Birds of a feather…

CHRIS BENNETT, holidaying in the North West, decides a few more semi-colons are needed in this world.

FISHERMEN, two, standing in a small boat at the water’s edge in front of the lawn that leads down to the lake at Hartbeespoort, present a tranquil sight in the early morning.

I am out at the table in the garden writing these lines for this week’s South Coast Herald; lines inspired, if that is the word, by the beauty of the place.

A thin strip of land a few meters wide marks the eastern limit of the small nature reserve and waterfowl sanctuary I have made my home for a week, and indeed shall for another week, through the kindness of an old friend who maintains a charming lodge at this solitary spot.

Last evening, while I was engrossed in South Africa’s rather splendid innings at Willowmore Park, I chanced to look up from the television and out of the French window into the golden light of the setting sun, reflected in the burnished, still surface of the water; a group of ostriches was walking close up against the fence, as if on eggs, with meticulous care and in complete, almost holy, silence.

The single elephant-like file of these gorgeous birds looked for all the world like some medieval pageant, the arrival of some splendid oriental queen, maybe. I had a glimpse of gilded panoplies, glittering banners and silver trumpets.

Summer has arrived in this painted, mountainous corner of the North West Province; the land, thirsty with drought, is smitten with the sun’s iron hand.

But the presence of the lake offers some respite from the heat, if only in the mind. And where else would there be, except in the mind?

Cattle egrets, necks folded neatly like paper clips, fly in a languid cloud, low over the water. There is a laziness to everything; it hangs in the air like a gentle mist, and reminds me that we on the South Coast do not have a monopoly of this dream-like state.

Like the drought-burnt plantations of home, the veld of this ancient, parched land is crackling brown, whorls of dust and splintered dry grass.

Nonetheless the place is, of course, a hive of activity. Hartbeespoort, unlike the South Coast I have come equally to love, does not rest; there is a season for all men, every weekend.

The bird calls are one of the piercing joys of the place. Supreme, of course, is the fish eagle, a fairly frequent visitor to my friend David Holt-Biddle’s column in this newspaper. Other voices are the Transvaal loerie (I cannot picture a Gauteng loerie); the ubiquitous glossy ibis in its shining finery (the la-de-da ha-de-da?), fukwe, the secretive rainbird sounding like an emptying wine bottle; and so the list goes on.

After my rather successful book sale last week some one asked me if I had read all my books. Of course not. The whole point about being a bibliophile is that a book has to be housed along with its custodian. The greatest pleasure I derived from selling the books was that they are going to very good homes, and so their future is assured; until the next gereration, that is.

I recently wrote in this column that I am involved in the planning of a very small library at my village near Munster. I shall try to keep the books interesting, but that which interests one mind, may bore another.

But I suppose I can always weed out the boring ones.

Library days…

Last weekend CHRIS BENNETT loaded up his car’s boot with books and set off for the journey to Gauteng.

BIBLIOPHILES are a rare breed. Collecting books is a very pleasing, to some of us, way of using time and spending money, and preferably not very much money.

Usually the love of books, in addition to what they contain, emerges in early life, the late teens or early twenties. I started collecting books, mostly reference works to do with language, in the 1970s when I was thirty something. I soon discovered the delights of TV Bulpin, a Cape writer who had a good nose for research, an abiding interest in the history of this country and a comfortable writing style.

It is interesting to note that the name of the company which owns the South Coast Herald is Caxton Press.

William Caxton (ca. 1420-1492) was one of the prime movers in the development of society, of learning and of teaching in the history of the world. He was in demand; in the times in which he lived he was one of the few who could read, and what is more he could write. It is said that he earned money as a letter writer for those unable to write, an occupation that must at once have been fraught with difficulty and awash with hilarity.

But it was his ingenuity as a printer that set the ball rolling and men’s minds free.

After learning the craft of printing at Bruges, in what is now Belgium, and Germany he returned to London and set up the first printing press at Westminster in 1476. The first English book he issued was Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

My journey up to Hartbeespoort last week was to sell some books (Caxton was England’s first bookseller) and to see friends. I stayed with an old friend, Mike Benn, at his beautiful lodge in Meerhof. Mike developed an interest in antiquarian books when I was his neighbour in that village.

As with my own taste in books, Mike’s interest leans towards the South

African writers of the end of the 19^th and the early 20^th centuries; he also has, on display in the reception area of the lodge and in some suites, an excellent collection of the sketches of Melton Prior, an English war artist who accompanied Kitchener and others, and a French war artist who was, as we would say today, embedded with the Boer forces.

Prior to leaving the South Coast I had been working on the idea of a small library for the residents of our village.

Libraries are wonderful institutions. Membership of one gives you access to many others, and so almost any book you might like to read, or better still want to read, is available.

With the need for much more work to encourage young people to read, it might be a good idea for more English teachers to use libraries wherever they can and pass on the reading habit to their charges.

Without language, and essentially English, there is no future for our children.

Driving me crazy…

CHRIS BENNETT has a week of contrasts.

LIFE has a delightful tendency to swing from the bizarre rituals involved in such undertakings as renewing a driving licence (which licenses me to drive) to the enchanting world of being at home and listening to the cathedrals of George Frederick Handel’s imagination (Dixit Dominus; Ombra mai fu; Lascia la spina) or those of the shimmering JS Bach: Erbarme dich from the St Matthew Passion; Jauchzet, frohlocket, auf preiset die Tage! from the soon-to-be-appropriate Christmas Oratorio.

Fairly obscure though these pieces of music may seem, they are among the most beautiful and stirring ever written and are well worth the trouble that may be involved in their finding.

At the other side of the pendulum’s swing is the renewal of the driving licence, an ostentatiously bureaucratic parade which has to be approached with a seriously awakened sense of humour.

The good folks who test the eyes and take the money are friendly and helpful; they are also very, very relaxed about their work, so relaxed in fact that I was reminded of the John Cleese (or was it Michael Palin?) joke about the parrot.

As a result this laid-back-nearly-flat approach to life the queuing involved is of a fairly weighty nature. However, if, like me, you are predisposed to watch the world go by and observe your fellow men (and women), then the load is lightened. The sense of humour comes into play as a medium of salvation.

One odd thing; the last time I applied for a licence renewal I had my photos taken by a lady with an automatic camera who had a stall in the little market behind the licensing office in Port Shepstone. She was sweet and helpful and cheap and cheerful. I went to her again this time, and again she took a good picture. I toddled back to the office only to have my pictures rejected because they weren’t from Jay’s Studio in town.

I have no idea, and I think I would rather not have any idea, why this should be so, but I wonder how many mouths the lady with camera fed and what she is doing now. Just wondering…

Returning to the pendulum, it seems to be when it is at rest, not that it is at rest very often, that I write this column. As I have pointed out before, a lot of my pottering about, cleaning and cooking and generally being domesticated and at peace with both the world and myself, is done to the sound of music.

The scientists tell us that those who read or do crosswords or soduko, are less likely to suffer from the ravages of senility. I think music must help too.

As I write this the CD I am playing has reached Handel’s splendid For unto us a child is born from Messiah. I find I can write more easily with such sounds ringing in my ears and soaring with my mind.

The only time when I don’t listen to music is when I am reading, which is often. The CD I have been listening to today is an Erato recording (Erato, France, 1995: The Glory of the Baroque; WE807).

Potting about…

CHRIS BENNETT is at the kitchen table…

RELATIVELY cool temperatures, along with their blustery cousin, the wind, which have been visited upon our coast for a week or two now, remind me of the old English expression about the month of March.

March is the herald of spring, and is said to, “come in like a lion and go out like a lamb”. Much the same can be said of September on the South Coast this year.

The departure of what we laughingly refer to as winter brings me to contemplating my pots; not the ones with plants but the ones with which I cook.

My culinary interests have never been far from the foreground in my life and when I was in my 20s a friend in Johannesburg, who, before her marriage, rejoiced in the name Miss Jean Brodie, introduced me to the writings of Elizabeth David (1913-1992).

That was in the early 1970s, and Mrs David was at her peak. She is now recognised as the one woman who did the most to restore the devastated state of English food after WWII.

Mrs David had spent the entire war, mostly working with the British administration in the Mediterranean, out of England. In Egypt she befriended Lawrence Durrell, Paddy Leigh Fermor and other literary luminaries, all of whom contributed to her beautiful writing style.

One of the great travel writers of the early 20^th century, Norman Douglas, writer, linguist, scientist and diplomat, had a great and lasting effect on her life, her writing, and of course her cooking. She met him before the war when she was living on a boat ( the Evelyn Hope) at Cap d’Antibes in the south of France. *

It was through the pages of French Provincial Cooking, probably her greatest achievement (it has now been in print for more than half a century) that I came across the advice to use good equipment in the kitchen.

I had learnt a lot, as most of us do, in my mother’s kitchen. She also liked good quality utensils, but it was Mrs David who persuaded me to use French Le Creuset saucepans and Sabatier or Swiss Victorinox knives, which have now served me well for more than 40 years.

The utensils in my kitchen are now getting old; the wooden-handled saucepan I use for making a cheese sauce, and nothing else, was made by another French company, Cousances, which was absorbed by Le Creuset during the last half of the last century. The saucepans are heavy; they are enamelled cast-iron and are remarkable to cook with. My favourite casserole is a glass one from Corning.

As I have a lot more time at home these days I am rediscovering the delights of slow cooking. When I rebuilt the kitchen last year I fitted a hob with a casserole plate. It makes an astonishing oxtail, and I do virtually nothing. The secret lies in the time. The whole production is spread over three days, but you don’t have to stand over it.

We live in an age in which everything is wanted and is wanted now. I find this sad; most things that are worth doing are worth doing well. This is likely to take time, which, if managed properly, is usually available.

* You will find an account of this episode in her biography, “Writing at the Kitchen Table”, by The Hon. Alice Clare Antonia Opportune Cooper Beevor, the granddaughter of Lady Diana Cooper. She writes, you will doubtless be pleased to learn, under the name Artemis Cooper, and is one of Britain’s most eminent biographers. Tanya Potts at Ramsgate Stationers tells me the book is out of print. Try your library and the second-hand bookshops; it is a fascinating read.

Spring buck …

CHRIS BENNETT has been absorbed by the budding season.

SPRING seems rather reluctant to get into its stride, although the wildlife in our corner of the world, blue duiker, bushbuck and dassies, seem to be aware of what is going on in the garden.

I recently acquired three rather handsome crotons, in pots, to fill in a gap in my hedge, such as it is.

They have now, after about a week, been given a free haircut by some twitchy-whiskered muzzle. It was a secret, black and midnight operation, so I haven’t a clue to the culprit’s identity, although accusing fingers have been pointed in the direction of bushbuck.

Not that I see them as a culprit. They are welcome in my garden, but I get a bit miffed when they decide that it’s also a salad bar.

I applied the reeking solution recommended by my helpful friend at the nursery, and spent most of Sunday trying to stop my hands smelling like a drain. Still, as long as it works …

The wind, which I suspect nobody likes, with the possible exception of the yachtsmen, has brought untidiness but no drought relief.

Spring this year, rough and tumble though it seems to be, has been a different experience from past springs. I have paid more attention, something I did not do much of at school; looking out of the window at the cows in the fields was more interesting than old man Wilson rabbiting on about the elegance of mathematics.

He had been my father’s maths teacher; we were also taught by the same English teacher, an Oxford or Cambridge blue, I have forgotten which, called “Knocker” Johnson. He was a boxing blue.

Dick Johnson, for such was his name, had an infectious passion for the English language, something sorely lacking in our modern culture in which language is seen as more of a hindrance than a joy.

He imbued in many of us (not all, because old Wilson had some admirers for his arcane and secret arts) a love of reading, which in turn leads to the permanent sense of exploration that accompanies one throughout life. Books, those dusty old irrelevancies of today’s world, are the key to many things.

History was another favourite at school, especially the complex doings of the English monarchs. This is another subject that seems to have faded away over the past thirty years or so, which is a pity. Understanding today might help us anticipate tomorrow, and understanding today comes from knowing about the past. A tricky subject in these times; it has always been a Cinderella, laden as it is with political baggage.

This year I seemed to notice so much more about the spring, especially as some of my own pocket garden was responding to the rising of the sap. The huge ficus outside my front door looked almost edible as it burst into a green and brilliant song of leaves.

St Francis may have had a few harsh things to say about reading and learning, but he was wrong. He was right, of course, in conversing with the birds.

I tend to talk to the few plants in my care, especially the saint paulias or African violets. They are cheerful little things that bask on a windowsill and need little attention.

Music in concrete…

CHRIS BENNETT peers at the pier.

WALKING along the promenade at Margate in pleasant sunshine, with majestic, rolling high seas surging through the bay one day last week gave a great sense of invigoration and freedom.

My companion was a friend visiting from Cape Town, or to be more accurate, Sea Point, where he enjoys walking along that lovely promenade. We were discussing my rather lamentable efforts at replacing my old late and lamented dog with a new; efforts, for the time being, doomed to failure.

Walks like this are particularly sweet when the conversation turns away from the personal and entangled mysteries of private life to its more poetic side.

On this walk there is a lot of architecture at which to look and, more important in my book, at which to react. I think it was Kenneth Clarke who described it this way: “Architecture is music frozen in time”.*

Some of the buildings along the promenade are very, very boring, but some, especially the more recent blocks have a distinct appeal to the eye, thus making the walk all the more rewarding.

But perhaps the real jewel in the crown will turn out to be the fishing pier, at the moment a work in progress.

You will recall that the pier, and a lot of the waterfront road, was almost destroyed in the huge storm of a few years ago.

Well, the work of restoration is moving forward, and may be finished in time for the Christmas season.

The muscular pillars on which the old structure had been built survived the storms of that terrible year. Now the architect in charge has added to their grandeur, not only in building so solid and sound an upper structure, but in grasping the huge energy which our seemingly changing weather unleashes on this beautiful pier.

The final result will be quite awesome, and a great blessing to the fisherman of the lower South Coast.

Another topic discussed, at a later date and over a delicious lunch at Mario and Marisa beautiful restaurant, was the debate I mentioned recently, the one about the press and its function, a debate that has stirred emotions in every corner of this country.

We are fortunate to have a wide variety of newspapers in KwaZulu-Natal, supplemented these days by the ease of access to some up-country papers on the Internet, although most of those in the Independent stable charge to read their publications on the ʼnet, which I think is a pity.

The group of us at the table included the retired head of a radio station (Leslie McKenzie was the last Head of Springbok Radio) and a current newspaper editor.

The lively discussion quickly became a unanimous opinion: that the loss of any measure of press freedom, and this newly proposed bill is simply censorship masquerading as “the public interest”, is a catastrophe for any democracy.

André Brink wrote recently, apropos the bill, “…the prime function of the word is to interrogate silence”.

Talk soon turned to the beautiful sight of the lagoon in the Mpenjati valley beneath us and the parched appearance of the grass on the hills. All eyes turned to the blue sea and the sky above it.

It must rain soon.

* The German philosopher, Friederich von Schelling (1759-1805), wrote, “Architecture in general is frozen music”.

Puppy dogs’ tales…

Animal carnival seemed to be the underlying theme of last week in CHRIS BENNETT’S busy life.

A COUPLE of weeks ago I opened my South Coast Herald and there staring back at me with a slightly wan smile, or it might have been irony, was what looked for all the world like the face of Maisie Wiggins, my Jack Russell/Dachshund/? miscellany.

MW, for so she was often known, was my inseparable companion for 15 years: she died in June last year, so the picture gave me quite a jolt.

Along with my friend Tegwyn, tireless marketer and inventor of the doggy tent, I went to the SPCA to appraise the candidate.

My brother had already pointed out that MW would find me, so I told him that she had and I was now on my way to an interview with her; MW would be doing the interviewing.

She had been moved to the boarding kennels the previous day, and was fetched for me by the South Coast’s doggies’ best friend, Alistair Sinclair.

As I saw her she wagged her tail and said, “Where have you been? You’re late!” I felt we may have something in common.

I have a friend staying for a few days, and so decided to wait until the coast was clear before bringing her in to the racy underworld of Greenhart Village. There are some highly dubious dogs here, but at least there are dogs; unlike their owners, of course, in the mouths of whom butter would not dare soften, let alone melt.

At the weekend my visitor and I decided to make an oxtail stew. The sealing of the meat and the frying of the onions, carrots and turnips was done on my viewing deck. This process, as you no doubt know, is best done outdoors.

I stirred and daydreamed away, the daydreams being largely about my impending companion and whether she would start her new life by digging up the rose tree.

I looked up from the pan and there, not three metres from my face, my eye caught a windhover, a yellow-billed kite.

Immediately I heard the words of one of my favourite poems*, “….daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding/

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding/

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing/

In his ecstasy!”

In its talons the bird carried a small rodent, undoubtedly by then an ex-rodent. Hovering above me in the buffeting wind, he skilfully (instinctively?) swung his legs forward and his neck down to feed on the prey: his magnificent wings adjusting to every bump and pocket in the air as if on autopilot.

As a backdrop to this, the most amazing sighting of a yellow-billed kite I have ever beheld, and those beautiful creatures are abundant in this part of the world, was the azure grandeur of the ocean and the ballet of a family of humpbacks. They were particularly boisterous that morning.

And they weren’t the only ones.

* The Windhover: Poems and Prose of Gerard Manley Hopkins; Penguin Classics; London 1953 (1988 ed.)

High flying…

CHRIS BENNETT reflects on the first week of spring…

SAD was the day at the end of last week when Angela Kelly left the South Coast Herald.

Angela’s formative journalistic career has been at the Herald, which she served with dedication and dignity for the past five years. She is a journalist of great talent, and her sense of right, sense of humour and her common sense, should take her on a long and rewarding journey through life.

Angela has, as you will have read, joined the Independent Newspaper group, one of the world’s major media conglomerates, at their KwaZulu-Natal bureau in Durban. I don’t doubt I shall read her byline again before long.

One of the most endearing aspects of working for a good newspaper is the camaraderie and enthusiasm that exist in the newsroom, and not only the news room. But it is in the newsroom where the sparks fly, and where cool heads simply have to prevail.

I was disappointed recently to read of the appallingly rude and highly ill-judged behaviour of several of our public leaders on the lower South Coast: they attacked a Herald reporter and trainee editor verbally and almost physically, for simply doing his job.

Siyabnga Mnchunu, a young man of immaculate manners, considerable charm and a highly developed understanding of both written and spoken English was, for a time, a classic example of the old medieval trait of murdering the messenger. I don’t doubt you read the depressing story in last week’s Herald.

All this is brought sharply into focus with the current heated debate evolving in our country over how far the government should contain the press: the voice of the people.

Doubtless most of the proponents of this unsettling issue have every good reason to be able to hide behind the fulsome skirts of the administration. But it will weaken our democracy and water down the rich inheritance of which we are, rightly, so proud.

But enough of that.

Spring is here.

Something has eaten most of my beautiful sapphire bush. Most of its flowers are gone, relished by either monkeys or dassies. The bush may be consigned to history.

The huge fig tree that shades the balcony where most of the summer living is done is now in full bud and leaf, a delightful sight. The whales are still cavorting in the ocean, as you will have noticed, and there are still children on the beach. Beached children?

In this part of the world spring is short-lived, like the sapphire bush. Summer is never far behind and the South Coast will soon be in full swing again.

News of the flights from Margate to Lanseria is welcome news, especially for those of us headed for Hartbeespoort. The drive from the dam to OR Tambo takes the best part of two ours, so friends are far happiuer to meet the plane at the airport on the other side of the Skurweberg.

It’s a pricey business, as was to be expected, but when you are travelling alone the cost of the road trip, pleasant though it may be, adds up, what with the price of fuel, the tolls and the wear and tear on the car.

I would imagine the flight to East London will help those heading for the mother city. We have a very pretty airport and it is good to see it back in use again.