Distractions and diversions

It is meant to be a quick drive to the shop to buy milk and bread. It turns into an excursion.

On the river route: dassies, surfers, vygies, aloes, buck and the odd dolphin

The trouble is that I spot a pod of dolphins flowing lazily in the blue, blue waves, and I decide to follow them on the way to the shop. I stop first to watch the mother bushbuck near the house; more likely, she is watching me. 

Then I splash very carefully through the pools – all this unseasonal rain – in the barely there dirt road that hugs the sea towards the river mouth.

And there is just so much to take in. The road itself is edged with bright pink vygies (mesems), which is a distraction enough from the task at hand – to trail the dolphins. There is an orange smudge beyond that; I just have to stop to study that aloe in full flower.

You can just make out a fin between the water plumes of two whales

Winter warmth

The dassies (rock rabbits) are out with their families, warming themselves on the rocks in the winter sun. I stop to watch someone catch a fish; then I notice some surfers in the water. 

Further out in the bay, I watch two whales frolic. I try to take a picture for you, but manage to get only their plumes of water, although you can just make out a fin.

Next I look, the dolphins have slipped off. And I wonder what on earth I had set out to do.

Goodbye, Max

My heart is heavy because this morning, we took our beloved dog, Max, to the vet to be put to sleep. He was 14, a good innings for a large dog. He was sore a lot of the time: his skin itched constantly and he suffered with hip dysplasia. And he was uncomfortable: his arthritis was making it more and more difficult to move.

Max, the one and only

But he lived to go to the beach. There, he would forget his age and his pains, and he would frolic like a puppy. He would wait at the front door, just in case someone tried to slip off without him. After a life in suburbia, Max spent his last 18 months in his own paradise.

The morning was good to Max; the beautiful calm weather meant that he could have that last jaunt to the beach. But then he battled to walk up the little bank from the beach.

He was calm when he went, and I like to think that he welcomed the relief. Maybe even, he’s now with the great love of his life, Gypsy, our Irish terrier who died of biliary fever a few years before we moved to this village. But that doesn’t make it any less sad.

So then I discover something else about gardening: it helps healing. I start planting: turnips in the vegetable garden and giant stocks in the non-indigenous section. I foliar feed absolutely everything with earthworm “wee”. I pull out weeds. And I think of Max all this time, his gentle presence: after the beach, the garden was his favourite place to be. Somehow I feel a little lighter when I’m done.

Spreading the joy

Gardens are made to be shared – not just through sight and the other senses, but most importantly, through cuttings, roots and seeds that spread the joy and peace that only a garden can give.

One of Mary’s pics, of herself and her cousins, with her own inscription

I learnt that from one of the wisest people I've known – my paternal grandmother, Mary. She was a true plantswoman, among many other things. Some of my happiest memories are of running around her rose bushes, chattering to her while she marvelled at a bloom or fussed over a stubborn weed. It was in her various gardens that I got to know the smells of lavender and rose geranium, the feel of soft and furry lamb’s ear leaves, the taste of cherry guavas.

Generous spirit

Beautiful, kind Mary

She would always be handing out seeds or cuttings from her garden. Simple yet beautiful nasturtiums were among her favourite flowers, and four gardens later, many of the nasturtiums in my garden have grown from seed that Mary originally gave me. She seemed to gain such pleasure from knowing that a cherished plant would now also be treasured in someone else’s garden. It struck me, even very young, that this was a true generosity of spirit.

So every time I take a cutting – for use in my own garden or to pass on to a special person – I think of Mary. And I like to think that she would approve of my attempts at propagation. In fact, I know that she would have many words of gentle encouragement.

Army of new plants

My system seems to work quite well. In a tucked-away spot behind the washing line that gets afternoon shade from the ngwenya tree (wild plum, Harpephyllum caffrum), an army of plastic pots brim with new plants. These cuttings are mostly from my own garden (I also raid friends’ gardens), and they include geranium and pelargonium, scabiosa, fuschia, daisies, lavender, rosemary, felicia, plectranthus and osteospermum.

All of these grow really easily from cuttings. Aloes and other succulents do, too, but they will usually grow from cuttings that are shoved into the ground; best to let them dry for a few days to avoid rotting, though.

There’s also row upon row of baby clivias, growing from seed. These will take about three years to get to flowering stage.

Secret

A perfect mini greenhouse

And here’s my “secret”: I cut the top off a plastic cold drink or water bottle, and invert it over a new, watered cutting. It forms a perfect mini greenhouse. You seldom have to water the cutting again. The plant takes care of that itself through transpiration: essentially, the cutting takes up water from the soil and then releases it into the atmosphere, kind of like sweating.

It’s quite a thrill seeing the water droplets form on the inside of the bottle and run down to sustain the plant. I remove the bottle when I’m certain that the cutting has grown some roots.

This method has increased the “strike rate” of my cuttings: four out of five, instead of two or three out of five, usually take. It lets me experiment with more demanding plants, like roses, and it gives me a constant supply of plants to fill empty corners, without having to spend a fortune at the garden centre. And one of the nicest things about it, for me, is that I give something meaningful to people I care about. Thanks to Mary.

Mid-winter pleasures

It’s the winter solstice today here in the South. In theory, it’s the middle of winter. But it’s far from a typical winter day: in this summer-rainfall area, most of the morning has been wet and overcast.

I pull on a jersey and walk through the garden, and even in this relative gloom, I am struck by just how lucky I am to live here. There is so much going on around me, and that’s apart from the birds gathering over the sea.

A kingfisher takes off from the knobwood tree. A pair of sunbirds are dipping into the wild dagga and the strelitzia. The hadedas are patrolling the grass, aerating the soil with their long, long beaks. A flock of guinea fowl are pecking near the aloe garden.

The gloriously scented indigenous jasmine is coming into bloom; so is the iboza. The first clivia minutiae flowers are out. Some of the aloes, including the exciting “hedgehog” hybrid, are starting to flower. The lemon tree is still heavy with fruit. The broccoli are forming good heads, and I think we can eat some this weekend.

I took pics as I strolled, and I’ve experimented with putting some of them into a collage on this page. I hope you enjoy them.

Where people remember your name

For one reason or another, usually to do with music or food, I’ve landed up at Murambi Country Kitchen regularly over the past few weeks. I wish it could stay one of those best-kept-secret things, but that would be selfish (and it would probably end up closing, which would be sad).

The wall behind the stage is lined with old single vinyls

This lovely, gentle spot has become one of my favourite East London places, and lucky for me, it’s close to where I live. I love the setting, right next to Murambi Roses: the big windows look onto a small dam, and then onto open fields that flow to the sea.

Warm place

The proprietor, James, makes a visit here very special indeed. Somehow, he remembers not just your name, but also if you are a vegetarian. It’s warm in other ways, too: on these chilly winter days and nights, there is always a log fire going.

James allows us to drum here on quiet weekday evenings. We are usually accompanied by the property owner’s collie dog, who sings along to our djembe attempts. Truly. On Wednesdays, James, a musician himself, has been known to join in with other local musicians, who gather for jam sessions in his restaurant.

You can actually eat here, too. The menu is fairly limited, but the food is wholesome and nicely prepared. My friend, Mary, loves to have breakfasts here. Cakes for teatime are good, I am told. And I can vouch for the lunches.

Close-up of the placemats

The placemats on your table are old vinyl records, including a lot of Springbok Hits from the 1970s: delightful conversation pieces. As a child in the ’70s, I (like so many kids of the time) would blow my pocket money – a rand or two – on the latest Springbok Hits record. This was how we bought our music back then, and we’d play these records until they were so scratched that you could barely get a coherent sound out of them.

Musicians

The choice of placemats is appropriate because it’s largely through music that Murambi Country Kitchen is carving its place on the map. James has managed to draw quite an impressive range of musicians to perform here.

In summer, we have picnicked under the stars while taking in the sounds of the likes of Guy Buttery  and Nibs van der Spuy. In winter, we move indoors.

This past Saturday night, were treated to an outstanding performance by singer and pianist Shannon Hope. And we’ve just managed to get tickets, selling fast, to rock band Zebra & Giraffe’s show this week.

It’s okay to be potty

Our old wheelbarrow has worked so hard that it’s truly on its last legs … um, wheels. And I can’t wait for it to call it a day. I can picture it, parked in its final resting place in the garden, overflowing with flowers and pretty leaves. It will make an excellent container for plants.

The wheelbarrow’s next life is all planned (with Isis’s permission)

I’ve had a fixation with containers, you see, since I first started gardening. My first garden – in Westville, Durban, if you recall – was on such steep land that I hit on the idea of planting as much as possible in our courtyard in containers. Anything, absolutely anything, even an old toilet cistern, was turned into a home for plants.

Whenever I had spare cash (not often), I would buy a pot. Over the years, the obsession turned into a sizeable collection, most of which has followed me to my various gardens around the country.

Habit of frugality

Potty things in my garden ... ceramic head by Steve Meise; pretty pastels from Gen

And my frugality (born of necessity) became a habit (because it feels right in our  throwaway society). So I’ve just turned a 5 litre olive oil tin into a plant pot: I cut away the top with a can opener, punched holes in the bottom with hammer and a large nail, and planted a trailing pelargonium, grown from a cutting, into it. It stands on a chipped side plate from the kitchen.

Old colanders have found new life in my garden as containers for plants. So have rusted and holey three-legged pots, a lot of strange pinch pots from my pottery craze days, tightly woven baskets, a coconut shell, hollow pieces of wood, and a couple of cracked clay basins. I’m considering the possibilities that the old bamboo steamer holds.

Fabulous pots

In my Irene, Pretoria, garden, I found a stash of old chimney tops, and they made fabulous pots, especially for fuschias.

In friends’ gardens, I’ve seen plants growing in pretty teacups (drainage would be an issue, I think), old shoes, and even the skull of a large wild animal. And I can just see how lovely my pink roses gumboots would look if a plant – a small trailing aloe, perhaps – came frothing out of them. Frankly, though, I prefer them on my feet.

Anything goes, really, as long as it is aesthetically pleasing to you. It works in my garden because most of my pots are conventional and painted in various earthy colours, even though a few have fallen victim to my occasional mosaic frenzies. Mostly, I think it works because I think it is pretty. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?

The wannabe lion and the toyi-toying cows

Just dropped by for a quick bite

The mommy bushbuck is visiting for a snack. She rests in the shade of the milkwood tree, her head peering over the teak table, while her baby watches from close by.

I should be shooing them away – they’ll be eating my agapanthus next – but I don’t have the heart to do it. Instead, I hide behind the kitchen window and watch. It’s all quite idyllic.

Suddenly, there is a movement. Here comes Isis along the path we’ve just built; she’s taking one slow step after the other. Good grief! She is actually stalking the buck. Isis may be a very small cat, but she’s also a very hungry lion (well, at least in her head).

And here comes the stalker

Now Isis stands at the leg of the table puffed up to her full height – all 20cm or so – and the mother buck stares at her (she has to duck her head under the table to do this). I don’t hang around long enough to see who wins this staring battle, but I do notice the mother and her baby peeling off into the forest and then popping out in front of the house.

Seething mass

The baby watches it all

I get into my car for an infrequent trip “to town”. Barely 2km from home, I notice a seething mass of … something … stretching across the road in the stripy shadows of the exotic eucalyptus trees that line the road and make you dizzy, like a strobe light, as you drive past them.

The mass is moving towards me and there’s a man with a flag running ahead. As I pull my car to a stop, I think: who is toyi-toying (dancing in protest), and why? And where on earth do all these people come from?

Ahem. And then they come into view: not dancing and singing people, but cows, a large herd of them. Actually, I should call them cattle because I see some large horns, too. They stream past my car in quite a well-behaved fashion. 

I feel a little sheepish. But this little foray onto the planet of the animals has made me smile.

Fellow travellers on the road

Power to you

When my children were very little people, they asked me if I’d been “alive when the dinosaurs were alive”. When I stopped laughing long enough to answer them, they declared with certainty that it was their granny, my mother, who’d been alive with the dinosaurs.

The view from my desk

So even if I’m not that old, I do remember counting characters in headlines manually so that they would not “bust” out of the spaces allocated to them on paper layout grids. A capital “M”, for example, would make up two characters, and a lower-case “i” would be half a character.

You would have to “size” photographs meticulously. And if a story needed radical editing, you would literally cut it up with scissors and then paste it, sometimes line by line, into something readable. This would all get sent to the Works department. Inevitably, one of the sub-editors would follow the bits of paper to hack out paragraphs or rewrite a headline “on the stone”.

Revolutions

Then came the first of the revolutions that I and my generation experienced in newspapers: the introduction of typesetting computers that allowed us to write headlines to fit exactly and cut copy to size in exact column widths. Cutting and pasting features made rewriting a breeze.

Another view from where I work today

The next revolution would have come even sooner if it hadn’t entailed the loss of so many jobs: typesetters and strippers became redundant. It brought the ability to design and lay out entire pages – with pictures, headlines and later even adverts – on a screen in front of you. Things happened much quicker and with a lot more precision.

An adventure

Meanwhile, the growth of the internet and leaps in accessibility and speed made it possible for more adventurous employers to try new ways of doing things. Telework was the buzzword. A string of big companies saw its benefits: for example, British Telecom’s 9,000 teleworkers are reportedly 30% more productive than those who stayed in the office.

Technology has also allowed people like me to work from places like this. This would not have been an option for me 15 years ago. Today, my office looks out onto the sea; incidentally, as I write this, I’m watching at least two whales frolicking. I am about 1,000km from Johannesburg, but am still occasionally invited to a business breakfast in Midrand as if I lived just up the highway, not down a distant dirt track.

Different dinosaurs

My point is that revolutions that fundamentally affect the way we do things – that give us the power to choose how we live and how we work – are taking place in our lifetimes. We have different dinosaurs these days.

Through these great blogging sites, any of us can tell our stories without having to sell them to newspapers. That’s hugely empowering.

It’s also great being a reader in this new world (I confess that I am an utter beginner). On any given day, I may journey with a fascinating array of people on a London tube, have my spirits lifted by young woman’s journey towards her dream in Ireland, be energised by drifting over boundaries in my own city, enjoy this part of my country through the camera of a talented friend, and wait for K’s next post as she articulates how we face up to this era of social media. It works for me.

The colour orange

One of the things I love about living in my part of this part of the world is that there is always something to make you happy in the garden, even as we creep towards mid-winter (officially, that’s just three weeks away).

Dazzling

Sunbirds love the nectar of the wild dagga

Every time I step out of the kitchen door, I am dazzled by the flaming blooms of a clump of wild dagga (Leonotis leonurus). Usually, I end up scaring away a sunbird or two: these lovely little birds like to poke their long beaks deep into the tubular flowers to drink their nectar. A couple of times, though, I managed to get a pic of them before they fluttered away.

I grew each of these plants from cuttings taken from the garden I left in suburbia, and planted them out as little things about 18 months ago. Now, they are almost 2m tall and thick and healthy.

There is also a white cultivar of wild dagga, and I once thought I’d bought one – the label claimed it was white – but it flowered in gleaming orange, and I wasn’t about to rip it out of the ground to cart it back to the nursery.

Apart from lifting my spirits, the flowers are also lovely in a vase. They don’t last as long as, say, Strelitzia reginae, but they are gorgeous. The strelitzia – orange, of course – seem to have been flowering for months.

‘Look at me!’

Pretty and fleeting as cut flowers

Orange is not a gentle colour in the garden: leave that to the soft blues and pinks. It seems to scream, “Look at me!” And a lot of gardeners don’t like it for that reason.

But it is warm and zesty, which seems perfectly appropriate at this time of the year. It’s interesting that so many of the South African winter-flowering plants produce orange blooms. So the wild dagga has followed an abundant flowering of the red hot poker (Kniphofia uvaria). And there are still clivias to come.

The wild dagga, like the red hot poker, is indigenous to South Africa and both grow naturally in this area of the Eastern Cape.

 

In colder parts, the frost cuts the wild dagga plants back, but there’s no frost here, and you have to prune it back yourself – it’s better to take it back to a leaf shoot, I have found – or it starts to looks spindly and does not flower very well.

Charming

A feast anytime

Red hot pokers add to the show

Apparently, wild dagga is favoured in traditional medicine as a treatment for all kinds of ailments, from spider and snake bites to headaches and fevers. And it’s even used as a charm to keep snakes away (now that’s what I call useful information). 

But if it’s a high you’re looking for, L. leonurus won’t oblige: it’s named after dagga (marijuana) largely because of the similarity of the leaves. Sorry.