As the worm turns…

CHRIS BENNETT has been mulling over things canine.

SOME months ago, while staying with friends in Cape Town, I was introduced to a collection of African violets, which one of my friends had nurtured for many years. I had seen them many times before, but had never noticed them.

This time was, for reasons I shall doubtless never know, different.

When the time came to leave and start out on the long drive home my friend pressed into my hands an old plastic ice-cream box. It contained three small plastic plant pots, which, in turn, contained three small (but not plastic) plants. They were African violets.

It has always been a tendency of mine to give names to anything with which I develop a good working relationship, be it a person (who usually comes already supplied with a name), my car (Mildred), my last dog (Maisie Wiggins) or three A. violets (Elizabeth, Margaret and Rose).

Having been assured that they would not mind travelling 1 800 kilometres in the back of a small blue car, I set off.

That was April. Now, in July and on the cusp of spring, more or less given that in this climate it is difficult to tell, they sit smiling on my kitchen windowsill, where I work. I work in the kitchen, not on the windowsill.

The plants were given to me by a friend who had known the late MW for a considerable time. When MW died in June last year I thought there would be no more dogs; my friend suggested talking to the A. violets, but their reaction times leave something to be desired. Six weeks is a long time for a yes or no.

Then other things began to happen. I was thinking more and more of the next dog. I hadn’t the faintest idea what it would be or from whence it would come, but I was sure that when the time and circumstances were right, the dog would find me.

Contemplating the circumstances I realised that a fair amount of fence mending, literally, would be in order to contain the newcomer. Having had the fences mended on my behalf I then realised that my cottage has no lawn. Little girl dogs like to wee on lawn. And who am I to argue?

My cottage has, or at that stage, had, more than its share of hideous concrete. The fence mender, again on my behalf, attacked the concrete, which seemed to be about fifty centimetres thick, with gusto, while I repaired to the local pub to watch the football. I never watch football but it beats watching your yard being wrecked. And there is beer.

When the dust settled I prevailed on the charming tenant of my former home and had removed (on my behalf) a large chunk of his LM lawn; he was remarkably understanding. The sods were transported, in the boot of the aforesaid small blue car, to my cottage where they were welcomed by a ready made bed containing lots of compost and something with worm eggs in it. The mind wriggles.

The lawn looked lovely and had softened the aspect of my cottage. But something seemed to be missing. So I planted a tall iceberg rose in the middle, for the convenience of any gentlemen callers who might visit my new dog.

All I need now is the dog; and that, in the fullness of time, will happen.

A Fisherman’s Tail…

CHRIS BENNETT was delighted by the rather late arrival of the infamous sardines.

SUDDENLY there were sardines, when we had almost given up on them – again.

The first I heard about it was when I read a report in the Mail & Guardian last week. One of the many advantages of reading online is that most e-newspapers are updated every hour or so. Margate leapt into life and there was a great treat, and feast, for the many visitors lingering around after the football had run out of oomph. Later reports of the shoals’ landing at St Michaels and, much further north, Virginia, added to the excitement.

Sardines are always with us, in tins; and, furthermore, there is a great deal to be said for them and their larger friends the pilchards. They all belong to the herring family, of which my favourite is the Arbroath Smoky, a kipper cured in the right sort of smoke in Arbroath, Scotland. Perhaps I should add that I was born and brought up in the aromatic town of Grimsby, once the biggest fishing port in the world: but no longer, as the people have fished out their own food stock.

It is the herring family that provides those of us who have been on the receiving end of heart surgery with so much hope, in the form of the important Omega three oils. Just as a useless aside, did you know that Omega is a Greek letter of the alphabet, and that it is one of the two O letters in Greek? The other is Omicron, in other words Big O and Little O. I told you it was useless information.

Consequently I am grateful for a lifelong liking for canned pilchards and sardines.

Most sources say that the oldest tradition of canning sardines, which always brings to mind the JohnSteinbeck novel, Cannery Row, arose in the beautiful and dramatic northern French province of Brittany, which gave its name to the ancient tribes from whom I, and indeed many of us, descend.

“Sardine fishing and canning is a traditional industry in Britanny, where most French canneries remain. The area is known as the place where sardine canning was invented. Douarnenez was the world's leading sardine exporter in the 19th century. The sardines are fried, dried, and then canned (this traditional process is labelled "préparées à l'ancienne"), whereas in most other countries processing consists of steam cooking after canning.” Those are the words of Alan Davidson, a British diplomat, writing in an article for a delightful publication called Petit Propos Culinaires in 1979.

What I did find especially interesting in my researches into the life of this enigmatic creature is that Morocco is the sardine capital of the world. Not so long ago, the little fish represent more than 62% of the country’s fish catch and accountedor 91% of raw material usage in the domestic canning industry. Some 600,000 tonnes of fresh sardines were processed each year by the industry. Morocco is the largest canned sardine exporter in the world and the leading supplier of sardines to the European market.

We here on the South Coast are especially fortunate in having this annual migration come so close to our shores. The sardines bring in their wake a host of other delights, including the dolphins and the whales, although these last come here for the breeding conditions anyway.

Finally this week, a French news report, on the excellent English language website France24.com, says the French have taken up cricket! Is nothing sacred, I ask myself.

Sources: Wikipedia and An Omelette and a Glass of Wine; Elizabeth David:

Glittering days…

Spring is in the air, writes Chris Bennett

A PARADE of glittering days during the past two weeks or so has entranced our world; warm sunshine and a sparkling ocean made a towering backdrop to a winter of great content.

Maybe I am getting more observant with time, but I have never seen so many whales and dolphins during the precious seven years that I have lived here. Either that or the memory’s going…

My front door, a pair of French windows, faces the ocean, the first thing I see on leaving the cottage. To my left is my neighbour’s roof; his house is a little lower than mine in this somewhat tumble-down village of distinctly Mediterranean aspect; I say good morning to George.

George is usually on the roof, with Gwladys (she thinks she is Welsh) not more than a metre away.

George is a professional basking case; he likes to lie in the warm winter sun all day, his tummy stretched down the pitch of the roof and his chin resting on the rounded apex, giving him a commanding view of the skies above, in which hang kites and other undesirables. George’s beady nose twitches and relishes the smells that waft around it, and his fine whiskers are waved about, rather like a conductor’s baton. Occasionally he will rise to a passing fly, like a fish; providing, of course, it doesn’t involve too much effort. An eye periodically opens. George is doing sentry duty.

Gwladys is far more concerned with life inside the roof, where this little family of dassies have made their home for many years. My human neighbours are rare birds, and seldom visit their cottage. They both ignore me; and quite rightly, too.

George is king of the world, George I Hyrax.

From my armchair, and old wooden Morris chair of immense comfort, I watch the dolphins and whales, and, of course, the ships, making their world out of the magnificence of the waves. Gannets abound, but most of the sardines seem to be in tins.

These are the days that will have entranced people from all over the world during the football festival. A better advertisement for the South Coast could hardly be imagined, and the spending of time and money on its amenities must have brought some benefit.

In the year since my dog, Maisie Wiggins, died of old age I have reflected a lot on her role in my life. She was with me for 15 years; her lifetime. I am now in need of another, but I will not be in a hurry. If the dog can’t hold a decent conversation then there is not much point.

I paid a visit with a friend to the SPCA in Margate, a very doggy friendly place but not so hot when it comes to people. Understandably they are most concerned about who gives a home to those deserving waifs.

It was a profoundly depressing experience, although not the first time I have visited such kennels. The resounding chorus of howls of hounds of all sorts was disconcerting, but the lingering memory was of the occupant of the last kennel in the row. She sat with her back to the wire and her long tail poking out into the walkway, wagging for all it was worth. All you could see was the blurred tail; that is an intelligent dog.

But nothing spoke to me. The excellent Cyril came to my cottage to see if I was a suitable human for a dog to live with; apparently I am.