Cat

Nothing rushes Cat, takes things one at a time.

Cat sitting in his favourite spot soaking up the winter sun and watching the antics of dogs outside.

Here's looking at you.

Cat looking at Sissie outside.

The hardest par of Cat's day, grooming.

Tombi getting into the picture, and Cat putting the finishing touches to his toilet.

Shades of pink, grey & blue

Click on photos to enlarge.

The last rays of sunset light up the evening sky.

Could have spent the next ten minutes photographing the changing sky, but it was just too darn cold!

Willem Prinsloo's Peach Brandy.

Herman Charles Bosman wrote about people in the Groot Marico, "back velders", South Africa's equivalent of the Hilly Billy's of Appalachia.

 Map of the Groot Marico region.

Quote: "There is no other place I know that is so heavy with atmosphere and darkly impregnated with that stuff of life that bears the authentic stamp of South Africa." 
Herman Charles Bosman.

I believed, as I got on my horse, and set off down the Government Road, with my hat rakishly on one side, that I would be the best-dressed young man at that dance.

It was getting on towards sunset when I arrived at the foot of *Abjaterskop, which I had to skirt in order to reach Willem Prinsloo's farm nestling in the hollow behind the hills. I felt, as I rode, that it was stupid for a man to live in a part that was reputed to be haunted. The trees grew taller and denser, as they always do on rising ground. And they also grew a lot darker.

All over the place were queer, heavy shadows. I didn't like the look of them. I remembered stories I had heard of the witches of Abjaterskop, and what they did to travellers who lost their way in the dark. It seemed an easy thing to loose your way among those tall trees. Accordingly I spurred my horse on to a gallop, to get out of this gloomy region as quickly as possible. After all, a horse is sensitive about things like ghosts and witches, and it was my duty to see that my horse was not frightened unnecessarily. Especially as a cold wind sprang up through the *poort, and once or twice it sounded as though an evil voice were calling my name. I started riding fast then. But a few moments later I realised the position. It was Fritz Pretorius galloping along behind me.

 "What's was your hurry?" Fritz asked when I had slowed down to allow his overtaking me.

"I wished to get through those trees before it got too dark," I answered, "I didn't want my horse to get frightened."

 "I suppose that's why you were riding with your arms round his neck," Fritz observed, " to soothe him."

I did not reply. But what I noticed was that Fritz was also very stylishly dressed. True, I beat him as far as shirt and boots went, but he was dressed in a new grey suit, with his socks pulled up over the bottoms of his trousers. He also had a handkerchief which he ostentatiously  took out of his pocket several times.

 Of course, I couldn't be jealous of a person like Fritz Pretorius. I was only annoyed at the thought that he was making himself ridiculous by going to a party with an outlandish thing like a handkerchief.

Excerpt from the Short story Willem Prinsloo's Peach Brandy, by Herman Charles Bosman.
 *Abjaterskop:  Name of a hill.
*Poort: Pass

  This is one of the few places where you will still find a manual telephone exchange. Maybe the only place on the Planet?

Driftwoodramblings

Here's a blog I follow. Beautiful pictures. Worth a look.

http://driftwoodramblings.blogspot.com/2011/07/summer-in-winter.html

Sky over Grantchester

Tranquil waters, peaceful farm.

Fishing 2.

Picture the scene, a hot summer’s afternoon with the African veld stretching away in the distance. Behind us the red dirt road winding up the mountain, and in front of us a small stream,  flowing between reeds and rushes. The stream itself was only about one metre wide at its widest, flowing into a pool about five metres wide and about 15 metres long. Most of the pool was surrounded by reeds, except for an open spot nearest the road.

My mother had packed a picnic basket and the family made them selves comfortable under a shady thorn tree. One very happy small boy though, was preparing to fish. I attached the reel, threaded the line through the guides, attached a float, a hook and put on a few worms. (All this I might add with my dad’s help).

I walked to the edge of the pool and cast, float, hook, and bait a short distance.  Then I sat down to wait for a bite. For all my nagging to fish there I had my doubts as to whether such a small piece of water could actually hold any fish.

The surface of the water was as smooth as glass, and the float just sat there. I really started to think that there weren’t any fish, when suddenly the float was pulled under. My heart almost stopped, and I struck with more force than was necessary. There was no finesse in the way I played the fish. My only thought was to get it out before it got off the hook. After a short tussle,  I pulled out a Tilapia of about half a pound. A giant of a fish for me.

My excitement and happiness knew no bounds, I literally shouted for joy. It wasn’t just that I had caught a fish, but also that there could be fish in such an insignificant piece of water.

That was the only fish that I caught that afternoon, and I never nagged to fish there again.


This happened more than 50 years ago, but I remember it as if it happened yesterday. The scene, the emotions, all indelibly etched in my memory. Nowadays I never drive past a piece of water without thinking what fish it might hold, and the memory of that long ago afternoon returns to me. 

Mysteries Internal: A Second Date.

Mysteries Internal: A Second Date.