Artemis FOUL?

I apologize for literally falling off the face of the earth. The last few months have been exceedingly busy. I’ve been to 4 more weddings (believe it or not!), added a few more animals to our household, hosted a baby shower, played some hockey and run over 1000km.

The one topic I wanted to talk about actually leads to another. One of the new additions to our family is Beetle. She is a common duiker whose mother was unfortunately run over and a friend turned her over to us. (We have a reputation it seems, for harbouring furry friends). She is the cutest little thing who spends her days outside, and her nights inside with us. You may think its strange for a pair of hunters to take in a little nyamazane, but we’re not savages. She’s not going to be biltong one day.

Beetle in the car - "Are we there yet?"

Disco & Beetle having a nap

Why I said this topic actually leads on to the other, is the reaction I received whilst posting some pictures of our recent hunt on facebook. Cruelty was the majority of the claims. What I wanted to “get out there” is that the people who are commenting on our photos and claiming we are cruel, disgusting individuals, who prey on the innocent, are in fact ignorant. Ignorant of the fact that hunting supports conservation, and without it, conservation of wildlife would not in fact exist. Lands have certain carrying capacities and once these are exceeded, culling needs to take place. Now either the farm owner can do it, or a hunter can pay to do it thereby pumping money into the industry and ultimately sustaining tourism.

Some people had the audacity to call us inhumane for shooting animals. The animals we take down, don’t know what is happening and the pass quickly. Its a pity its all the close-minded people that don't actually understand the dynamics of conservation that have something to say. Don't judge before you can say you know where every bite of meat you buy off the shelf comes from - and then you will realise that hunting has its place and those animals have a better life (and death) than those animals that have to stand outside an abattoir for hours, inhaling the smell of death. Humane you say? I beg to differ!

I’m not saying everyone needs to go out and hunt their own food. I understand that for many buying off the shelf at the butchery is the only option. But then you don’t get to judge. I live my life in my own way. I like to keep it as natural as possible. We grow our own vegetables, we keep chickens to lay eggs and we raise livestock. I love my life and there’s nothing more primally satisfying than sitting down to a meal and knowing it all came from our little piece of heaven.  

A Sweet Noel...

Christmas. A holiday that has lost much of its meaning over the years. What was once an ancient celebration honouring the holiday of Saturnalia (it’s not actually Jesus’ birthday as many would have us think), and is now a feast of consumerism, sensationalism and excess. Which is certainly apt considering that the Roman pagan Solstice celebration was actually a week long period of lawlessness involving rituals of cannibalism, pillaging and culminating in sacrifice. Nice.

In Christian doctrine, Christmas celebrates the birth of the Christian god who came to rescue mankind from the “curse of the Torah.” (Gal 3:13). It is a 24-hour declaration that Judaism is no longer valid. It doesn’t really make sense, yet people latch onto this holiday and its traditions for dear life. I among them. Call me a heathen but I love Christmas. I love the festive cheer, the colours, the decorations and the general feeling of bonhomie that issues throughout the nation. I think Christmas has mostly lost its religious subtext anyway – how many people go to Mass on Christmas morning?

Who really is bothered by the holiday’s nefarious origins? To me, it’s a compelling excuse to gather with family, to eat, to drink and to spend time together in a world that is so demanding that for many families, this is the only time everyone is under one roof. We give gifts, just as the so-called Magi presented our Lord. To me it’s an opportunity to palpably show family and friends that they are loved.

In this vein we salubriously ply ourselves with traditional confections and don funny hats. Yule tide means so many different things to so many different people, but the central theme (in contemporary times anyway) is always love. A fellowship of humankind. So I’ll take my pagan tree, sing my pagan songs, enjoy my pagan turkey and wait for the fat pagan man to come down the chimney and give me pagan presents J.

On that note folks...

Furballs and Fairytales...

I don’t have an alarm clock, I have a 3 month old blue tick hound. Nothing like the sound of howling in your ear to start the day. So restful. And if there is no reaction a nip on the ear is apparently acceptable behaviour. I haven’t slept late since he decided that it was his duty to wake up the household. Thanks to Disco, I put my running shoes on every morning. Mainly just to get away from his noise but who said motivation had to be positive?

Disco - such a proud pup

Heading out with Dad

Sleeping in the car

I'm so cute when I'm asleep

Getting my Support on!

Eating Mom's carrots - 'cos I can...

He is not yet old enough to run but he sure wants to. He waits by the door while I get dressed and bounces eagerly as I get ready to head out the kitchen door. The only way I can actually get out of the house is to put a bowl of milk on the floor and shoot out while he’s distracted. I know it’s a bit below the belt, but skulduggery is honestly better than hearing him crying mournfully when I shut the door in his face.

My running buddy is, however a pointer called Kwezi. She is black as pitch and as energetic as anything. We can go for a 12km run and when we get home I’m absolutely finished and she vigorously bounds off when I remove her leash as if she’d like to go again. This is terribly annoying but seeing her cheerful face every morning does aid the belief that happiness can be found in simplicity. She is what I like to affectionately call ‘touched’. I’m almost positive she has an imaginary friend. You’ll hear dogs (plural) playing and making a racket together, growling, jumping and generally having the time of their lives, come around the corner and its just Kwezi. On her own... Ergo... ‘Touched’...

Kwezi Bear

I don’t know what I would do without the furry fraction of my family. And I thought this would be an expedient occasion to introduce you to the Motley Crew of Melody Ranch. We have a cat-dog called Calypso – I think she’s not entirely sure of her nature and the only thing tying her to the feline way of life is her love for sleeping on the curtain rail and her aptitude for murdering feathered friends. Otherwise she sleeps with the dogs, rough-houses with them, has no aversion to water and goes along for walks along with the rest of the troop. 

"A cat is a puzzle for which there is no solution."

Calypso

Just hanging out

Barley is next on the list – she is a Husky-Lab cross and her personality is just that. She is terribly mellow and just sits back and watches the world go by. She absolutely loves swimming and sometimes on a hot day you’ll hear splashing in the pool. A peek out the window confirms Barley doing her morning laps. She also runs with me on occasion but the constant dreaminess and sudden desire to smell flowers or lie in rain puddles isn’t conducive to effective training and usually results in me face-planting over the leash.

Barley and a brand new Disco

Lily is a Jack Russell or Jackal Russ as Sean calls her. She believes she’s the Leader of the Pack and is probably our most aggressive dog – thank goodness she’s only half a foot high. She is obsessed, to put it mildly, with anything round that can be thrown. Once a ball is tossed for her, as many an unsuspecting visitor has discovered, she will retrieve the ball/stick/stray avo and spend the rest of the day bringing it back to the person and waiting, shaking in anticipation, with her one paw in the air for an encore.

Its MY ball, don't touch it

Lily the Pink

Then we come to the grump of the family. Sabre. She is a Rottweiler cross Labrador – don’t hold it against her, she’s really a lovely animal. She and Sean have their differences however. She was a puppy when Sean and I started dating. She literally hated him. She chewed up anything that smelled like him, including a jacket of mine he had borrowed! She is truly the most loyal dog I’ve ever had, she would protect me with her life. Although, granted she sometimes protects me from my husband which is not always ideal, she has her heart in the right place. She is very vocal, especially when the attention isn’t entirely on her. She likes to be a part of the conversation, she isn’t a fan of public displays of affection (she slinks between us and growls menacingly at Sean) and she also believes she is a lapdog - All 45kg of her!

Sabre chilling on the mat

They make a noise, they break things, they make muddy paw prints all over the house when its raining, but I wouldn't trade them for the world. There’s not much in this world as beautiful and true as the unconditional love of an animal. They don’t care if you’re not wearing makeup, if you have morning breath or have put on a few pounds. 

They bring us joy, they make us laugh, they make us love...  Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole...

The Three Musketeers

My Furry Family

The Ultimate Human Race

I’ve been meaning to write about this for a long time but to be very honest, I haven’t been able to find the words. The experience for me was so defining and so personal, I almost couldn’t describe it but I’ll give it a try...

They say the night before the race you don’t sleep. Well I did. I slept like a baby. Perhaps that had something to do with the enormous lamb shank from Butcher Boys I almost inhaled that evening. ‘Excellent’ carbo-loading I know – but we really did try! I spent the night at a friend’s house in Durban so as to be close to the start and not worry about traffic etc. in the early hours of the morning. So that night Sean and I ventured out in search of pasta. We literally pounded the streets (good behaviour for someone intending to run 90km the next day? Possibly not...) looking for a pasta restaurant. Where was a Panarotti’s when you need one? Eventually we gave up and decided to attempt to consume our body weight in meat instead! Sean had a T-bone that could have perhaps been an entire cow at one point and I settled for a lamb shank. It was the tastiest shank I’ve ever eaten, but in hindsight not the most intelligent choice. There were conciliatory mash potatoes though...

My alarm sounded at 4am on the morning of the 29^th May 2011 and I was awake instantly. I was almost vibrating with nervous tension. I put on my running clothes and pinned on my race number with reverence. I tied my shoelaces about six times, convinced they were alternately too tight and too loose. I tried to eat a piece of toast but my mouth was so dry I could hardly swallow. Eventually I was ready, or really as ready as one could ever be stepping into such unknown territory. Sean drove me to the start, well as close to the start as we could get.

I found my starting pen surprisingly without much difficulty. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do. There were so many people around me, a buzzing in the air, talking in groups, shifting uneasily. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I was so lonely and I’ve never felt so young and inexperienced. I just found an un-cramped spot in my pen and sat down with my head between my knees. I stayed there for a while as the start filled up around me. I heard the announcer say the start was 5 minutes away. I had to take a deep breath then. I stood up and started shuffling and stretching like the 20000 people around me. I cursed the fact I didn’t make plans to meet up with people I knew, I cursed the fact I had no-one to blame but myself for getting into this mess and I cursed the fact I needed to pee for the fortieth time that morning!   

I’ve never before been in the presence of such energy. 20 000 people nervously champing at the bit for the race to get underway is something of a phenomenon. The crowd starts singing Shosholoza with such feeling, tears are streaming down my face. I can’t explain it. It sounds ridiculous to even try. At that point I realised why I had entered, why I had hit the tar come rain or shine for six months, why I had spent more time in the company of my running shoes that with my husband. I felt a part of something. Something bigger than trivial daily qualms, bigger than even the tumultuous distance we were faced with. I was one with humanity, for that moment in time, I loved everyone.

The cock crowed and we were off. Chariots of Fire played as we wended our way through the streets of a sleeping Durban. A stillness descends upon the crowd at this point and all you can hear is the shuffling of feet and the sound of collective breathing. I started to relax into my stride and felt good all the way to the top of Cowies hill. In the back of my mind I probably knew I was going too fast. The crowd of runners and the shouting spectators in their pyjamas seem to carry you along on a tide of liveliness almost impossible to circumvent. Coming down into Pinetown was the first time I admitted to myself that my legs were heavy and I didn’t actually feel that great. Field’s hill, one of the mighty challenges of the race loomed before me, I slowed to a walk and luckily at that stage I met two people I knew and we ran/walked the treacherous hill. At the foot of Botha’s hill I had to confess I was in trouble. I felt like every step was an effort, my hip flexors were on fire, my feet were aching. Then I spotted Sean waiting on the side of the road for me. My heart lifted as I stopped for a drink and a hug. I could tell he was worried about me but just seeing his face gave me the energy I needed to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving towards the ever elusive Pietermaritzburg. I kept moving for what felt like many hours and was. Every race plan I may have had went out the window. My fatigued brain couldn’t do the simple maths necessary to calculate my pacing. I had nothing to do but keep running forward.

One of the most touching events of the whole experience happened just before half way. The Ethembeni School for Handicapped Children. The kids of this rural school line the road in their uniforms and cheer for the runners as they go by. They hold out their hands in hope of a touch and a kind word. I ran by these children and touched as many hands and I could with tears leaking unceremoniously down my cheeks. (Noticing a pattern here?) These kids are in wheelchairs, on crutches, some have no legs. Here I was, able bodied and capable – I had nothing to fear, anything was possible! If they could drag themselves to the top of this hill to cheer for random runners, I could sure as hell drag myself to Maritzburg!

Coming down into Drummond, I passed a table handing out roses. Not entirely sure what this was about I took one. A kilometre or so later I realised why, the infamous Arthur’s Seat. I placed my rose at the niche, said “Morning Sir” and funnily enough was filled with a sense of accomplishment. I’d completed half the race. It didn’t matter that as I was passing though the halfway banner, Stephen Muzinghi was passing through the finish one, it didn’t matter I was dead on my feet and had still had more than a marathon to still go! There was quite a crowd at this stage screaming and cheering and handing out sweets. That’s another marvel of this race, everybody gets involved. People on the side of the road give out sandwiches, bananas, sweets and even handfuls of salt to runner’s passing by. Not just their family, everyone! It’s a superb sense of community and belonging.

 Inchanga – the monster. This almighty hill broke me. I walked the whole way up. And not a brisk stride either but a hands-on-the-knees, rattling stagger that literally took me 45 minutes. I was sure this was the beginning of the end for me. Throughout the loneliness of the Harrison Flats I needed to stop, I needed this to be over. Only the uncertainty of where the bail busses were and if they would pick me up kept me going. To the next water station I thought. There someone would be able to call Sean to come find me. I’d had enough. I was openly crying now. I was literally breaking down. I crested the next hill and saw a watering table. There were colourful banners, many people and music blaring from speakers. The closer I got, I could hear the words of the song. Snow Patrol - Chasing Cars. Mine and my husband’s song. I ran straight through that station and my thoughts were “At the next station I’ll stop”. That was what got me through the next 30km. Just breaking it down, station to station. Then suddenly I was 10km from the end and for the first time since I took my first step out of Durban, I knew I would finish this race. With that knowledge, I put my head down and hit the gruelling Polly Shorts with renewed vigour.

That last 10km, I felt like I could conquer the world. My body was broken, my feet felt like they belonged to somebody else but the crowds lining the streets were shouting for me. Me! Because I had done something great. The feeling was indescribable. My heart rose when I entered the stadium, the clock was nearing the twelve hour cut-off and the crowd was delirious with excitement. People were screaming and pounding on the stands. The sound was deafening. The pain was gone from my legs as I rounded the final bend. That Finish banner was the most beautiful sight I have ever laid eyes on and with sweet relief I crossed the finish line. An official placed a medal around my neck and a badge in my hand. I had done it. Completed the ultimate human race! I promptly burst into tears.   

The experience has taught me so much about myself. It is awfully humbling to be stripped bare, to be so hopeless one minute and so buoyant the next. How little acts of camaraderie boost your frame of mind and allow you to run that next kilometre. How seeing a spectator in slops and jeans run alongside his friend for 30km in the hot sun to keep him going. To be offered jelly tots and a kind word by a stranger at the precise moment I wanted to quit, and being so touched by it, that it carried me through the next few kilometres and through the worst of my melancholy. To start with strangers and finish with friends. I know that I can tackle anything in life. I know this because I did the Comrades Marathon and nothing will ever be as hard... or rewarding...

How to Make Pasta & Influence People...

One thing I’ve always wanted to do was make my own pasta. It seems a really complicated and impressive process best left to Italian Mammas, but when we received a pasta machine as a wedding gift, I was more than delighted to give it a bash.

I consulted my trusty Jamie Oliver recipe book and then realised how simple it was - clearly there was some sort of conspiracy afoot. Just eggs and flour. Who knew? A fair bit of elbow grease is admittedly involved but what you get is delicious, silky sheets of golden goodness. And it cooks much quicker than traditional dried pasta. Lasagne in 15 minutes? Done!  

Recipe – Courtesy the Naked Chef

500g Tipo ‘00’ Flour (to be honest I just used stock standard cake flour and sieved it twice)

5 eggs (Add some extra egg yolks if you’d like a richer pasta)

¥       Bung out your sieved flour onto your work surface

¥       Make a well in the middle

¥       Crack in your eggs

¥       Get mixing (this is where the elbow grease comes in)

¥       Separate your dough into 3 balls, cover with cling wrap and put them in the fridge for
   30min (again the suspense was killing me and I took them out after about 10 minutes
   and it still worked – I tell you this is flop proof!)

¥       Place your machine on its thickest setting

¥       Flatten the ball slightly and send through the machine a few times

¥       Gradually make the settings smaller as you send the pasta through.

¥       On its smallest setting, send the pasta through until a lovely, shiny sheet is produced.

¥       Voila! Pasta!

You can cut it into tagliatelle, sheets of lasagne, or send it through the linguini setting of your machine. Whatever you do, rest assured it will be delicious! And not to mention give you some culinary kudos.

A Few Good Men...

My last post was inspired by a very special man and today’s is written in the very same vein. Today, 26 years ago, a man was born who would change my life in such unexpected ways I just had to pay homage to the love of my life...

Sean Sneyd, my husband, is one of the kindest souls you’ll ever know. He has an innate goodness, a preciously rare gentleness and a wicked sense of humour that is hard to beat.

He will bring me a curry and a super moo when I’m nursing a hangover at work, he doesn’t balk in fear at being spotted in the “Ladies” aisle of the supermarket AND he makes the best popcorn in all the land. He is a hunter, a gatherer, a sportsman, a joker, a hard worker, a weilder of braai-tongs, a husband and a friend.

I have been incredibly blessed to have found the best friend I’ll ever have and still managed to convince him to marry me. He accepts me for who I am (quite a feat), loves me in spite of my faults and makes me laugh. And although he leaves his clothes on the floor and puts knives in the fork drawer, there’s no one else I’d rather crack a Hansa with at the end of a long day.

A wise man one said: It’s not how your partner makes you feel that matters, but rather how your partner makes you feel about yourself that counts. And Sean, baby you make me feel like a rock star!      

Of Middle Earth and Elven Cloaks...

The theme of today’s post is in honour of one of the greatest men to have ever graced this planet, JRR Tolkien. He was without a doubt the author of my childhood. He was a co-conspirator in my lengthy battles with the Hounds of Sauron orchestrated from bottom of my garden, he was the reason I wrote my diary in runes for a year (although I also wrote in mirror writing for a while because I fancied myself a Da Vinci scholar) and the reason rather a lot of homework went unfinished as I wiled away the afternoons with my nose in a book.

  

JRR Tolkien

One such occasion ended with the family dog and I holed up in our attic inside a “fort” (I use the term loosely) constructed primarily of discarded removal boxes. I managed to terrify myself (and the dog, let it be known) so entirely that when I eventually copped onto myself, I still had to scream for my mother to come and rescue us from the baying wolves that had surrounded us as we were sheltering from the blizzard (Yes, blizzard – growing up in sunny South Africa I considered snow very glamorous), because I still wasn’t wholly convinced it wasn’t real. I was six at the time and the experience has never left me, such was the sheer horror I created for myself.

I blame Tolkien. His stories awakened my sense of unreality and imagination and pushed the boundaries from already flimsy at best (clearly) to non-existent. Thanks to him I had a charming childhood. I agree most of it was inside my own head but it really could have been worse. The man lived for 81 years and in those years he created an entire world, complete with diverse histories, hierarchies, languages and much rich poetry. I used to think he must have had access to an alternate dimension because I struggled to believe that his writing was solely a product of his imagination as opposed to sheer reporting. Anyone can write what they know, but to create – that is true genius.

What I love about his stories is that I read them when I was a child and loved them, and I read them now and I still love them, and for the very same reasons. They are timeless classics that our grandchildren’s children will still enjoy. This is because they aren’t based in our reality or conform to our paradigms and they never go out of fashion because they aren’t based on popular culture. A further marvel of this set of literature is that they are conducive to being re-read a thousand times because the storylines are so intricate and the divergence of tales keeps your mind reeling each time no matter how familiar the words.

So, to you JRR, thank you for your contribution to literary history and especially thank you for your unknown contribution to a little girl who didn’t know orcs weren’t real...

 

             



27 Dresses

It seems its Wedding Season. The bug has bitten and at least once a month for the past year my husband and I have dressed up, put on make-up (well hopefully that was just me) and headed out the door with a present under our oxter. While working the wedding circuit, we have seen more of our country's beauty, met some lovely people and definitely benefitted from the experience.  

I absolutely LOVE weddings! I love the romance of it all, the ceremony, the nervousness of the groom before his bride sweeps down the aisle, the little touches that make each wedding unique and most of all the CHAMPAGNE! (I'd like to think I'm joking here...)

We’ve been to almost every type of wedding. We’ve had our fair share of elegant, no-expense spared extravaganzas of white taffeta and canapes, as well as our budget beaters with homemade decorations and in-house catering (ours!). I also had the privilege of being a bridesmaid at a gothic wedding which was a remarkable experience of blood-red dresses, burlesque jewellery and a kick-ass playlist.

Candice & Rohan

Jade & Gareth

Michelle & Bjorn



Michele & Matt

Michelle & Kyle

Pum & Nick

Tam & Sean

Shale & Shaun



Holly & Harry



Another thing I love about weddings is the pure happiness the oozes out of everywhere. Singles feel wistful, couples reaffirm their love and newlyweds think back on their big day. Its purely dreamy and makes you feel happy in a time when we’re bombarded with so much gruesome news. A little window of bliss that one can vicariously be a part of, even if just for a moment.