Work ? What work ?

I was lost the moment I woke up and walked out on to the bedroom balcony.  The tide was out, the wet beach sand gleamed and the air was fresh and salty.  All resolutions about Work That Had To Be Done Today flew out of my head and wafted away in the soft breeze.  Ten minutes later I was down at Silversands Beach.



I'd  thought I might have the beach to myself but as usual, the early-rising fishermen had beaten me to it.  Blue cooler boxes mark the spot and lay a claim to this particular patch of paradise.

Knee deep in icy surf, intent only on waiting for the fishing lines to twitch, I imagine that this must be one of those experiences to savour and enjoy during colder, more bleak times.  I remember how my dad loved to cast a line out into the surf whenever he had a chance.  I asked him how he felt if he didn't catch anything and he said something I've never forgotten - "It's not the result that's important, it's the experience".  Everytime I wander around with my camera, losing myself in the joy of just being at one with the world around me, I remember my dad and, yes, it is about the experience - the pictures are a bonus but they're secondary.

Mirror images and intrepid walkers way further down the beach.  With the sun behind my back I couldn't get my shadow out of the picture but in a way it kind of balances the reflection of the mountains.

Turning round and walking back the clouds started to drift over and the light on the shining sand softened.

The walkers caught up and passed me, obligingly adding some scale to the image.

Back at the beginning, the fishermen were still out in the waves, the cooler box hadn't been washed away and someone with tough feet was walking over the extremely sharp rocks.

And the Vital and Important Work?  Alas it was still waiting for me.

March Lillies

One of the joys of my new fynbos garden is the discovery of  a new (to me) flower that I didn't know was hidden beneath the rather dry and sandy soil.  When I reversed out the driveway a few days ago my eye was caught by a glorious pop of colour and when I stopped to investigate I discovered clumps of Amaryllis Belladonna popping up all over the place.  Later that afternoon one of my lovely new neighbours dropped in and gave me a bouquet of the same lillies.



From an internet search, http://www.plantzafrica.com/, I learnt that other popular names for this bulb are Belladonna Lily or Naked Lady lilly.  The interesting thing about them is that the flowers are borne on the end of a long purple/red and green stem about 50cm high but the strap-like leaves are only produced after flowering and remain green throughout the winter period.  Apparently this strange phenomanon is known as hysteranthy.



Up to twelve flowers may appear from the flowering stem and the trumpet-shaped pink (or white) flowers are softly scented and delicately curled at the end of the petals.





"Amaryllis is Greek feminine and is named after a beautiful shepherdess.  The specific epithet belladonna means beautiful lady.  The appearance of the tall, flower stalk without any leaves accounts for the common name "naked lady" "



The swirling sugar pink colors of the petals in close up remind me of the gauzy tutus my girls wore for ballet and eisteddfods all those years ago.  At the time the endless fetching and carrying for ballet, tap, tennis, hockey, and singing was absolutely exhausting but I look back on them very fondly.  Any transporting I do these days is when I'm in visiting the grandsons in Brisbane so the activites are soccer, rugby, tennis, cricket, chess, guitar, orchestra and choir.    Nice to know that the musical gene is being carried on in the family.



The flower pix are mine and the information is from http://www.plantsafrica.com/

Peak Times

Casting around for a topic to write about today, I found some notes I'd made sometime ago on blogging ideas.  I subscribe to two daily Word Press newsletters and one of them had suggested writing about a peak time in your life.  And this was one of the first memories that came to mind.

A few years ago my husband and I made a leisurely trip up the Garden Route, a particularly beautiful section of the East Coast of South Africa.  Storms River Mouth was one of the stops along the way, a spectacular meeting of the river and sea, and slung between the two shores is a long suspension bridge.  At the time it was prior to my knee replacements and the long steep hike to the bridge made me pessimistic about my chances of getting there without the total collapse of the knees.



I'm an extremely stubborn person so once started on the path I refused to give up despite quite severe pain and eventually we arrived at the spot where the bridge began.  To my horror the bridge was swaying and bouncing slightly as other people walked over it.

I'm terrified of heights and water.  I can't swim, not that it would help me if I fell into the churning waters below.  I sat on a rock watching others walk across, trying to summon up the courage to take that first step.  I thought "Right, I've come this far, I can't give up now".  So holding on for dear life, I started across the plank walkway which afforded all too vivid glimpses of the boiling cauldron below.

Half way across I was swept by a feelng of utter exhilaration and joy, of being strong and invincible.  After a short rest on the far shore I began the return journey, this time feeling confident enough to snap off some pictures - one-handed of course, because I wasn't going to let go of my death grip of the rope holds.  When I got to the other side my husband was there to capture the moment and I've never felt so proud of myself as I did then.  The fact that I limped for several days afterwards was worth every ache and pain.

I was thinking about why this achievement meant so much to me and I realised that my life had become quite small and constricted for a long time, thanks to the knee problems.  The fear of pain and falling had made me reluctant to tackle anything so strenuous but I had pushed myself through it.  I'd had so few really physical challenges in my life at that stage so this was definitely a peak experience and one I will never forget.  I felt that I had experienced a small taste of the euphoria that climbers must feel when summiting a mountain. 

This was my "mountain" and I had climbed it.

Tubular Bells

When I was contemplating a title for this post the words "tubular bells" came to mind but somewhere in the dim and distant recesses of the past I remembered a song by the same title.  Wikipaedia, ever informative, confirmed that Mike Oldfield had a debut record album by that name in 1973.    So, thank you Mike.

I found this succulent plant Cotyledon Orbiculata tucked away on the edge of the garden border, almost overshadowed by the flashy proteas and grasses.  The pendulous, tubular, salmon-coloured flowers have a magnetic attraction for many of the little birds and bees which populate our garden and many's the afternoon I've tried to catch a shot of them hovering next to and dipping into the blossoms. 

An interesting fact I found in my Ecoguide Fynbos by Colin Paterson-Jones and John Manning is that "the flower stalks were used by early hunters as a flute to mimic the call of a young klipspringer, luring the adults within arrow range".



The sculptural leaves are thick and fleshy and vary from silvery gray to green.  Each leaf is outlined in red  and more or less covered with a powdery white bloom, which prevents excessive water loss caused by the fierce summer sun.

 I always knew the plant by its popular name "Pig's Ears" although some books call it "Dog's Ears".  Either way it's a valuable little groundcover in hot areas and reminds me of a green rose.  How I do miss my my rose pots left behind in Cape Town.  Everyone told me that they wouldn't survive so close to the sea and unfortunately they were right.  The only one I brought with me, a beautiful little red rose, given to me by my sister for an anniversary present, is very unhappy and despite plenty of TLC I don't think it's going to make it.  Ah well, the lavenders and geraniums are flourishing.



Fans Forever

The title of this blog should really be called "Nailing your colours to the mast".  The owner of this little cafe can't be anything other than a Province rugby follower.  Rugby is the national winter sport in South Africa and if you live  here you are, by default, a Province fan through thick and thin.   And, sometimes it seems to be though a great deal more thin than thick.

I caught a glimpse of bright blue and white stripes as I was driving through the small light industial area of a nearby town called Kleinmond and made a mental note to return and investigate at a later date when the weather was sunny.  The colors of Province are white and blue and its emblem is the Red Disa, one of South Africa's most beautiful fynbos flowers.

The owner also seems to be a keen gardener and the colorful annuals planted out in the various striped blue and white containers would indicate an interesting and perhaps quirky character.  I would love to know who worked to make this inviting scene and I must get up the courage to revisit and make the acquaintance of the owner. 

The "S" on the washtub in the above picture stands for Stormers, which is what the Cape Town team is called once the Annual Super 9 Rugby League Tournament commences.  This team draws not only from Cape Town but from the whole of the Cape region, when the various franchises from all the different provinces, as well as teams from Australia and New Zealand, compete against each other in the spirit of sportsmanship and ferocious rivalry.  Traditional enemies (apart naturally from Oz and New Zealand) are the Kwa-Zulu Sharks and the Blue Bulls from Pretoria.

There are a fair number of ex-Gautengers living in the Cape whose enthusiasm and devotion to their team knows no limit.  You can always tell a Blue Bull fan by the huge blue flags, complete with bull horn logo, fluttering from car roof and windows, as well as the interesting variety of headgear decorated with said bull horns.  Not that the Stormers are any less adorned in variants of blue and white and, in true South African spirit, both lots of fans fire up the traditional braais outside the stadium before the matches, when  boerewors and beer are obligatory - nothing as girlie as steak, salads and wine.



Here in the peaceful country, however, the Province / Stormers potplants are staging a quiet  takeover of  the space of the business next door - wish I had a neighbour who would surprise me with some stealth gardening!