CUTING A NEW HOLE IN MY EYES, MY FRIENDS FALL DOWN AND MY BRAND NEW LODGE IS SADDLY EMPTY BUT I AM DECLARED FIT!
For a while now I have been moaning and groaning about my specs, I just could not see right. I was shouting at the optician, the only medical boff’s I visit with any regularity. We experimented with all sorts of different combinations of spec but nothing seemed to work! I was despairing and had decided that I would take the plunge and do the laser thing, scary! However when I went to the specialist chap I was informed that in fact my problem was cataracts, which sent me into a decline I can tell you that!
Appointments and arrangements were made, and I was deposited at the allocated place of pain, the club of the sick and the holt in the mighty metropolis of Middleburg, brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Actually it was just an office block opposite the cop shop and the reception looked more like a hotel than a hospital! This was all new, manned or is it ‘womanned?’ with bright young things in airhostess outfits and helpful attitudes. The vibe was more of a conservative advertising agency than a place for the miserable and doomed.
Upstairs things fell back into the old model of hospital, with sad old people stashed in beds and chairs, all clean and nice, with a gaggle of tough old bags with titty watches and epaulets directing events.
I was swiftly stripped naked, watches, wallets and pen knife were confiscated, which I thought was a bit strange for an eye operation, but those ladies had a system and a bolshie old fart was NO hurdle of note, and thus reduced to but a piece of meat on a trolley I was left to meditate my fate for quite a little while.
If ever an entire industry can be accused have having NO respect for their calendars the medical biz is the worst by far. The time you are allocated never coincides with the time they make available; it is just an indication of from when you should be available for their attention, arrogant buggers.
Eventually the system swept me up and after a fun time flirting with the nurses I was wheeled into the heart of the matter. Tubes were attached and I was rendered malleable with a dose of delicious intravenous Dormicon. I slipped from a state of mild terror into total bliss and woke up some time later with my eye in a bandage. The next day I presented my eye to the man, who peeled of the covering and a wonderful bright new world appeared to me, I still cannot believe the difference, I have been half blind for ages it is all like an acid trip with brilliant colours, sparkling clarity and NO specs JOY!!
While I was under the knife the world continued normally being all tooth a claw out there, my particular chum was involved in one of those mysterious prangs that one passes on dead straight sections of the highways, got well smashed about and is sad and broken in his bed, too manly to wear a safety belt the eejit, the driver who is less concerned with his sexuality and did is fine. At the same time a neighbor and fellow lodge owner is down with the big C, and it must be bad, she is a lovely lady but straight as frozen rope, and she was very enthusiastic about glugging down my famous Honey and weed juju juice.
Well all this suffering and torment around me prompted me to get hold of a chum of a chum that is now a chum and also a medicine woman, who owed me for some country hospitality and was roped in to check out my organism.
I was very relieved to discover that modern medical practices have moved beyond the rubber glove scenario and that blood was enough which she drained from me, listened to my heart and lungs and surprisingly did not claim that I was a gurgley chested emphysema sufferer, which surprised me. A few days later she informed me that other than high cholesterol whatever that boggy is, that I had the constitution of a mildly dyspeptic ox, which all feel is a great injustice in the scheme of things, me having behaved as badly as I have all these years. The final straw was when the results of my lung x rays were revealed, perfect, and that after 40 fags a day for 30 years!
I am very smug
Thursday 21 May 2009
Sunday 10 May 2009
HIKERS ARE NOT AS INTREPID AS I THOUGHT, BUT GOLLY NICE.
HIKERS ARE NOT AS INTREPID AS I THOUGHT, BUT GOLLY NICE.
I thought that hikers were a bunch of hardy folk used to the bundu and well able to look after themselves.
It turns out that this is not entirely true, many are indeed resolute but a significant portion of them are eejits of the first order and are prone to flinging themselves off cliffs, twisting their bits and have a tendency to wander in an exhausted daze into the lodge in the hope of rescue from their torment.
On several occasions, small round ladies straining under large backpacks have arrived at the ‘ short cut’ sign which shall be changed to ‘emergency exit only’ as shorter it is not, and their sad little faces when informed of the torment still to come is heart wrenching. But the big burly men are the worst. Generally they have some long suffering woman in tow that they have guided into disaster due to their manly attitude. They get lost and naturally blame me and my marking for their lack of tracking skills. Anyway I have now remarked the trail and frankly if they get lost now they should enter their names onto the Darwin list of endangered eejits
However hikers as a group are fit, leggy people with great bums who almost welcome disasters that occur from inclement weather to power cuts. Nothing phases these wildly enthusiastic people with their boots and sticks, we have had one group that was turned back at the waterfall after a storm and could not cross but other than that they have all been very intrepid indeed.
HUTS BITE ME IN THE BUM
When I decided to build a trail I went to some of my neighbors to have a peak at what was required. Wimpie the lady who was in fact instrumental in persuading me to become a trail owner in the first place, is the proud proprietor of the farm Wathaba, a well know and long standing trail with her camp situated on the Elands river.
This is an eclectic group of structures that she and her son Guys have added to and expanded over many years into a veritable warren of different structures with donkey water heaters and galvanized buckets converted into sinks, dead charming, wooden and wattle lean-too’s with braai places and bunks all quite primitive/rural, difficult to really appreciate the extent of it from a brief visit but the overall impression was of a sort of permanent well organized camp.
Anyway the long and the short of it was that it all seemed quite ‘knocked together’ and quite easy to do, so as the entire trail was still to be constructed I put it on a back burner, BIG mistake.
It is only when faced with the reality of a ‘hut’ that one can really plumb the depths of what actually is required, My memory of Roberg Hiking huts were clouded by romance, words like shack, hovel, cabin, shed and lean-to had distorted my judgment.
Albert Bossert the trail builder arrived with his team of lads equipped with hoes, picks and implements of destruction and disappeared with them into the undergrowth. At first I was a bit over his shoulder as he hammered his way through the farm but I soon realized that he is an artist and his feeling for the trail, where it should go and at what pace was masterful.
The weeks and months drifted past with Albert coming and going with various ladies in tow, he is a real old goat, admirably so, and the path got longer and longer till I could no longer avoid doing my side of the thing.
I had not been entirely idle mind you; I had toiled long and hard at finding some original way to build a hut, as they were to be situated in a most spectacular place and deserved something special. But tucked away in the rocks as they were the complications and difficulties were too soon apparent. What looked great on the computer and in my head, just did not fit into the space allocated, concepts had to be changed to fit the reality all along the line. There was the issue of what to do with the poo poo. I could not just dig a drain away as it was all stone and thus needed to be transported away in long pipes, these needed to be disguised and such were just the first of many things that I just had not associated with building a couple of huts.
At the end of the day in despair at the cost of thatching, the difficulties with weather and the eccentricity of the site, I had an epiphany in the local junkyard. There among the skeletons of farmers dreams was a mound of old steel frame windows, not my favorite architectural feature of the modern world but none the less the answer to my problem of making a comfy bedroom in the rocks, I would make the huts entirely of windows, so one could lie after a long hike nursing ones bits and stare over the wonders of the Skurweberg.
This having been decided and after some negotiation which also suited my tight wad inclinations I carted piles and piles of rusty crap back to the farm, and dumped this at the feet of my incredulous staff with steel brushes and grinder to clean and paint.
But this was in fact just the start; one overlooks the many years of steady progress that had culminated in the smooth machine that Wimpie boasted.
Huts require a lot of kit, from cups to bog roll holders it is endless.
The second mistake I made was to underestimate the enthusiasm of hikers. We were well on our way, sort of about a couple of months from completion I thought anyway. Being a lodge owner now for a few years I thought that if I sent a few ‘invites’ to the local hiking pages and clubs to introduce the trail, they might, if I was lucky, fit me in in a few months time.
Not so, I had unleashed a torrent of wild fervor to have a go. They were elbowing each other aside to get in. So now I had imposed a further state of panic in my heart by creating a deadline.
I had not retreated from the maddening crowd for this! NO NO NO.
Well we pulled through, just, and there were a few shortcomings that were gleefully pointed out to me, everybody is a critic. I have now done all the ‘helpful hints’ that have been lavished on me and the cries of lost and confused hikers, the glasses have been bought and another hot plate installed among other things and the pointed comments in the hikers book have changed from bitter recriminations to songs of praise.
I thought that hikers were a bunch of hardy folk used to the bundu and well able to look after themselves.
It turns out that this is not entirely true, many are indeed resolute but a significant portion of them are eejits of the first order and are prone to flinging themselves off cliffs, twisting their bits and have a tendency to wander in an exhausted daze into the lodge in the hope of rescue from their torment.
On several occasions, small round ladies straining under large backpacks have arrived at the ‘ short cut’ sign which shall be changed to ‘emergency exit only’ as shorter it is not, and their sad little faces when informed of the torment still to come is heart wrenching. But the big burly men are the worst. Generally they have some long suffering woman in tow that they have guided into disaster due to their manly attitude. They get lost and naturally blame me and my marking for their lack of tracking skills. Anyway I have now remarked the trail and frankly if they get lost now they should enter their names onto the Darwin list of endangered eejits
However hikers as a group are fit, leggy people with great bums who almost welcome disasters that occur from inclement weather to power cuts. Nothing phases these wildly enthusiastic people with their boots and sticks, we have had one group that was turned back at the waterfall after a storm and could not cross but other than that they have all been very intrepid indeed.
HUTS BITE ME IN THE BUM
When I decided to build a trail I went to some of my neighbors to have a peak at what was required. Wimpie the lady who was in fact instrumental in persuading me to become a trail owner in the first place, is the proud proprietor of the farm Wathaba, a well know and long standing trail with her camp situated on the Elands river.
This is an eclectic group of structures that she and her son Guys have added to and expanded over many years into a veritable warren of different structures with donkey water heaters and galvanized buckets converted into sinks, dead charming, wooden and wattle lean-too’s with braai places and bunks all quite primitive/rural, difficult to really appreciate the extent of it from a brief visit but the overall impression was of a sort of permanent well organized camp.
Anyway the long and the short of it was that it all seemed quite ‘knocked together’ and quite easy to do, so as the entire trail was still to be constructed I put it on a back burner, BIG mistake.
It is only when faced with the reality of a ‘hut’ that one can really plumb the depths of what actually is required, My memory of Roberg Hiking huts were clouded by romance, words like shack, hovel, cabin, shed and lean-to had distorted my judgment.
Albert Bossert the trail builder arrived with his team of lads equipped with hoes, picks and implements of destruction and disappeared with them into the undergrowth. At first I was a bit over his shoulder as he hammered his way through the farm but I soon realized that he is an artist and his feeling for the trail, where it should go and at what pace was masterful.
The weeks and months drifted past with Albert coming and going with various ladies in tow, he is a real old goat, admirably so, and the path got longer and longer till I could no longer avoid doing my side of the thing.
I had not been entirely idle mind you; I had toiled long and hard at finding some original way to build a hut, as they were to be situated in a most spectacular place and deserved something special. But tucked away in the rocks as they were the complications and difficulties were too soon apparent. What looked great on the computer and in my head, just did not fit into the space allocated, concepts had to be changed to fit the reality all along the line. There was the issue of what to do with the poo poo. I could not just dig a drain away as it was all stone and thus needed to be transported away in long pipes, these needed to be disguised and such were just the first of many things that I just had not associated with building a couple of huts.
At the end of the day in despair at the cost of thatching, the difficulties with weather and the eccentricity of the site, I had an epiphany in the local junkyard. There among the skeletons of farmers dreams was a mound of old steel frame windows, not my favorite architectural feature of the modern world but none the less the answer to my problem of making a comfy bedroom in the rocks, I would make the huts entirely of windows, so one could lie after a long hike nursing ones bits and stare over the wonders of the Skurweberg.
This having been decided and after some negotiation which also suited my tight wad inclinations I carted piles and piles of rusty crap back to the farm, and dumped this at the feet of my incredulous staff with steel brushes and grinder to clean and paint.
But this was in fact just the start; one overlooks the many years of steady progress that had culminated in the smooth machine that Wimpie boasted.
Huts require a lot of kit, from cups to bog roll holders it is endless.
The second mistake I made was to underestimate the enthusiasm of hikers. We were well on our way, sort of about a couple of months from completion I thought anyway. Being a lodge owner now for a few years I thought that if I sent a few ‘invites’ to the local hiking pages and clubs to introduce the trail, they might, if I was lucky, fit me in in a few months time.
Not so, I had unleashed a torrent of wild fervor to have a go. They were elbowing each other aside to get in. So now I had imposed a further state of panic in my heart by creating a deadline.
I had not retreated from the maddening crowd for this! NO NO NO.
Well we pulled through, just, and there were a few shortcomings that were gleefully pointed out to me, everybody is a critic. I have now done all the ‘helpful hints’ that have been lavished on me and the cries of lost and confused hikers, the glasses have been bought and another hot plate installed among other things and the pointed comments in the hikers book have changed from bitter recriminations to songs of praise.
Friday 8 May 2009
THE DAMS FULL at F#$% ing last!
THE DAMS FULL at F#$% ing last!
On this day of our Lord (whoever you choose lord wise) the eleventh day of February 2009 all the dams on the estate are overflowing!!!! JOY
Indeed the dams are finally as they should be for the first time after nearly 3 years, it has been a long wait, enlivened with many disappointments, from drought to leaks and the demise of the damn dam builder who engineered his untimely death by falling out of the sky.
Great fortitude was required to face this huge empty hole I had dug right in front of my home, I did feel silly a lot and went back to all the calculations and flow meter observations to reassure myself that I was not a complete eejit.
But now it is very full and looks GREAT, and my math’s has been confirmed. It looks better than ever I expected.
Ducks, blacksmith plovers and even a fish eagle have now graced my waters, not to mention the happy phisher folk who have been lavish with their praise for these extensive waters filled with active and vibrant trout.
The estate now can boast 4.5 plus hectares of crystal clear spring water, that is nearly 10 acres of great phishing, what can I say we need a boat!
BURNING COWS
The life of a cowboy is rich and varied and these gentle bovines are a joy, so it was with heavy heart that I eventually decided that I must fulfill the letter of the law and burn their bums with several red hot irons, ouch.
Cows each and every one of them have their own number, this indicates whose they are, on which farm they were born, and when they were born.
Lots to say when it is being scorched into ones backside, and my liddle babies each had to have the letters RDB, a number or 2 depending on what order they were born on the farm and a 07 to indicate that was the year of their birth, a minimum of 6 hot irons pressed into flesh for 6 looong seconds each, making for a full half minute plus of solid torture, a long time indeed.
As a townie this seemed a cruel and unnatural thing to do to those that trusted and admired one.
But it is the law and had to be done. So the irons were heated in the iron-heating machine, the young beasties were confined and electrodes attached to front and rear rendering them immobile with electricity, quite a handy thing, and the smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air.
Well let me tell you those animals seemed to not feel this unpleasant thing at all, a low moo did escape sometimes, but hey, when released from the crush they did not even look at their so recently tortured bums, just returned to the daily task of sucking grass as though naught had transpired.
If I had been scorched on my arse like that believe me I would have complained a lot and rubbed etc but these stoic beasts just shrugged it of, amazing!
It was noticeable that the last of them to go through the fiery gap and had watched their chums go through before them did seem to show some marked reluctance to get into place, so they are not that thick, but all were eventually done and I felt very manly indeed.
Die Vyf Assegaaie Voetslaanroete
Die Vyf Assegaaie is so vernoem, en dis my eie teorie, omdat dit die elemente van die vyf bekende mooiste staproetes bevat.
• Daar is die opdraendes en die rondom-wye berguitsigte van die naby-geleë Bermondsey.
• Die pragtige vergesigte, diep klowe met swewende miswolkies en eskarpement-voetpaadjies van die Rooi Ivoor.
• Die lieflike Hansie-en-Grietjiebos, verbyst erende watervalle en borrelende rivierstrome omsoom met wuiwende varings van die Magoebas.
• Die lekker gemaklike Mabalelpaadjies van die ook naby-geleëWathaba.
• En het ek gehoor van die mense sê: “Dit herinner aan die Outenikwa, want hier is bome en plante in die inheemse bos wat ek nog nooit gesien het nie!”
• Daar was die verstommendste koraalrooi blommetjie, met blare soos krappote, maar dit was nie 'n blommetjie nie, het díe wat weet gesê: “Dit is 'n sampioen!”.
• Die veldblommetjies was so mooi en so vol-op dat een van die vrouens afgebuk het, 'n bossie vol gepluk en dit in haar blink-blond opgestapelde hare gedruk het. So verassend, so verfrissend, so mooi, maar o weëmy, so uitputtend…
Dalk was dit omdat ons weens die baie reën heen en weer oor die vol rivierstrome moes klouter, oor vlymskerp slymgladde klippe, dalk was dit omdat ons verdwaal het in die lang gras, dalk was dit omdat ons die paadjie byster geraak het omdat díe agter 'n omgevalle boomstomp verdwyn het, dalk was dit omdat die handjie-tekens in plaas van die voetjie-tekens nie altyd sigbaar was nie, dalk het ons die merke wat soms net 'n wit blerts was verwar het met iets anderste, dalk was dit omdat die doringtakke oor die paadjies gelêen ons moes ompad neem, dalk was dit omdat ons eers moes stry watter afdraai-paadjie om te neem, dalk was dit omdat die laaste ent die slingerpaadjie eers af en toe op en toe weer af en toe weer op gegaan het, dalk was dit omdat die opdraandes te kwaai en die rugsakke te swaar gelaai was wat die swakkes se moed geknak en die sterkes moerig gemaak het.
Dit was 'n pad wat vyand Andries en vyand Jurie as "netlekker" sal bestempel. My vriendin Elzabe sal dit 'n"rowwe eniekie" noem. Aan die einde van die pad het ek presies geweet waarom hulle dit die VYF ASSEGAAIE genoem het, maar dit moet jy vir jouself gaan uitvind. Moet net nie soos ons, as julle soontoe ry te vroeg afdraai van die grootpad af as julle die 'Bloemfontein' teken sien nie. Die eintlike pad na die VYF.. is 'n paar tree verder aan.
Lekker stap!
Jeanne
9 Februarie 2009
On this day of our Lord (whoever you choose lord wise) the eleventh day of February 2009 all the dams on the estate are overflowing!!!! JOY
Indeed the dams are finally as they should be for the first time after nearly 3 years, it has been a long wait, enlivened with many disappointments, from drought to leaks and the demise of the damn dam builder who engineered his untimely death by falling out of the sky.
Great fortitude was required to face this huge empty hole I had dug right in front of my home, I did feel silly a lot and went back to all the calculations and flow meter observations to reassure myself that I was not a complete eejit.
But now it is very full and looks GREAT, and my math’s has been confirmed. It looks better than ever I expected.
Ducks, blacksmith plovers and even a fish eagle have now graced my waters, not to mention the happy phisher folk who have been lavish with their praise for these extensive waters filled with active and vibrant trout.
The estate now can boast 4.5 plus hectares of crystal clear spring water, that is nearly 10 acres of great phishing, what can I say we need a boat!
BURNING COWS
The life of a cowboy is rich and varied and these gentle bovines are a joy, so it was with heavy heart that I eventually decided that I must fulfill the letter of the law and burn their bums with several red hot irons, ouch.
Cows each and every one of them have their own number, this indicates whose they are, on which farm they were born, and when they were born.
Lots to say when it is being scorched into ones backside, and my liddle babies each had to have the letters RDB, a number or 2 depending on what order they were born on the farm and a 07 to indicate that was the year of their birth, a minimum of 6 hot irons pressed into flesh for 6 looong seconds each, making for a full half minute plus of solid torture, a long time indeed.
As a townie this seemed a cruel and unnatural thing to do to those that trusted and admired one.
But it is the law and had to be done. So the irons were heated in the iron-heating machine, the young beasties were confined and electrodes attached to front and rear rendering them immobile with electricity, quite a handy thing, and the smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air.
Well let me tell you those animals seemed to not feel this unpleasant thing at all, a low moo did escape sometimes, but hey, when released from the crush they did not even look at their so recently tortured bums, just returned to the daily task of sucking grass as though naught had transpired.
If I had been scorched on my arse like that believe me I would have complained a lot and rubbed etc but these stoic beasts just shrugged it of, amazing!
It was noticeable that the last of them to go through the fiery gap and had watched their chums go through before them did seem to show some marked reluctance to get into place, so they are not that thick, but all were eventually done and I felt very manly indeed.
Die Vyf Assegaaie Voetslaanroete
Die Vyf Assegaaie is so vernoem, en dis my eie teorie, omdat dit die elemente van die vyf bekende mooiste staproetes bevat.
• Daar is die opdraendes en die rondom-wye berguitsigte van die naby-geleë Bermondsey.
• Die pragtige vergesigte, diep klowe met swewende miswolkies en eskarpement-voetpaadjies van die Rooi Ivoor.
• Die lieflike Hansie-en-Grietjiebos, verbyst erende watervalle en borrelende rivierstrome omsoom met wuiwende varings van die Magoebas.
• Die lekker gemaklike Mabalelpaadjies van die ook naby-geleëWathaba.
• En het ek gehoor van die mense sê: “Dit herinner aan die Outenikwa, want hier is bome en plante in die inheemse bos wat ek nog nooit gesien het nie!”
• Daar was die verstommendste koraalrooi blommetjie, met blare soos krappote, maar dit was nie 'n blommetjie nie, het díe wat weet gesê: “Dit is 'n sampioen!”.
• Die veldblommetjies was so mooi en so vol-op dat een van die vrouens afgebuk het, 'n bossie vol gepluk en dit in haar blink-blond opgestapelde hare gedruk het. So verassend, so verfrissend, so mooi, maar o weëmy, so uitputtend…
Dalk was dit omdat ons weens die baie reën heen en weer oor die vol rivierstrome moes klouter, oor vlymskerp slymgladde klippe, dalk was dit omdat ons verdwaal het in die lang gras, dalk was dit omdat ons die paadjie byster geraak het omdat díe agter 'n omgevalle boomstomp verdwyn het, dalk was dit omdat die handjie-tekens in plaas van die voetjie-tekens nie altyd sigbaar was nie, dalk het ons die merke wat soms net 'n wit blerts was verwar het met iets anderste, dalk was dit omdat die doringtakke oor die paadjies gelêen ons moes ompad neem, dalk was dit omdat ons eers moes stry watter afdraai-paadjie om te neem, dalk was dit omdat die laaste ent die slingerpaadjie eers af en toe op en toe weer af en toe weer op gegaan het, dalk was dit omdat die opdraandes te kwaai en die rugsakke te swaar gelaai was wat die swakkes se moed geknak en die sterkes moerig gemaak het.
Dit was 'n pad wat vyand Andries en vyand Jurie as "netlekker" sal bestempel. My vriendin Elzabe sal dit 'n"rowwe eniekie" noem. Aan die einde van die pad het ek presies geweet waarom hulle dit die VYF ASSEGAAIE genoem het, maar dit moet jy vir jouself gaan uitvind. Moet net nie soos ons, as julle soontoe ry te vroeg afdraai van die grootpad af as julle die 'Bloemfontein' teken sien nie. Die eintlike pad na die VYF.. is 'n paar tree verder aan.
Lekker stap!
Jeanne
9 Februarie 2009
Thursday 7 May 2009
108 TREES
There are in this world strange men, nice men and then there are men who love trees! In Witbank one such man and his acolyte who simply adore trees, all trees from the pantyhose tree to the mighty Yellow wood.
Van Dyke Zeeman is his name and he came the other day to the estate to look at ours.
It turns out that we have many trees, 108 different species to be precise. That’s a lot of trees, in fact Mr. Zeemann has never seen so many on one estate before and from a man who does little other than visit proud landowners to ID their trees this is high praise indeed.
Van Dyke is a startlingly fit heavy smoking 75 year old who having retired from the dubious joys of running the financial affairs of the city of Witbank has devoted his remaining years to the study of South African trees.
He and his side kick Johann, arrived here a to add their knowledge to my trail with a weighty box or two of tree labels so that the hikers and I, with a couple of bemused tree label humpers, can be illuminated as to the name and genus of the vegetation they are passing We arrived at Gods Window camp early in the morning and spent an hour or two labeling just the trees that are a feature there alone, and indeed just around the camp there are about 30 species from Jasmine to parsley trees, starry rice bush trees and stunted Outeniqua yellow woods, candle wood and blackbird berry trees oh just to many to mention.
Well that was quite an exercise, but nothing compared to what was to follow. We trundled off down the Hells Bells trail, a walk that should take a couple of leisurely hours to navigate, but with these two tertiary dendrologists in tow, this little walk took the entire day. We hardly walked more than a couple of steps at a time without them getting into a little huddle over a leaf, by the time we got to the bottom my neck felt like I had been star gazing for a week, my head was bursting with all the new facts and tales of all things dendrological.
Did you know that the Transvaal Milkplum or Stamvrug tree known to its friends as ‘Englerophytum magalismontanum’ has a symbiotic relationship with ants rather than flying insects and so grows its flowers along its stem rather than at the end of its branches like most trees, well now you do and this was but a snippet of all the things I was told, sadly most of which went straight in one ear and out the other, there was just too to much to take it all in.
So all you tree lovers, you want to walk down a wonderful path and at the same time be illuminated as to all names of the trees, look no further than this trail, we have named a few hundred of the trees (many repeats) so you can really learn their names, and through that become aware of how little one knows about the wonderland that we live in and I think appreciate it all the more for that.
Van Dyke Zeeman is his name and he came the other day to the estate to look at ours.
It turns out that we have many trees, 108 different species to be precise. That’s a lot of trees, in fact Mr. Zeemann has never seen so many on one estate before and from a man who does little other than visit proud landowners to ID their trees this is high praise indeed.
Van Dyke is a startlingly fit heavy smoking 75 year old who having retired from the dubious joys of running the financial affairs of the city of Witbank has devoted his remaining years to the study of South African trees.
He and his side kick Johann, arrived here a to add their knowledge to my trail with a weighty box or two of tree labels so that the hikers and I, with a couple of bemused tree label humpers, can be illuminated as to the name and genus of the vegetation they are passing We arrived at Gods Window camp early in the morning and spent an hour or two labeling just the trees that are a feature there alone, and indeed just around the camp there are about 30 species from Jasmine to parsley trees, starry rice bush trees and stunted Outeniqua yellow woods, candle wood and blackbird berry trees oh just to many to mention.
Well that was quite an exercise, but nothing compared to what was to follow. We trundled off down the Hells Bells trail, a walk that should take a couple of leisurely hours to navigate, but with these two tertiary dendrologists in tow, this little walk took the entire day. We hardly walked more than a couple of steps at a time without them getting into a little huddle over a leaf, by the time we got to the bottom my neck felt like I had been star gazing for a week, my head was bursting with all the new facts and tales of all things dendrological.
Did you know that the Transvaal Milkplum or Stamvrug tree known to its friends as ‘Englerophytum magalismontanum’ has a symbiotic relationship with ants rather than flying insects and so grows its flowers along its stem rather than at the end of its branches like most trees, well now you do and this was but a snippet of all the things I was told, sadly most of which went straight in one ear and out the other, there was just too to much to take it all in.
So all you tree lovers, you want to walk down a wonderful path and at the same time be illuminated as to all names of the trees, look no further than this trail, we have named a few hundred of the trees (many repeats) so you can really learn their names, and through that become aware of how little one knows about the wonderland that we live in and I think appreciate it all the more for that.
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