other different ways of being across the globe.

Thursday, 13 August: How many times do you...?

2009-08-13T17:54:00.003+02:00

No, this is not another Kinsey Report. I am much too proper to use my blog for that improper purpose. I am just working at being an effective blogger within ever narrowing time constraints. I wondered if as many as drop by would share their blogging secrets, their habits and their routine - if any at all.

Do you blog on certain days - or as the Muse prompts?

Do you follow a well-laid plan such as local news on Mondays, recipes on Tuesday, book review every Friday? Or are you attached to memes: Blue for Monday with Smiling Sal; Tuesdays at My World , Wednesday Watery with whoever the creator thereof; Fridays Show and Tell with Carrie at Oak Rise Cottage or Skywatch; Sundays Spiritual?

Or are you haphazard like me?

If you are in confession mode, whisper how you manage to pay house calls so regularly and faithfully. My latest resolution is to pay five calls a day to friends and to strangers. See if I actually manage.

Do you keep note of how many comments you get and does your enthusaism rise and fall with the stats?

I don't. An AAA driven personality until the last few years when age and mellowing have set in, I resist the temptation to allow my competitive self to emerge. But I do love the nifty little sidebar map which shows how much of the world is reached by one's blog.

So, do kiss and tell!

Tuesday, 11 August '09: 'The young Victoria'

2009-08-11T13:16:00.010+02:00

Cast your republican sentiments aside (if you should have them), indulge in romance and view The young Victoria.

It stars Emily Blunt as the young queen - self-possessed, obstinate and true; Rupert Friend as her sensitive and loyal lover and husband. The movie was released in Pretoria in July and I am so pleased that I managed to find the time to see it on the big screen. The interiors of palaces are sumptuous backdrops to scenes of political and emotional manipulation as Victoria's scheming mother and her ambitious sidekick, John Conroy endeavour to intimidate the young Victoria. The beautifully laid out formal gardens make a wonderful backdrop for Queen Vic's chats with the charming Lord Melbourne (Paul Bettany) and her self-controlled trysts with Albert.

The match between the young Queen Victoria and Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg was a happy and fruitful one in all respects. They had nine children - four more than pictured in the portait above.

Albert died at just 42 leaving Victoria to carry on alone commanding her family and her Empire without her beloved husband. How refreshing that at least one British royal marriage was authentic. By the way it is not entirely a 'chick-flick'. Every man I've met who has viewed it has given it the thumbs up too.

Incidentally I am also reading Niall Ferguson's thought-provoking and meticulously researched history, entitled Empire, first published in 2003. Whether you live in the US, Australia, New Zealand, India or South Africa it makes for fascinating reading as he attempts to answer the question: How did an archipelago of rainy islands off the north-west coast of Europe come to rule the world? Now that can lead to endless discussion at a dinner table.

Thursday, 6 August '09: Jasmine: the first scent of spring

2009-08-06T14:38:00.004+02:00

What smell heralds spring in my experience? Undoubtedly, it is the sweet almost cloying scent of the jasmine. Those of us living in Guateng were shocked out of our complacency this year as we consistently experienced the coldest weather we have had for some years. Early mornings the lows hovered around zero; the days, sunny and clear, only reached 15 or 16 degrees. So I was overjoyed to see the first pinkish-white blossoms on the fence around the bowling club in William Drive. The blossoms from this little twig fill my kitchen with powerful perfume. And I know spring can't be far off.

Thursday, 30 July 2009: East, west; Home is best

2009-07-30T14:49:00.006+02:00

At last I have come 'home' after a lengthy blog journey. Thank you to all who accompanied me.

Now I can turn my attention to the familiar and loved. Catherine made me Martha Stewart's three layer chocolate cake for my birthday tea.

A winter garden provided its last blossoms to brighten the table.

My basil, tomato and mozarella tart.

I enjoyed myself thoroughly.

So did everyone else.

Wednesday, 22 July: Last stop - Riga, Latvia

2009-07-22T14:52:00.016+02:00

My last stop was Riga, capital city of the Latvian Republic, venue of the 9th International Conference on Diversity which was the ultimate goal of my recent European trip. Latvia is one of the three Baltic Republics located on the eastern side of the Baltic sea, east of Sweden. It is bordered to the north by Estonia, to the south by Lithuania and to the east by Russia.

The capital Riga lies on the Daugava River about 15 km from where the Daugava meets the Baltic Sea. This is elegant bridge is one of several spanning the river.

There are three sections to Riga: the historic and beautiful Old Town; the Art Niveau section with its large array of beautifully preserved 19th century buildings; and the drab New Town built during the Soviet Occupation (1945-1991).

Riga was an apt choice for a conference on diversity. Fewer than 60% of the 2.3 million pople living in Latvia can be called ethnic Lativans. The remaining population, a legacy of Latvia's uneven history, consists of Russians, Belarussians, Ukranians and small populations of Lithuanians, Estonians, Germans and Livs.

A detail on the lovely Blackhead's House on the Rifleman's Square. Latvia's history has been turbulent and, in my view, extremely tragic. During WWII around 200 000 Latvians were killed or deported. A further 150 000 left home to avoid death or deportation to the Gulag camps by the Soviets. During the Soviet occupation over 1.2 million workers, mainly Russian, were brought into the country.

Latvia obtained its first independence in 1920 after WWI and, finally, European recognition in 1921. In the pre-WWII years the country tried to steer a course between the jostling major European powers but in 1940 it was occupied by the Red Army and a reign of terror ensued. Under these circumstances, the Nazi's appeared liberators when they first marched into the country in 1941. The Nazi occupation again ushered in persecution, suffering and annihilation of the Latvian Jewish community.

After the German retreat in 1944, the country was occupied by the Soviet Union and yet another period of suffering began. In the late 80's under Gorbachev's policies of glasnost and perestroika, possibilities for change became a reality. On August 23 1989 two million Latvians, Estonians and Lituanians made a symbolic human chain for 650 km along the Baltic Way and demands for independence intensified.

Latvia declared independence on 1 September 1991; in 2004 the country entered the European Union.

The sombre building above is Riga's museum of the Occupations: Nazi and Soviet. It makes for fascinating but grim viewing. So how did I find my short visit to Riga? I wandered the streets of the beautiful city; I bought exquisite amber jewellery set in silver; I relished fresh salmon, black bread and hearty soups. I admired the intricately knitted socks and gloves sold at street stalls. And I kept snapping a skyline of tarnished green domes and towers.

I found Latvians reserved and private and at times I was unsettled by stony faces. The young folk with whom we struck up conversations in English were couteous, helpful and charming. I asked one young lady, "But you are free, aren't you? Your country is now free?" She answered, "I don't know, I really don't know..."

I also come from a country with a troubled history. In 1994, just three years after Latvian independence, South Africa embarked on its new chapter. But, in spite of the past, South Africans remain hearty and exuberant. Hugs, smiles and firm handshakes are part of everyday greetings. Just think of the noise of the vuvuzelas at recent soccer matches!

Next stop is Home. And I look forward to just blogging the mundane and routine, for a while at least!

Thursday, 9 July '09: Don't take the Metro!

2009-07-09T12:25:00.026+02:00

"Paris is so confusing", lamented the young American couple, "we have simply no idea of the layout of the city!"

"Ah," I said, with the air of a seasoned traveller, "Don't take the Metro! That's your problem. Just follow the river! And let the Seine show you Paris!"

" Prepare, however, to be distracted time and again." Here, by the sumptuous elegance of the Pont Alexandre III constructed between 1897 and 1900 to symbolise the Franco-Russian friendship instigated by Tzar Alexandre III and President Carnot.

"Linger a while to savour the sunlight on the dome of the Hotel Des Invalides founded by Louis XIV to house his wounded troops."

"Was a hospital ever so glorious as this one?"

"Stand amazed at Pegagus held fast by Fame, all in gilded bronze and mounted on the two pylons at both ends of the bridge."

"Take the steps down to river level so that you don't miss the elegant ladies who smile from the bridge's undercarriage on the passing boats."

"Don't stride to quickly along the riverside. Tarry to admire the engravings and antique books for sale. What does it matter if you don't read French? That battered tome with its yellowed pages will look just great on the desk in your library back home."

" Wherever you tarry for yet another snap, the Eiffel Tower seems to be pop up."

"See those grim towers up ahead. That is La Concierge, the final holding place of Marie Antionette and many other unfortunates before their last journey in the tumbrils to meet Madame Guillotine.""Cross to the Left Bank and wander through the nursery stalls selling spring flowers. I am sure a nice young man will stop garden planning for just a mo' to take your photo like he did mine."

"Wave at the river boats and really consider taking a dinner cruise. It costs a month's groceries but the recollection will never fade. My memory of Richard and I on that cruise in 2002 is precious."

"Let the distant towers of Notre Dame remind you to ignore your aching feet and head in the direction of the gargoyles. But do allow yourself to be sidetracked for lunch served by an enthusiastic waiter over at least two hours. You don't understand the menu? Let the universal language of smiles and nods do the trick as the waiter makes the choice. I guarantee the plat du jour will be delicious."

"Exhausted and you want to go back to the hotel? You simply can't. There is the magnificent Hotel De Ville and just up the road is..."

That showy-inside out museum of modern art, the Pompidou Centre. Like a lady who wants to show off the gaudy glamour of her underwear by wearing it over her day clothes, the air-conditioning ducts and elevators of the Pompidou are on the outside of the building."

" You don't understand the style of the likes of Rothko, Stella, Pollack and others? Why worry? Insight is quite unnecessary - just be seduced by their creativity and stand on your head to do your viewing if that will help."
"The Metro to get back home? Never! How can one stay underground like a Parisian mole in this fine city? Oh, I know there are quaint characters on the subway but walking is far, far better."

"Just let the river be your guide!"

For other wonderful parts of the world, visit My World every Tuesday. I have met some great friends this way.

Wednesday, 8 July '09: The Monument to the Canadian soldiers at Juno Beach, Normandy

2009-07-08T13:06:00.006+02:00

I have so many Canadian blogging friends, particularly Kat at Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes I decided to 'squish' in one last unplanned post on the D-Day Landings before taking you all on a happier journey to Paris. This monument is outside the Canadian Memorial Museum at Juno Beach where the Canadian landings took place. Canada's sons in the 3rd infantry division paid a heavy price here, so far from home, as, of course, the First Canadian Army did at the liberation of Arnheim.

An interesting aside is that this Museum was manned and wo-manned by the most delightful and courteous young Canadians doing a summer 'service'. They showed us the bathrooms (always a welcome stop on a long trip) and offered to answer any questions on the history of the battle site. Way to go, Canadian youth!

To answer a comment: Why do I mention that North Dakota is my adopted state? I was an exchange student in Rugby, North Dakota, a teeny-weeny dorpie (Afrikaans for a village) about 60 miles from the Canadian border in 1969/70. For the year, I was the member of the school debating team; our topic was American participation in Vietnam. Several of my school mates were affected by the call-up to that war. So the snowy, isolated plains of North Dakota and its people remain close to my South African heart.

Tuesday, 7 July '09: Normandy American Cemetry

2009-07-07T10:34:00.013+02:00

I wandered silently among the rows of white gravestones at the American Cemetry and Memorial in Colleville-sur-Mer, Normandy as the sun at last broke through the clouds. This is an immaculately kept memorial to the American soldiers who fell in France between 1941 and 1945 - a total of 9 387 burial places including 307 unknown burials.

The cemetry is located on a bluff overlooking Omaha Beach on land granted to the US by the France.

In Beevor's book, I read how the seabirds of the Mer Estuary flew round and round in panic-stricken circles as the guns roared over the marshes on June 6, disturbing their peace. This little bird sang sweetly in the branches over the gravestones and allowed me a quick snapshot.

The graves of Jewish soldiers are marked by the Star of David. Several bore a memorial pebble.

A cross marks the other graves. On the front is inscribed the name of the young man and the state from which he hailed. You can just discern his Army number at the base of the cross at the back. I searched for and found two graves of young men from North Dakota, my 'adopted' state.

The names of 1 557 war dead who could not be located or identified are inscribed on the wall of a semicircular garden at the east side of the memorial. In the centre of the memorial you can see the bronze statue entitled Spirit of American Youth.

An unexpected obstacle to the Allied tanks in the ensuing battle of Normandy were the bocage, the thick, high hedgerows which are the boundaries of the Normandy meadows. The German troops were accustomed to the landscape but the Allies never reckoned on these leafy barriers to the movement of men and vehicles.

The Peace Memorial at Caen documents, in realistic displays, the D-Day landings, Battle of Normandy and the War in Europe. Caen was virtually levelled by Allied bombing aimed at flushing out German defenders. The Canadians lost over two thousand men in the battle for Caen. The town was only taken on 11 July 1941 more than a month after the D-Day landings.

The entrance to the Memorial depicts a beachhead, established at such a price on the landing beaches. As I left the building along with a young American couple, I remarked, "We just have no idea of how fortunate we are to have never experienced anything like this!" They nodded their fervent agreement.

This record of my holiday forms part of My World. Join others for a glimpseof their world at My World every Tuesday.

Thursday, 2 July '09: D-Day: Scaling the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc

2009-07-02T08:46:00.012+02:00

"And these are the sheer cliffs of Pointe Du Hoc," announced our knowledgeable French guide, "where the Rangers under the command of Col James E Rudder scaled the 100 metre cliffs under enemy fire. Their mission impossible - knock out the huge artillery guns on the top of the cliffs."

Royal Navy boats brought the Rangers under position under the cliffs. Rocket-fired grappling irons invented by British Commando forces with rope ladders attached were launched at the solid rock from the boats. Where grappling irons held, men began to ascend the ladders. From the top of the cliffs, the amazed German defenders fired down upon them and dropped grenades. As one man fell, another simply took his place.

Strong support was given the Rangers by the destroyers USS Satterlee and HMS Talybont. The Satterlee remained with the Rangers all day.

Yachts with butterfly-like sails moved on a peaceful sea during my visit to Pointe du Hoc. But what a scene the surprised German defences must have seen as a veritable Armada of vessels moved irrevocably towards them on the morning of June 6 1944.

Eventually the brave Rangers reached the top of the cliff and rushed towards the giant guns covered in camoflaugue netting. To their surprise when the netting was ripped away, they only found wooden poles which simulated their presence. The huge guns had been moved a little way off; they were soon dealt with. Then Colonel Rudder's radio operator struggled to send the message: "Praise the Lord!" to signify success. The message was not received. The 5th Battalion of Rangers assumed that the mission had failed and resorted to an alternative plan.

The Batallion of the German 916th Grenadier Regiment took even longer to communicate news of the assault and call for reinforcements. But eventually a German counter attack was launched and Rudder's small force was attacked again and again. They ran out of ammunition and had to arm themselves with weapons taken from fallen enemy soldiers.

Was it my imagination or were the visitors who walked the cliffs, peered into German pill boxes, peered over barbed wire and gazed at this simple memorial, unusually sombre? Even the little boys who clambered down grassy bomb craters and scurried down the stone steps into German dugouts seemed awestruck by this heroic venture.

* Credit goes to Anthony Beevor's splendid and comprehensive military history: D-Day, published 2009 by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Books, which I bought at the bookshop at the Military Museum at Caen and devoured during the rest of the trip. Antony Beevor has also written: Stalingrad; Berlin, the downfall; Crete, the battle and resistance: Paris after the liberation and The battle for Spain, all recommended for military history enthusiasts.

Tuesday, 30 June '09: What passing bells...? Omaha Beach, Normandy is part of My World

2009-06-29T15:05:00.023+02:00

Grey and ominous, the silver stainless steel sculpture by French artist, Anitore Bacon, entitled: 'The Braves' commemorates the brave men of the 1st and 29th Infantry Division of the US army who began landing a half an hour before dawn on June 6 1944 at Omaha Beach, Normandy, France. A gently curving beach of silvery-pink sand and gentle ripples which occasionally washed up a whelk at my feet hardly seemed the setting for death and destruction on such a scale.

My day visit to the Landing Beaches at Normandy was the highlight of my recent overseas trip. No passing bells sounded from the spires of the grey stone churches of the surrounding villages of Colleville, St Laurent and Vierville (all rebuilt after apocalytic destruction in 1944) for those young men who died here - and at Utah, Juno, Sword and Gold. But, in awe, I paid a deeply felt tribute with my heart.
The main strip of beach is surprisingly narrow, rising to a bank of shingle up against a low sea wall beyond which is a short stretch of grassland, today dotted today with holiday homes. Several of these roofed with thatch.
In the distance you can make out the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc.

I was struck, and still am, by the significance of the D-Day landings by Allied troops at the Normandy beaches, code named: Omaha and Utah (US), Juno (Canada) and Sword and Gold (British). The French Resistance, Free French and Polish troops also made their heroic contribution. This was the largest sea based invasion ever launched in history.
One erroneously thinks that once the longest day had ended, things were virtually over. But the ensuing battle of Normandy was savage and relentless. From 6-20 June over 11 000 US men were lost; over 4 000 British troops and a similar number of Canadians. This excludes the thousands wounded. On these beaches where toddlers paddled and holiday makers strolled? In the lush surrounding meadows where well-fed white cows feed?
The Allied flags flutter at the memorial on Omaha beach.

Well you may ask: is this part of Your World? Yes, it is. South African troops fell in North Africa and Italy; South African pilots over the mountains of Yugoslavia and over a beleagured Warsaw. And, of course, the brave men of many other nations.

Visit many other interesting posts on My World this Tuesday. And do join me for the rest of trip to Normandy, Paris and Riga, Latvia in the next few days. I am now back home and will also be dropping my calling card at your front door in the next few days. I missed you all!

Wednesday, 10 June '09: Something to enjoy while I am away

2009-06-10T11:33:00.006+02:00

Piano by DH Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

Hope you enjoyed this little post while I was away. Thank you to all recent visiting friends. If I have not yet returned the call, I shall do so on my return from Europe.

Tuesday 9 June '09: The FIFA Confederation Cup, 2009 is in My World

2009-06-09T08:42:00.002+02:00

Hey, all you soccer fans across the globe! Pretoria is gearing up for the FIFA Confederations Cup to be played in South Africa from 14 to 28 June. This sporting event is held in the World Cup host country a year before the really big event - the 2010 World Cup. But the Confederations Cup is major happening in its own right as six continental champions come up against the World Cup holders and the hosts, Bafana Bafana.

In Pretoria the games will be played at Loftus Versfeld Stadium (homeground of the Blue Bulls rugby team), just a short drive from my home. Now I must confess I am not a soccer nor a rugby fan; but the enthusiasm is contagious. At present massive road works are underway to updrade the transport network in Jo'burg and Pretoria for the 2010 event. We in this part of the world are very hospitable folk and I am know that these events are going to be great success. I just love the official emblem, a soccer ball in the colours of our flag!

Friday, 5 June '09: First lines

2009-06-05T11:40:00.006+02:00

“The introduction of your essay,” repeatedly admonished my English high school teacher, a diminutive Irish nun with mischievous blue eyes and a Master’s dissertation written on Gerald Manley Hopkins’ The wreck of the Deutschland, “must grab your reader’s attention”.

So also the first line of any text; that single sentence that seduces you, draws you, renders you the writer’s willing serf for hours and hours. The most effective first line suggests a whole story in a few words. Think of Daphne du Maurier’s opening to Rebecca: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” Manderley? A return? A nightmare or pleasant reminiscence? Who can resist finding out.

“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show,” writes Charles Dickens. And David Copperfield has me like putty in the hollow of his palm. Champion or rogue, what will he be?

“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” So George Eliot introduces us to Dorothea. Now, is Miss Brooke really poor as her dress belies or is she a self-absorbed, priggish saint who wishes to appear poor for maximum effect? My battered Penguin version of Middlemarch required my undivided attention for 895 pages to establish D's character.

Amy Tan had me committed for days with her opener in The Joy Luck Club: “The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum.” Sudddenly I am back in my childhood, in a once-upon-a-time world of ugly ducklings and doomed swans. Little do I know that instead, Tan has lured me into a complex web of mother-daughter relationships: regrets, misunderstandings and dogged love.

For pure lyricism, my countryman, Alan Paton gets my vote. He opens his seminal work, Cry the beloved country with the words: “There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills.” Is it surprising that he wrote that in dark, cold Norway, far from wife and country? Can’t you hear the homesickness that overwhelms South Africans abroad, exiled from dusty roads and hot sun?

But surely the most powerful first line was penned by Moses in Genesis 1:1: “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.”

Majestic in its simplicity.

Wednesday 3 June '09: Next stop, next week: Amelie's Paris

2009-06-03T14:35:00.007+02:00

With the wind in their hair, the fabulous Amelie (Audrey Tautou) is off to find her destiny in Paris with Nino (Mathieu Kassovitz) at the wheel of a scooter. Will they breakfast on croissants and coffee at a cafe in Montmatre or crack the brittle topping of a creme brulee somehere on the Left Bank?

This time next week I shall be following in Amelie's footsteps. More or less at this time I shall be awaiting the call to board my Jhb-Paris flight from International Departures at the OR Tambo Airport, Johannesburg. Summertime in the southern hemisphere means conference time in academe. I am off to a deliver a paper at an erudite gathering in Riga, Latvia with a three day personal vacation in Paris.

To complement the information in my guide books, this evening I am going to watch The fabulous destiny of Amelie Poulain once again. If you have never smiled at the sweet quirkiness of our heroine in this 2001 French movie starring Audrey Tautou, you have a treat awaiting you. Amelie is a little lonely waitress at a Montmatre cafe who has a unique view of the world. Engaged in a quest to find the owner of a treasure box of childhood memorabilia which she accidentally stumbles across in her little apartment, Amelie decides to spread happiness to the lonely and eccentric. She plays a mischievous Fairy Godmother distributing random acts of kindness to a collection of odd Parisian characters until she meets her own destiny in the shadow of the Carousel, just below the Sacre le Coeur.

A movie worth seeing set in a city worth visiting - for me, the fourth time!

This award seems designed for me: roses and porcelein. Thank you, Poet Laureate of blogland, Kat!

Tuesday, 2 June, 2009: The first day of winter in My World

2009-06-01T12:43:00.024+02:00

1 June was the first day of winter in My World. Temperatures fluctuated between 3 degrees Celsius in the early morning and rose to a mild 22 degrees by midday. I made a quick detour to Celliers' Park on Venning Street, Groenkloof - about a five minute drive from my home - to snap the aloes in bloom.

What are the colours of winter? In my world they are brilliant orange, green and gold dislayed against the bluest of skies. Aloes reflected in the pond as did...

the blossoms of the purple broom.

Bees were busy on the strelitzias.

A young mom pushing with a pram, an old man engrossed in the daily paper, a couple with a picnic spread on the grass - all were enjoying the winter sunshine and the sound of the water.

Pink blooms amidst a web of fine spines which edge a succulent's leaves.

Yes, this is the wild dagga or leonotis as Raph rightly identified in an earlier photo on my blog. The earliest dwellers in South Africa chewed and smoked this plant instead of tobacco.

The lime green trunk of the fever tree. This lovely park, whatever the season, is one of Pretoria's best kept secrets.

Make a visit to the many other lovely postings on My World and discover the seasons in other parts of the globe.

Wednesday, 27 May: Do I really have to?

2009-05-27T14:43:00.006+02:00

Do I really have to play bridge to stay young? Remember a trick to remain sharp when I am an octogenarian?

A recent article in the New York Times Online cites some of the latest in aging research. Longitudinal studies of the elderly in a Californian-based retirement settlement suggest that bridge players over 90 show lower incidence of age-related dementia. Bridge players, the researchers say, regularly exercise their short term memory and remain mentally alert. Now I know that's good news for the genteel ladies portrayed above (and all my dear bridge-playing friends) but anything short of Snap played with my granddaughters just bores me to tears. Shuffle the cards and a hundred conversation topics come to my mind: "Have you read...? Have you seen...? Have you tasted...? What do you think of...? " And card players do not take kindly to chatty interruptions.

After bridge, the researchers discuss the merits of crossword puzzles and Sudoka's. Equally good for you; equally boring to me. I love to untangle a metaphor; to muse on theological mysteries; to hold a quilt pattern upside down to figure out how to join the blocks but a series of problem-solving riddles for fun? Never! I couldn't even manage multiple choice questions at school.

However, if you can't play bridge or do Sudokas, the experts continue, to miss the effects of Alzheimers and the like, you require a certain anti-aging gene carried by members of the Ashkenanzi Jewish community. Oh dear! I lose out again. Big time.

So what is left? Ah - quoth the experts - they are not really sure if it's just the gene or the bridge. It may be the social interaction that takes place at the bridge table that prevents the brain deteriorating prior to one's hundredth birthday. Respite at last! I shall nuture my many friends and keep up my social interaction to the end. And I shall recall the promise in Psalm 91: "With long life I shall satisfy him and show him My salvation."

Wednesday, 20 may '09: Bobotie and yellow rice

2009-05-20T11:43:00.005+02:00

I am just about to take a lunch break and cook bobotie (pronounced boo-boo-tee) which will do for my supper and freeze well for the rest of the week. Bobotie is lekker! And about as South African as you can get. It is a Malay (Indonesian) dish which was introduced in, I suppose, the 17th century during the administration of the Cape of Good Hope by the East India Company. My definition is a sort of baked curried mince with a egg custard topping.

Here is my favourite recipe, although I hardly glance at exact quantities:

2 slices of day old bread (white or brown)
375 ml milk
25 ml cooking oil
10 ml butter
2 chopped onions
2 cloves of garlic
100 ml sultanas or raisins
25 ml curry powder
25 ml cumin seeds
10 ml salt
25 ml chutney (Mrs Ball's chutney is best)
15 ml apricot jam
5 ml borrie (tumeric)
25 ml vinegar
15 ml Worcester sauce
1 kg minced beef or lamb
3 eggs
Bay leaves

Method:

1 Soak bread in milk.
2 Heat oil and butter. Brown onion and garlic. Add cumin seeds (don't burn), curry powder, salt, chutney, jam, Worcester sauce, borrie and vingar. Stir fry spices gently.
3 Add mince and brown.
4 Pour milk off bread. Set milk aside.
5 Add bread to meat mixture. Add sultanas. Mix and stir till just cooked.
6 Add beaten egg. Mix well.
7 Place mixture into greased baking dish.
8 Beat other 2 eggs with milk (add some more milk if necessary). Pour over meat. Place bay leaves on top.
9 Bake for 45 to 60 minutes at 180 C degrees.

Serve with yellow rice, coconut, chopped bananas and chopped tomatoes and onions.

PS Cath always throws in a handful of chopped nuts - macadamians, almonds, whatver you have. I find leftover bobotie is great wrapped in the rotis I buy freshly made at Little Durban on Bronkhorst Street, Brooklyn (ie Pretoria not New York).

Sunday, 17 May: True love

2009-05-17T20:18:00.009+02:00

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then?

But suck'd on country pleasures, childlishly?

Or snorted we in the seven sleepers den?

Twas so: But this, all pleasures fancies bee.

If ever any beauty I did see,

which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dreame of thee.

(First stanza of' "The good morrow" - John Donne)

Friday, 15 May '09: Celebrating Friday nights

2009-05-15T15:58:00.004+02:00

Was it Friday night fever a week or two ago? Hardly. Just an old-fashioned evening at home with three tried and trusted friends, a pot of hot homemade soup, crusty bread laced with garlic butter and some Andre Rieu DVD's. Fortunately I am not a purist when it comes to music so I can just enjoy the talent of this popular Dutch violinist who is bringing music, classical and otherwise, to the masses. In the end I had to beg everyone to leave with promises that Thatchwick would host another Andre Rieu concert some other Friday. Genet's parting comment summed it up, "These are just the best kind of get-togethers!"

How do you celebrate the end of the week?

Tonight best friend (all my friends are best) Leone, and I are off to Ocean Basket for that sizzling pan of chips and fresh hake. The Ocean Basket is an item on my list of 5 00 reasons to live in South Africa. Now when you finally do make that trip to visit me at Thatchwick and I am tired of doing dishes, we'll just hop into the car and dash off to Brooklyn Square for a calamari salad.

Friday, 8 May '09: Pointsettias bloom in winter

2009-05-08T08:48:00.004+02:00

Pointesettias bloom at the back of Thatchwick. Bees busy themselves with collecting nectar for pointsettia honey. Winter creeps closer.

A strange sight for those who live in the Northern Hemisphere, where pointsettias form part of everyone's Christmas decorations? Ah, but that is what our international friendships are all about. Sometimes my world surprises you and yours surprises me.

Tuesday, 5 May '09: Die Blik Plek/The Tin Place

2009-05-04T18:51:00.029+02:00

Winding our way home, we visited Ficksburg, cherry capital of the Free State, in search of cherry jam, preserves and schnapps. Here we just happened on a unique little country store, Die Blik Plek, roughly translated, The Tin Place. Housed in a restored Victorian beauty, adorned by broekie-lace ironwork, the store is the brainchild of the petite and dynamic, Ansie Fourie.

Ansie must have bought up every bit of scrap iron for miles around; the rustier, the better. Together with her staff, she is hammering, cutting, welding and painting one man's junk into every woman's treasure.

The area behind the shop is filled with the whimsical and the witty, the nostalgic and the unexpected. Welcome signs, chimes made of old kettles and teapots, bric a brac, tin roses, mirrors in battered wash tubs, bicycles and bumpers, old gates, old prams. This was a treat.

"Jou plek is wonderlik!" (Your place is stunning!)

"Ek is so-o-o-o bly jy geniet dit! Ek is so-o-o-o bly dit is vir jou mooi!" (I'm thrilled you are enjoying it! I am so pleased you find it attractive!"

Fancy an oranate frame to hang, with or without content, on your verandah wall? That was my choice but a little to bulky to tuck under the seat of SA Espress, the intercity jet. I opted for a tin angel instead.

Or fancy a dented teapot in a weathered frame?

Ansie has planted a garden in old school satchels...

and an easy-growing rosette succulent in every boot.

A tongue-in-the-cheek tin sign: Man gelos, hond gehou. Do you really want a translation? Ok, then. Left husband; kept the dog!

Driving through Ficksburg? Want to make a turn at Die Blik Plek? Just keep a look out for the battered wreck on the lawn. You're there!

PS For more interesting places on the globe, visit My World.

Wednesday, 29 April: Old-fashioned holidaying at Wynford

2009-04-29T13:30:00.000+02:00

What was our ultimate destination as we meandered through the countryside of the Free State?

Wyndford Holiday farm, established in the 1920's, first visited by Richard, our girls and I some twenty odd years ago. Little has changed since then. The rhythms of Wynford depend on the bell - to summon one to tea and cake, scones or biscuits at ten and four o' clock served in the summer house. To summon one to breakfast, lunch and dinner in the cosy dining room where guests are seated with strangers, where tired city dwellers who haven't said a cordial 'Hi' to a neighbour in years, find themselves sharing their histories over homely dishes of wholesome fare.

Jaelene spent hours swinging (me, pushing) doing puzzles, watching the resident tortoises move slowly into the morning sun, feeding scampering bunnies and chickens, riding horses and chatting to Gran on the lawn.

Joelle was the star of the stay - a fearless six-year old who went hiking twice a day on the mountains, wriggled through bat caves, swung through the air (safely helmeted and harnessed) on a slide high above the tree tops and even attempted to ab-sail down cliffs ("Not this time, next time, Mom, when I'm in big school!)

Cell phones don't work among the mountains surrounding Wynford so no-one leaps up from the table to rush outside and talk far too loudly about deals, emails, faxes and appointments.

Memories are made at Wynford. Ours stretch over three generations and twenty-five years: Richard and I, our daughters and now the grandkids.

As I packed my suitcase in my little cottage room to return home, I found a forgotten scrap of paper tucked in a side pocket, covered with Richard's loopy scrawl. A coincidence? The Westminister Confession speaks of the 'communion of the saints'; the writer to the Hebrews reminds us of the 'cloud of witnesses' watching our earthly journey and encouraging our perseverance as saints. So is it too unorthodox to think of a beloved husband, a proud dad, a grandfather who never knew his grandchildren, looking down on the new memories being made among the crags at Wyndford?

Tuesday, 28 April '09: Country churches

2009-04-25T16:34:00.016+02:00

You will find a church standing, solid and staid, in the middle of every dorp (village) in South Africa's platteland (countryside). Here are some of the country churches I encountered on the drive through the Eastern Free State last week. Built in 1894, the Dutch Reformed Church in Fouriesburg, Free State, was built of the tawny local sandstone hewn from the surrounding hills.

In the church hall of the Dutch Reformed Church in Rosendal, we met a congregant busy with carpentry. He told us that the once large congregation now numbers eighty regular worshippers. But they are a close knit fellowship and the hall is used for cosy potluck meals on special festivals, such as Pentecost. We took the opportunity to slip in to admire the austere interior, dominated by the elevated pulpit, the pipe organ, the single ornamentation: a banner, God is liefde, (God is Love) and the communion table.

The little Anglican church tucked away in a sandy side street of Fouriesburg was locked. Its size reflects the demographics of the area where English-speakers have historically been a minority. The notice outside announced twice-monthly services.

Wynford Holiday Farm, our vacation destination, has its own simple thatched A-frame chapel, recently built, overlooking the road from Fouriesburg to the Lesotho border. Services are held weekly for the Farm's guests.

A favourite venue for weddings the bridal couple can gaze on the distant mountains while making their vows.

On Sunday we listened to George, Wynford's owner, preach a down-to-earth sermon; hymns were sung to the guitar of Linda, his wife. The simplicity of the service fitted the majestic natural surroundings.

I have linked this little holiday snippet part to That's My World. Do take a visit!

Saturday, 25 April: Visiting Rosendal

2009-04-25T16:09:00.019+02:00

Who needs city streets, bling boutiques, glitzy malls, cell phones and traffic jams?

The newly harvested maize fields where horses and cattle graze, evergreen willows and rust-gold plane trees, the strange shapes of the striped sandstone cliffs of the Witteberg and the Maluti's, veld flowers interwined with grass in seed, blue skies and the long tarred road with an occasional truck or car, frequently outside the range of a cell phone signal made my short visit to the Eastern Free State a perfect holiday.
Our first stop was the little farming village of Rosendal about a two hour drive from Bloemfontein or a three hour drive (and light years) from the frenzy of Johannesburg. I visited this little town about ten years ago on a similar trip and it appeared quietly neglected. Now Rosendal is part of the rural renewal taking place across denuded country dorpies (hamlets), villages and small towns as city wearied artists, potters, weavers, enthusiatic dealers in antiques, country junk and local wares revive the old settlements.Rosendal may have only one tarred road but it has a little theater where well-knowns come to perform. Rosendal's streets are dusty; its permanent population is under fifty souls, according to a mosaic craftswoman and weaver.

The Old Trading Store(Die Ou Handelshuis)is choc-a-bloc with antiques, memorabilia, yesteryear evening dresses, crockery and glassware.
Next door is the Meerkatkolonie Art Gallery (The Mongoose Colony) where soft stocking sculptures recline on an old bench.
Michelle Nigrini, artist, also presents creative weekends at the local hotel. Dahla Hulme creates functional art, furniture and sculptures using old farming implements, animal skulls and bones.

Rosendal can be roughly translated: Dale of roses. The prolific garden, planted English country style, at The Rosendale Country Lodge based in a restored and converted cheese factory contrasts with the open veld.
We didn't stay to taste the famed baked cheese cake on the Lodge's verandah. Next time!
The town's orginal cottages are built of honey-coloured sandstone

The climate is severe in winter with frost and frequent snowfalls so one needs mittens especially these which look good enough to eat.

Turksvy (Prickly Pear) Trading store is a vintage store packed to the ceiling with bottled fruit, jams, soft print cottons,homemade soaps and antiques.

Suzani's right next door has a most impressive dislay of old enamelware and ironware.

Next stop, next week, country churches...

Thursday,15 April '09: My verdict? American filmaking at its best

2009-04-15T14:20:00.008+02:00

Another pleasant moment of the long weekend was viewing 'The Verdict' (1982) with the inimitable Paul Newman. Leone and I tasted her delicious beef casserole and sipped our glasses of fruity dry white in silence, eyes fixed to the screen. Both of us had seen the movie years before; both us had long forgotten the twists and turns of the plot. What do you remember?

Paul Newman plays a down and out lawyer, divorced, disillusioned and hitting the bottle far too often. The only case he has is almost impossible to win. He resists being fobbed off with a generous out of court settlement. Instead, in the interests of honour and right, he risks the court and the verdict of a jury and takes on the combined powers of the Church, an illustrious law firm and a biased judge. Charlotte Rampling plays Jezebel to Newman's jaded Galahad. She is sloe-eyed, wan, desperate and unscrupulous. Was there a feminist outcry in 1982 when an outraged and betrayed Paul Newman struck her through the face, throwing her to the floor and drawing blood? I cannot remember.

The genius of the movie is that it is restrained; the courtroom interactions are understated. And the director, thank goodness, resists the temptation of providing a glib, happy ending. Now this is what I call American filmaking at its best!

Tuesday, 14 April '09: Musings on the Muse

2009-04-14T12:39:00.005+02:00

The nice thing about a long weekend is the chance to read without interruption. With satisfaction, I completed a newly published novel (2009): The Piano Teacher by Janice Y.K. Lee. Part love story, part thriller, the book is set in post-war Hong Kong with flashbacks to the main action which occurs following the fall of the British colony to the Japanese and the Occupation.

But a book review is not my intention. Charlotte Bronte, quoted by Lee, said, "The writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master, something that at times strangely wills and works for itself." And Lee writes about her own craft, saying that the book began as a short story (so did the popular 'Madonnas of Leningrad' which many bloggers have enjoyed). Her own childhood and life in Hong Kong provided the authenticity of the detailed backdrop. But what interested me was that the novel evolved without an outline or a plot. Lee created two characters, then another two sprang to life. For five years she kept writing: allowing her characters to converse, interact and act. They dictated the story. Lee never knew how the book was going to end. Propelled by her characters she 'kept trying to get them out of sticky situations'. The result is an intriguing book, with an exquisitely delicate touch and an unexpected ending.

There are several novelists (and some emerging while I talk) among the bloggers I know. How does the Muse lead you? I would love to know!

Monday, 13 April '09: Easter Monday

2009-04-13T10:17:00.003+02:00

Easter-wings by George Herbert (1593-1633)

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

Though foolishly he lost the same,

Decaying more and more,

Till he became

Most poore:

With thee

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne:

And still with sicknesses and shame

Thou didst so punish sinne,

That I became

Most thinne.

With thee

Let me combine

And feel this day thy victorie:

For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

* To imp - to graft on new feathers to the wing of a falcon

Saturday, 11 March '09: Holy Thursday Seder Meal

2009-04-11T11:46:00.007+02:00

" I just had a look at your blog and the picture is rather old!" emailed my friend, Lydia from Australia.
Oophs! My excuse is that this past week has been a short one in South Africa. South Africans still have a long Easter week:Good Friday and Easter Monday are public holidays. And I was busy all week with the preparations for the traditional Holy Thursday Seder meal held annually at Thatchwick. This year the guest list, like Topsy, grew and grew ending with sixteen friends. So furniture had to be moved and tables joined so that we could all sit down to a three course dinner: chicken soup and matzos dumplings; roast lamb and trimmings; sweet Greek desserts of custard, nuts and honey. Above is our lovely Seder plate.

Isabella, the youngest guest, asked the question: "Why is this night different fron all other nights?" At that special moment, a little prompting was needed from brother Daniel. I wrote a special liturgy for our meal in which everyone had a part: a scripture, a prayer, a blessing. Together we remembered the deliverance of the Israelites from Egypt; the last Passover which Jesus ate with his disciples on the night He was betrayed; His passion and resurrection. Suddenly everyone had another metaphor or symbols linked to this ancient Jewish meal, which they wanted to share.
Unfortunately I only had time for a photo of the table before the guests arrived. The intention to take loads of shots was lost amidst the scurrying around serving.

At midpoint in our meal, we broke bread together as a Christian fellowship. The three children were entranced by the solemnity of the moment as we passed the cup around the table and broke pieces from the Kifka loaf.

The Easter lights were lit at the beginning of the meal. The Holy Thursday meal is a special event at Thatchwick and each year the guests leave touched and transformed by this little ritual. On Good Friday I was on duty at church. We are currently holding an Easter conference and the church was overflowing with about 2 000 people of every cultural background you can imagine. My friends who attend other congregations also reported a bumper turnout for the Good Friday morning service. Leone commented, "I had couldn't get parking at church this morning. I had to drive round and round the block to find a spot!"

Thursday, 2 April '09: Discovering my world: Irma Stern

2009-04-02T12:32:00.006+02:00

Blogging has become a way of appreciating my own world: its people, history, flora and fauna. Here are a few of the bold, emotionally intense paintings of Irma Stern, early South African artist (1894-1966). Above is the Cape flowerseller with proteas.

Irma Stern was born to German Jewish parents in the remote town of Schweizer-Renecke in the hot, dry North West province of South Africa where her father ran a trading store. Irma's life, however, was not confined. She and her parents travelled intermittently between Europe and South Africa.

Her parents welcomed her ambition to become a painter. She spent the years of the WWI in Germany where she studied under the Expressionist, Max Pechstein. On her return to South Africa, her art was derided and misunderstood in the conservative Cape Town of the 1920's. Reviews declared: Art of Miss Irma Stern: Ugliness as a cult.

But by the '40s Irma was an established artist. Her travels to Europe were cut short by WWII; instead Irma travelled into the interior of Africa, to Zanzibar and the Congo, where the colours of the produce at the food markets, the dress of the diverse peoples and the tropical landscapes inspired her striking paintings.

Irma's home in Rosebank, Cape Town has become the Irma Stern Museum administered by the University of Cape Town. Her studio remains unaltered and the Museum houses selected works and travelling exhibitions. Do visit on your next trip. You know, that first time ever trip to South Africa that you have been promising yourself!

Irma's comment on the creative process: "I work a long time at a picture in my head...I never touch the canvas after it is finished."

31 March,'09: An old time garden in Irene

2009-03-31T12:06:00.013+02:00

The second visit I made last Saturday was to the original farmhouse and garden of the Irene Dairy Farm in the old and stately suburb of Irene on the southern outskirts of Pretoria.

Why do we take uncomfortable and expensive flights trips to Europe when we have such beauty here?

A sculpture of tree trunks.

And a gracious sun-spattered avenue.

The local Rotary club hosted tea and cake in the grounds and local artists showed their wares.

A secret glade.

Indigeneous crocosmias tell us that autumn is on the way.

Black and white swans complete the picture.

Not a bad afternoon's entertainment at ZAR 10 (one US dollar) per visit? For South African readers, do buy The Gardener mag at your local store. It is reasonable, full of gardening tips and advertises the open gardens in all major centres. Nope, I am not on the editorial!

Saturday, 28 March '09: A Highveld grass garden

2009-03-28T15:15:00.011+02:00

Pretoria does not have any striking geographical features. It is situated on the highveld or high grasslands of the interior of South Africa. Lying in a hollow, surrounded by rocky hills, the environs are pleasant but not spectacular. However, it is a city of garden lovers and March is the month of open gardens on display. I visited two last Saturday. This new and most imposing house is found in a new upmarket estate, Cornwall Hill. The latter is a development, which like all similar ventures, has the potential of destroying more of the natural environment. Fortunately in this case the owners limited their formal garden to a small perimeter around the house. The remainder of the huge estate has been more or less left to showcase the indigenous grasses, shrubs and flowers.

Meandering stone paths take you through the rocky grassland. At first I felt let down. Was this all that I had come to see? Then I began to discover the treasures.

A succulent growing in a crack of multi-coloured rock.
Plectranthus spreading at the foot of a knobbly rock whose grooves were filled with spiders' webs and tufts of grass.
Grasses turning to seed.

Indigeous pelargoniums among the stones.

These beauties made me think of Christ's injunction to consider the flowers of the field, which neither spin nor labour; yet King Solomon in all his glory was never clothed in such splendid beauty. What do you think?

Sunday, 22 March: Kindness

2009-03-20T13:17:00.006+02:00

Portia said that the quality of mercy is not strained, dropping down as the gentle rain from heaven. I think one can say the same for kindness, such an uncommon common quality. Kindness gets lost among the nobler, flashier virtues like courage, endurance and heroism. It slips by almost unnoticed amidst the business of life. The warm greeting from a stranger, the heartfelt thank you, the genuine inquiry about how you are and the pause so that you can actually answer the question.

Last week I was feeling hurried, harried and harrassed.

My friend dropped in with an armful of patchwork cat which she had sewed specially for me. Now that was kind. This purr-fect kitty found a purr-fect place amidst the brass and copper at the fireplace in my study. Sadly it is only the cat tolerated by Trist and Gal on the grounds of Thatchwick. The 'boys' are kindess in canine form; but cats they cannot abide. (Apologies to Milo and all other beloved cats of Bloglandia. Nothing personal!) My doggos had a faulty upbringing - all our fault. Although Richard and I loved cats, we never managed to raise a kitten and puppy simultaneously.

Thursday, 19 March '09: Full moon

2009-03-19T11:20:00.003+02:00

The moon is a white button
Mottled, marbled
Sewn onto the dark fabric
Of early morning.

(From my book of ancient scribblings)

Monday 16 March '09: Fabulous, stunning, awesome et cetera

2009-03-16T12:46:00.004+02:00

Here is my Fabulous Blog award given to me by a new friend, Vicki Lane of Vicki Lane's Mysteries. Vicki is a published author of five mystery novels and her words of commendation to me: Eleanor...for you lovely words and pictures" were a great compliment. Thank you, Vicki! I am passing on the Award and the rules at the bottom of this little posting.

This Award aroused my nostalgia for the vocabulary of my 60's teenagerhood. Everthing was just "Fabulous, fantastic, super or smashing!" From a party to hairdo to a new boyfriend to a pair of low heeled, square toed shoes worn with an extra-short mini skirt.

Of course, for those of us with a British colonial past of some sort, there was that wonderful superlative: 'Jolly' used to preface any other adjective, positive or negative, and lift one's description to the n-th degree. My expressions of: "Jolly nice, jolly delicious, jolly late or even jolly irritating" had my adopted US family (American Field Service days) fascinated with my speech. In Rugby, North Dakota, I learned the current Americanisms to label life's sublime moments "Cool, swell, great or oh-so-neat!"

Hunky-dory had a short spell of popularity in South Africa; today all is stun---ning, darl! Or "Awesome, especially when you wear it!" Then there is the wonderful South African standby: "Lekker!" A translation will render 'nice' but that hardly does justice to the versatility of the word. What does it mean? Fabulous, cool, awesome...take your pick!

The rules of the Fab Blog Award:

1 Pass it on to five other Fabulous Bloggers in a post.

2 Include the person that gave you the award, and link it back to them.

3 List five your Fabulous addictions in the post.

Here are my prize winners. I have chosen four South African bloggers out of the five by way of encouraging a jolly good habit:
1 Adel at The Egypt Experience (I just found she has just been awarded this honour by another fan but I am giving it to her all the same!)
2 Greetings from Gauteng
3 SA Photographs
4 Mom's Meanderings
5 And last but not least, Kathryn Bechen who encouraged me with my first blog posting in 2008.

And here are my own Five Fabulous Addictions:
Reading memoirs
Wearing red
Talking to myself
Rising and retiring very early
Blogging

Thursday, 12 March '09: Garden oddment

2009-03-12T11:44:00.005+02:00

Fortunately this is not a python straddling the plants in my garden. It is the stem of the delicious monster (deliciosa monstera) which grows so prolifically after summer downpours. The giant leaves plucked from the stem create a pattern reminiscent of some giant snake. Above is a single red hisbiscus ready to be plucked worn behind the ear.

Monday, 9 March '09: French chic with Fanny Ardant

2009-03-09T12:41:00.000+02:00

France's gallery of great actresses and beautiful women is well-stocked. Who would you choose as the eiptome of chic, intelligence and talent? I vote for Fanny Ardant with her flashing black eyes, statuesque build and that attractively over-large mouth. I first encountered Fanny Ardant in the 80's starring in a poignant television mini-series, Women of the coast (English sub-titles) about four women from Normandy and their loves during the horrific vagaries of the Great War. The scene of a berefit Fanny wandering along the grey, wet sands of the Normandy beaches is etched in my imagination. It was in this series that Fanny caught the eye of the great French film maker, Francois Traffaut. Traffaut commented that Fanny was "a woman who makes you think of a woman from another country, without knowing quite which one". He gave Fanny her first big role. She became his companion and the mother of their daughter, Francois, giving birth to her just before Traffaut's death in 1984.

On a Saturday afternoon in 1996 Richard and I enjoyed re-discovering Fanny at the art movie house in Rosebank, Johannesburg in a bitingly witty movie: Ridicule set in the decadent Court of Versailles. Most of you would have seen Fanny as the decidedly wicked Mary of Guise in Elizabeth and, of course, as an elegant and tragic Maria Callas in Callas forever..

Perhaps you have also seen the comedy cum drama: 8 women where Fanny took her place with seven other famous French actresses, like Catherine Deneuve and Isabella Huppert. Set in a snow bound mansion in the 1950's the only man in the house is murdered. Which of the eight women, each with a motive, is to blame? Humour is culturally defined and I found the movie quirky but not side-achingly funny.

Said Traffaut, "I recognised in Fanny Ardant the qualities I generally look for in the female protagonists of my films: courage, enthusiasm, humour, strength but, on the other hand, secrecy, a cruel, wild side and above all something throbbing, alive."

Why don't you try an Ardant movie this weekend?

Friday, 6 March '09: Giraffe news

2009-03-05T12:16:00.006+02:00

Raph of Giraffe world, quite recently awarded me the Premio Dardos Award. I have failed to post it as yet - watch that sidebar! In return for this honour, I doing a little post on that most gracious, elegant and serene inhabitant of Africa - the giraffe. Happily I can report that giraffes are doing well here in South Africa where conserved populations are thriving - in the Kruger National Park, the largest national park in South Africa - and on private ranches and game reserves. Last May I even posted my own snap of two giraffes grazing on a golf course in Bloemfontein.

Some giraffical facts: The giraffe is, of course, the tallest animal in the world and it needs a complex blood circulatory system, not fully understood by zoologists, to transmit a blood supply up that incredibly long neck. Long lashed and long tongued, giraffes feed on the leaves of trees not accessible to other herbivores. Giraffes can reach a speed of 55 km but an occupational hazard is broken limbs caused by slipping on wet surfaces. Careful, Raph, in all that snow! Those necks are useful in mating conflicts too. Males use their long powerful necks to strike an opponent's body and males wrestle by twining their necks around each other. The loser is pushed off balance but fights rarely lead to more than that. Otherwise these beautiful animals tranquilly mind their own business and go about life in the African bush with a peaceful air.

An interesting anecdote I read when preparing this blog was about a game ranger in the Kruger National Park who recently observed a female giraffe with a noticeably deformed jaw wandering in a foursome. She was healthy and full grown. In spite of her obvious defect her long tongue functioned well as did her sharp incisors which stripped the leaves and pods from stems.

So who is for a trip to the Kruger National Park to see giraffes and the Big Five: lion, cheetah, rhino, bufffalo and hippo? You can stay with me at Thatchwick en route - and that's a promise!

Thursday, 5 March '09: An interview from Manor to Cottage

2009-03-05T09:33:00.004+02:00

Some time ago Willow, the Lady of the Manor and blogger supreme, kindly agreed to interview me. At last, here is our conversation, from Manor to Cottage.
1 How did you come about living in your lovely Thatchwick cottage? Does it have any particular history associated with it?
My family and I moved to Pretoria from Namibia in 1987 - my late husband and I took up new lecturing positions at the University of South Africa (UNISA). We settled happily in a suburb to the east of Pretoria named The Willows; in a modern red brick house within walking distance of the girls' schools. When the chicks began to leave the nest, Richard and I opted to move closer to our workplace. This time practicalities were thrown to the winds and we decided to look for the house we had always dreamt of: old, charming and with a thatch roof. An ad in the Real Estate column in the local paper led us to Thatchwick (already named). It was simple to find - we had passed the high, curved walls of the property time and again on our way to work. But Thatchwick is hidden from view by the walls and the enormous, old trees that fill the lush garden. Opening the gate, running up the path, Richard and I both knew the lovely old house with its soft grey thatch roof, long, cool pillared veranda, its round rooms and wooden sash windows was our forever home. The house was empty, neglected; the negotitions with a seller who was overseas were nerve-racking. Everyday on my way to work, I stopped the car at the gate and prayed silently that the house would become ours. At last, it did.

Sadly I don't know too much about its history. I keep meaning to do the research and then life comes in between. I estimate the house dates back to the 1930's. It originally consisted of four round rooms (rondavels), a kitchen and a central room (now my study) constructed in typical African style each with its own individual thatch roof. A later owner raised the walls and constructed a single thatch roof over the original rooms. I surmise he put a roof over the back veranda to build the sitting room and added the sun room later. The round walls of the bedrooms and dining room create a warm, intimate atmosphere and to eat, sleep and move under the canopy of sweet smelling thatch grass is unique.

2 What would I consider my greatest achievement?
Mmm, an honest and rather pretentious answer is obtaining my Doctor of Education. I was a 'old' student who only returned to studies when I was 34 years old - a mom, wife and full time teacher. I completed three postgraduate degrees in five years while I sewed ballet costumes, organised birthday parties, made sarmies for school breaks and taught full time. So the day I walked across the stage in Unisa's great hall in my crimson gown to be capped was a mighty proud one.

3 Apart from your loved ones, what is your most treasured possession? My photo albums. The rest of my possessions are replaceable; the memories captured on film, not.

4 Which historical figure would you most like to have dinner with and why? The Bard and I shall implore Will to recite Sonnet 116: "Let me not to the marriage of true minds..."

5 Before blogging what, if any,was your main mode of personal expression? Scribbling scraps of inspiration in a black book...writing for academic journals...embroidery and quilting...giving talks for various audiences....and talking!

Now if any of you, dear and interesting friends, would like to be interviewed this time by me, here are the instructions.

Leave me a comment saying interview me.
I will respond by emailing you five questions of my own.
You will include the explanation, post your interview and offer to interview someone else in the same post.

Any volunteers?

Thursday, 26 February: Joan Didion and my own year of magical thinking

2009-02-26T17:07:00.003+02:00

"Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know ends."

These are the opening lines of Joan Didion's honest and lucid record of her experience of the first year following the loss of her beloved husband, John Gregory Dunne. A year complicated by the mysterious illness of her only daughter, Qintana. A year when her own mourning had to be partly shelved as she waited outside the ICU ward where her daughter lay desperately ill and Didion negotiated medical terminology with the usual hurried and harried medical staff. A year when she re-visited her marriage before finally letting it go.

This remarkable book has a special place with four other slim volumnes on my book shelf in a section I think of, without self-pity or regret, as my Grief Library. When I lost my husband of 31 years somewhat over five years ago, part of my healing lay in sharing, word for word, the experiences of others. At a time when I could not concentrate on a phone number, let alone a movie or a novel, authors in my Grief Library were my faithful companions through the valley.

Joan Didion describes that year of intense emotion as the year of magical thinking. She, like a select few other literary alchemists (Alan Paton, CS Lewis, Emily Dickinson and Thomas Hardy, to mention a few) has the artistry to transform her grief into beauty, into art, into a memorial of words. At first I could not grasp the significance of her title; then I agreed. "Oh, yes, Joan. A year of dreadfullly sharpened awareness! You are right! A cuppa un-shared, a book, a movie, a sermon un-discussed. A joke, a rose opened in Thatchwick's garden, a tumble with the dogs, a rainstorm takes on a bleakness as well as a luminosity, when suddenly you are alone."

Am I becoming maudlin?

So let me return to the inimitable journalist, essayist and novelist, Joan Didion. She was born in California in 1934 and she lives in New York. Her style is distinctive: cool, economical, not an adjective wasted. She seems detached and icy even but underneath her pain is naked. Winston Churchill described the "essential structure of the English sentence as a noble thing." He would have approved of Didion's writing.

A postscript on her book is that her daughter passed away in 2005 at age 29 although she appeared to be recovering during the period that the book covered. Vanessa Regrave, a friend of Didion, stars in the one woman Broadway play. I think I could fly to New York just to see that.

Tuesday, 24 February: A purse is a handbag

2009-02-24T14:13:00.006+02:00

I confess I have a secret fetish which has developed as a kind of midlife obsession. I cannot resist a handbag: somber, brown leather; avocado green to match my sandals; small, black and beaded; large, red and bold. Above is my funky turquoise springbuck skin handbag, much coveted by all who see it.

The reason for the fuss? Miss Daisy has tagged me. Her first challenge is to:

1 Identify five items in your purse (which is a handbag if you speak Queen's English.) Well, Jean, in spite of that funky bag, I am a minimalist when it comes to the contents. You will find: my black wallet with cheque book and credit card; a strawberry coloured coin purse; a much-too-pink lipstick; an embroidered linen hanky (Kleenex make me sneeze); a pocket diary; and an ancient swatch of coloured fabrics acquired when I succumbed to the colour coding fad in the '80s.

2 Five things that belong in my workroom/study: My sewing machine parked behind my laptop (in case someone from work reads this and questions my priorities); books, books, books; family photos including a favourite of my late husband when he was twenty-four and in love (with me!); a red brick fireplace; a redbrick mantelpiece crowded with quaint porcelain and brass.

3 Five hobbies/activities I am into: Discovering the world of blogs and bloggers (such nice folk, all of you); art movies with sad enigmatic endings; Pilgrim's Progress (into which my nose is embedded at the moment. How artfully Bunyan shaped characters from metaphors); indigeneous gardening using our colourful South African plants (you may even have grown a few; bet you didn't know that they hail from here); tinkling light music on the piano keys after three years of re-learning classical.

4 Five things I have always wanted to do: Write a bestseller preferably with movie rights; make a million with said bestseller; retire early on profits of said besteller; visit Alaska;and taste truffles.

How's that? Now for any five other bloggers to take up the Big Five.

I am only going make one nomination: Raph G Neckmann

Raph is an unusual writer with a keen sense of humour. He lives in Giraffe's World, not Scotland. (That is a private joke!) Raph doesn't have a handbag so he can swop that question and mention five items that aren't in his briefcase but ought to be there.