Reekie stream.

Spent five hours fishing the Mooi river on the farm Reekielyn yesterday. Got beaten about 1000 to 0 by the fish, so what's new.  My first cast was a bead head caddis, size 14. with a strike indicator. Cast in and then watched my indicator disappear with the nymph under the water. My first thought was that the caddis was too heavy for the size indicator I was using, only to see it pop up again moments later. A trout had obviously taken the caddis on the drop, and I was unaware of it. This was the first time that I'd ever used a strike indicator.

The parking spot for club members cars is next to the Reekie stream, a tributary of the Mooi river.

The source of the stream is somewhere on the slopes of the mountain seen in the distance. After I'd spent five very (hot) hours fishing the Mooi river down in the gorge I decided to investigate this little stream before heading home.

There are only about 300 meters of this stream that our club members may fish, but it looks full of promise. I can really understand why some fly fishers get all lyrical about fishing small streams.

The confluence of the Reekie stream and the Mooi river, (Reekie stream coming in from the left).  The Mooi river makes a big, almost 90 degree, bend to the right at this spot. The Reekie stream joins the main river right on the corner of the bend. This could probably be the best fishing spot on the water available to the club. Cool water flowing in from the tributary, deep channel scoured by the current, right close to the near bank, and there seems to be a counter current against the bank. Every one thinks they have to go into the gorge for good fishing, hardly anyone stops to fish here.

While walking up the Reekie stream I spotted this small lily, there was a whole bunch of them on a patch about 12 inches by 12 inches. Only one was blooming.

Beauty in the mud, this little flower was only about one inch across at it's widest.

Best laid schemes..,

Only three more days left in our short October school holiday. I was going to spend most of it fishing. Unfortunately I came down with a bit of flu and bronchitis, Monday and Tuesday I spent at the tax office, so not much has come of my fishing plans.


Quote; "The best laid schemes of mice an' men / Gang aft agley."


        "To a mouse", by Robert Burns.


So far this season I've been on the losing side as far as trout are concerned, so maybe it's good that I didn't go and get another hiding from the fish.


Quote; "It has always been my private conviction that any man who pits his intelligence against a fish and loses has it coming."


        - John Steinbeck.


Steinbeck must have been thinking of me when he wrote that. Who knows, maybe this weekend?


It is said that Steinbeck got the inspiration for the title of his book, "Of mice and men", from Robert Burns' poem.

"How green was (is) my valley".

We have had more than two inches of rain in three days, every thing is turning green.

The willow trees in the middle distance, were bare branches two weeks ago.

Pecan nut tree. New life.

Winter fire break turning green. The dry grass will rot at the base of the stem and fall over in a week or two, making a great mulch for the new growth.

Green reflection.

Memory, 2.

The next episode that I remember well at about the age of three, happened about the same time as the memory I wrote about in a previous post. Weather it happen before or after the stork/baby episode I really couldn’t say.

In those years the municipality used to get gangs of convicts to do general clean up around the village, cut grass, clean drains and trim overgrown trees and bush. Chain gang style, without the chains. With the convicts came a prison warder on a horse. The warder was armed with some sort of shotgun/rifle that looked as if it had seen better days. More for show than of any real use, I think.  His job was to see that the assigned work got done, rather than to try and prevent escapes.   

On this particular day I was hanging over the front gate watching the prisoners, but more interested in the horse and the waders gun.  Our yard was enclosed by a thick privet type hedge with only the small garden gate for entry and exit. There was no driveway or large gate as we had no car. In the subtropical climate of Natal south coast, this hedge grew thick and high. At the back of the yard I had discovered a small opening leading out into the veldt.  It was the type of opening that only a small boy would find being low on the ground. I often made use of it to go exploring outside, my mother thinking that I was playing safely in the yard.

I was watching the show outside, warder lolling on his horse, convicts pretending to work, when the prisoners suddenly scattered in all directions, the sort of reaction you get when someone shouts snake among a group of people. What I was actually seeing was a prison break. One prisoner gave the warders horse a mighty slap on the rump as he passed, sending horse and rider in different directions. Or to put it differently the warder inadvertently dismounted from his horse.

Convicts were running in all directions, one came running towards me and vaulted the gate, flying over my head. He hit the ground and kept on running around the house to the back. Very curious, I followed; it seemed like an interesting game they were playing.  Outside in the street all was chaos, women screaming, warder blowing his whistle, and convicts running.

Meanwhile the convict that I was following realised that he was trapped, no way out through that hedge. He was a very young Zulu man, maybe still a teenager. To this day the image of his face; the fear in his eyes; and the look of despair; remains imprinted in my memory.

I walked up to him, took his hand and led him to my secret hole in the fence.    (Fearlessness of the innocent). It was a tight fit but he got through and I watched him running away through the veldt.

By now someone must have phoned the police and the prison, and the village was swarming with warders and policemen, most of them on horseback, rounding up convicts. Two came charging around the house and saw me standing there.

Had I seen any convicts in the yard? (not that I knew what a convict was)

No.

A strange man?

No.

You wouldn’t lie to a policeman would you?

No never!

So much for innocence.

For the first and last time in my life I lied to a policeman.

I often wonder if the young man made good his escape. I hope so.

Zen question.

If a man, in a forest all alone, shouts out a statement, as loud as he can and there is no woman near to hear him. Will the statement still be untrue? 


Just a thought.

Tax man

Quote: "What's the difference between a taxidermist and the tax man. A taxidermist leaves the skin".  Mark Twain.


Had an appointment with the tax man today. Turned out to be a tax lady, very friendly, very efficient.


Usually you can do your tax returns online here in South Africa, known a E-filing. Well try as I might I could not open my e-file. After making enquiries it seems that, SARS, (South African Revenue Service), needed an update on my banking details, residential address, and identity document. This has to be done in person, no posting of certified copies, etc..


Well visiting the tax office is about as appealing as root canal without anaesthetic. The last time I went to the same office, it took about 5 hours to complete my tax business. Today was a totally different experience. 


I got to the office at 7am, after leaving home just before 6. Tax office is in Pietermaritzburg, 100km's from home. The queue was already halfway up the block. Just before opening time, 8am, (by now the queue stretched  right up the block and around the corner),two employees came out and started asking each person what his exact business was at SARS. Every one got a coloured card of laminated cardboard, blue for tax returns, like myself, orange for payments, green for something else. 


Then the doors were opened, we were taken to a reception area upstairs with chairs, every one seated according to his place in the queue irrespective of your particular need, or business there. Hardly sat down when we were ushered downstairs again, still in our order of arrival, where you showed your piece of coloured cardboard to a lady at a computer terminal to get a number. Obviously when the colour was typed in, the computer then worked out where you were going. My number was 51, printed on a label with a bar code. Again we had to sit down and told to watch a large flat TV screen for your number and service point. With the number 51, I knew  I was in for a long wait. All the time more people were streaming in.     


Well great was my surprise when hardly 10 minutes later my number flashed on the screen, service point 6. At service point 6, I was greeted by a very pretty young Zulu lady, named Londiwe ( with such a smile), that for a moment I thought I was young and handsome again. 


I handed her my crumpled mess of papers, proof of income, proof of tax paid, (PAYE), expenses, etc. She took them, sorted it all out and entered the details on the computer. Then told me that if I brought in certain other documents, which I hadn't thought about, I was entitled to additional rebates. My tax return is now pending and I will take the necessary documentation tomorrow. My old number, 51, was reallocated to me, to speed up the process even more when I get there. Fifteen minutes later, I staggered out quite stunned at the efficiency of it all, hardly 40 minutes from beginning to end. 


Almost makes you look forward to paying tax.

Memory

Memories.

What were your first memories? I have two very distinct memories from when I was about three years old.

In those days, back around 1951, most women had their babies at home, and a new baby had been born in the house across the street from us. Childbirth was considered a normal part of everyday life. My brother, my two sisters and I were born at home. The local women and a midwife would attend to the mother and baby. A doctor would only called if there were problems. A couple of days later the mother and baby would go to one of the local clinics for a check up to make sure everything was OK. That was about the limit of medical intervention at childbirth.

There have been several pregnancies among my female colleagues’ at school this past year. They seem to go and see the gynaecologists every month and the birth takes place in hospital at great cost. I remember my mother saying to me that the lady who had the baby paid the midwife £1, which seemed an awful lot of money to me, for such a small thing as a baby. Babies sure cost more than £1 nowadays.  

We lived in a small close knit village south of Durban. All the houses were built of corrugated iron sheeting and the insides were panelled with wood. (The village does not exist anymore, swamped by the tide of “progress”). These houses were imported from England during the 1890’s, in kit form and erected on site. The houses were raised off the ground on concrete or brick pillars about 3 feet high, to keep the wooden frame, etc., out of reach of white ants. The dogs, cats, chickens, and the odd pig lived under the houses.

My mother took me to see what the stork had brought. I was very puzzled as to what or who a stork was. We entered a room that was full of the neighbourhood women standing around a bed, their attention fixed on the mother and her baby. They all looked very pleased with themselves, as if they personally had done something to facilitate the new arrival.

I was held up to see at the new baby.  There was not much to see except a tightly wrapped bundle of something being held by the new mother to her breast. I was more interested in this stork thing that brought the baby, I looked under the bed and the only thing there, was an enamelled chamber pot. I looked behind the curtains; I walked around the ladies looking for the stork thing, but there were only women in the room, no stork thing. My antics caused much mirth among the women. No one could make out what I was looking for and I did want to sound too stupid saying I was looking for the stork thing.

Afterwards my mother told me that a stork was a big bird. This puzzled me even more. Why did he have to deliver the baby in the bedroom to the mother lying in bed dressed in her frilly night clothes. Lot’s for a small brain to puzzle over.

Next post, and early memories, is about me defeating the ends of justice and obstructing the police in their investigations. After 60 years I’m still waiting for the police to knock on my door and arrest me for my crime.