Luca

In 2012 I wrote a post about Luca.

Luca is still with us, but we sense that the end is approaching fairly fast. He is now 13 years and some, which I guess makes him almost 100 in our years. There is a good Afrikaans word: "uitgerafel'd". Actually I am not sure whether it is good Afrikaans, but it was used by an old friend of mine who grew up speaking Afrikaans and it has always expressed for me the essence of being personally disorganized, untidy, unruly, unkempt, everything in disarray … I have no idea what the literal translation is, and I don't need it - I just use the Afrikaans word and insert it into my English sentences. I am reading a biography of JC Smuts at the moment and was amused to note that the great statesman and philosopher's house at Doornkloof, Irene, was generally in a delightful state of untidiness. They say a tidy room is the sign of a sick mind. Anyway, Luca has become seriously uitgerafel'd. He no longer looks like the King of England - he looks more like the unshaven, homeless man in a wheelchair who begs outside the Post Office in Fish Hoek.

First it was the hips. Then it was something to do with his bum and his flatulence - princess firstborn's boyfriend calls him the "bagpipe". Then he developed a hard lump on his back. Then he sat too close to the gas heater and singed his hair, which took months to regrow and is still noticeable as a large light patch. Then it was his eyes, his ears, his breath. Life just sucks when you are old and doddery. But up till quite recently he still had a voracious appetite, and even if he couldn't hear you when you called him to go outside for a wee, he could hear you very well when you were in the kitchen making dinner and there was a chance of a titbit or two. Given his vision, he would aim his mouth in the general direction of the food, open his jaws and snap shut. Remarkably, he normally got it. Occasionally he got one of us, or a mouthful of fur from one of the other dogs …

But the last few days he has stopped eating and his tummy has been odd. We think he may have giardiasis and have been dosing him with metronidazole, but he is still retching and has the runs. He shuffles around the back yard, gets lost in corners, and looks generally confused. He has to be helped up the stairs now. It has been a long time since he came up to our bedroom, but even the 3 stairs at the back up to the kitchen are now too much for him.

I go to check on him, and find him facing the wall in the corner of the stoep, lost again. Gently I pick him up and lay him back on the carpet near the kitchen door. He is too weak now to object. I turn him to lie on his side - he didn't look comfortable but seemed unable to move himself. He lies down and seems a little more relaxed. I stroke his still soft furry ears and fuzzy brow, run my fingers along his cheeks, and murmur to him that its OK. It isn't OK - I doubt he will be around by the weekend. But it is OK that he is with his people, whom he loves, and who love him and want to ensure that he does not leave these shores unsupported, unloved, unnoticed, or unduly distressed.

Goodbye, old man, whenever you decide to go: you have been a wonderful companion and I shall never forget you.

Changes

I see that 8 months ago I resolved to get back into writing. Clearly that didn't happen. I did write every day during that trip and again every day during our December holiday to the Kruger Park, but somehow never got around to editing any of it. It is on a different laptop now and in any case seems rather old and stale.
But I have changed jobs! As of 1 Feb, so may have some more time to do the things which make me human and healthy, like running, reading and writing. Not to mention more family time, the odd bicycle ride and even the odd picnic.
I am back working out of an office in Cape Town CBD. The distance to work is the same - around 30km. I am still playing with the idea of cycling - it is easy to think about these things at this time of the year, when the days are warm and long, not so easy when the sun rises at 8, sets at 5 and it rains and blows all day. But whatever, I am thinking about it. Unfortunately, there have been two deaths of cyclists just in the last week - one in Camps Bay and the other in Kalk Bay. Not encouraging. Cape Town (and South Africa more generally) just does not have the culture of respecting other road users' rights - it is right by might, and move over (preferably move off) or I will move you over with my bumper. Not to say that cyclists are innocent. Many are arrogant, irresponsible and labouring under delusions that they are somehow entitled to special privileges on the road - they should take a leaf from the pages of runners' books - we just know we are at the bottom of the pecking order…
Anyway, while I am trying to work that out, I have worked out a daily routine which is hugely satisfying and seems to be helping with my training as well. I leave home at 5.45, unless I oversleep (!) and get to Cape Town around 6.30 - it is pretty easy going, with a slight slowing down through Claremont and Newlands for the traffic lights. I park at work and make my way to the Virgin Active gym, just 2 blocks away, lock my kit in the change room and head out with my iPhone, earphones and gym card. I have worked out a number of routes, ranging from 5km to 10km, but they all have in common that I use the "World Cup" pedestrian bridge over Buitengracht, which gets me to the Waterfront, and then run through the Waterfront and back. The longer versions include a loop around the stadium, the longest one a loop through Greenpoint's "Peace Park" and a very pleasant bit along the promenade, past Mouille Point lighthouse, and along Beach Road. In the Waterfront itself, I like the section next to Granger Bay, and down onto Breakwater Boulevard to the "old stone breakwater" next to the Table Bay Hotel (I don't know the history, but it looks very old - even has iron rails for some kind of truck or train, maybe a crane on wheels - who knows, I should find out. And then there is the nice section through the "tourist" part of the waterfront, past the amphitheater, the dry dock and the entrance to the marina. I take the footpath which runs behind the Cape Grace Hotel, along the waterways of the marina. It is all very pretty and in some places the views are fantastic.
That gets me back to the gym around 7.30 and after a shower I am in my office before 8. Great way to start the day.
What I haven't figured out yet is what time to leave. Generally, the traffic starts getting heavy around 4, so some try to leave by 3.30. I don't think that sets a great example if you are the boss, so I figured I would work late, kill all my emails, and aim to be home by 7. I have now tried leaving cape Town at 4.30, 5.00, 5.30, 6.00, 6.30 and even later, as well as a few times in-between, and so far I just get the most horrendous traffic on the Eastern (Nelson Mandela) Boulevard. My colleagues say it eases off in March. Maybe it is related to the low oil prices. Who knows. But it does make me think more about the bicycle - I hate sitting in traffic..

So here are some pictures from the last few months:

These are from last Saturday's walk over Boyes Drive. There was a cold front pushing in and we even had one or two drops of rain. The sea was a pleasant greeny-blue and I thought the effect was quite dramatic. This was the day before the Peninsula Half Marathon - hence the walk rather than a run.

This is a shot of Fish Hoek from one of the roads which traverse the side of Elsie's Peak. The flat cloud on Kalk Bay mountain, on the far side, gives you some idea of the strength of the south easter that day. In the foreground is Fish Hoek beach, with Main Road and the shopping area stretching away towards Clovelly.

I took this shot from one of the pedestrian bridges over Buitengracht Street during a morning run. I like the juxtaposition of the Lutheran church, which is one of the oldest churches in Cape Town (somewhere between 150 and 200 years, as I recall) and the more modern office blocks, all overshadowed by the Mountain, with its "table cloth" - again, as good indicator that a south easter is blowing.

These are two old houses on Main Road between Muizenberg and St James. I have no idea what their history is. They look a bit run down, particularly the one on the left. But I liked them both and wondered who they belonged to. Hopefully they are protected by the National Monuments Act and that someone will do the right thing and give them some TLC soon. I am tempted, but could not afford them.

I think this was on New Year's Day. If it wasn't it was on similar day, i.e. the day after a major holiday. Luckily none had been badly hurt in this one, but one wonders what happened. Maybe the driver simply fell asleep. Scary. Glad I wasn't running at the time.

OK - that is probably ok for today. Shouldn't overdo it or it will become unmanageable.

Southern Cape July 2014 - Preparing for the trip

How sad that in my new job I no longer have time to write. Well, that view may not be shared by everyone, but I miss it! I have taken 3 weeks' leave now, mainly because I got an email from HR saying that if I didn't take at least 2 weeks before the end of June, I would lose it. 2 weeks have gone by and I am just starting to feel like I am on leave. 1 week to go, and am determined not to waste it. We leave on Monday for 6 days in the Southern Cape, ending with a repeat of the Knysna Marathon, hopefully better prepared this year, and then the drive back the next day. There are 6 of us going - myself, herself, the 2 princesses and young prince charming. Lastly, but not leastly, the Mad Aunt. I intend accomplishing three things during the trip: reading 3 books, finishing the marathon, and writing something each day. That should keep me busy enough.

I've been doing a fair bit of training. My last race was the Wellington Safari Half and before that the Two Oceans Half, both of which I managed in just under 2h. Lately, Prince Charming has been joining me, as he has entered for his first 21 km in Knysna, so we have had a few good runs together, up to 22 km, and he is good to go for a Half. Below are some pictures from one or two of the runs. My standard run is from Home to the Steenberg Gym and back, which is 11km each way. The choice is to go via Main Road (flat) or Boyes' Drive (decidedly not flat, but much more picturesque). I usually decide based on the wind. Running back over Boyes in a strong south-easter is purgatory, so then it is Main Rd. All in all I feel OK - the knees hurt when I push the distance, and I fell last Saturday and sprained my left wrist, but all in all, not feeling too bad. I've gotten me a new pair of running shoes since last Knysna: Asics Gel Cumulus. The guys at the running shop were horrified when they saw my burnt out New Balance 706's, but then that is the normal reaction one gets. They weren't cheap, but I guess cheaper than the excess on having to repair an Achilles tendon or have my plantar fascia operated on. Actually, it is not about the money - I genuinely fear not being able to exercise and if it costs a bit extra to keep me on the road, or at least in the gym, then so be it.

I saw the cardiologist on Friday and he was quite complimentary, apart from my BMI still being north of 25 (men should aim for 25 by 50, 24 by 60 and 23 by 70, according to himself). He went over my blood results (they no longer do a lipogram, it seems, but something called apolipoprotein A1 and B, and then look at the ratio - all new to me) and said they were excellent. Then I was on the treadmill doing the routine. The top speed was about the same as the cool down period at the gym and the whole thing lasted 12 minutes, so it wasn't exactly a sweat. No change in the ECG and blood pressure stayed low, so he was delighted. Must just get rid of a few kg! My problem is I am a sucker for carbs, particularly bread and especially in cold weather. Self discipline!

The Great Trek - 2013

The Great Trek - 2013

Monday

It is over ten years since I drove the great North road - the highway from Cape Town to Johannesburg. When I was a student I probably did it at least once a year, often more. Often in one go - was I crazy? 1400km! When we stayed in KwaZulu and my family in Cape Town, we made the journey fairly often, maybe once in two years. Then we moved to Cape Town. I think we did the trip twice when our kids were small, once in an ancient Merc 200 and once in an even more ancient Corolla 1.6GL. Those were eventful trips, as I recall. Leaking fuel lines spring to mind. Gigantic thundering storms in the Eastern Free State, so violent we thought we would certainly be struck by lightning or blown off the road. Excitement, hope and glory. Thrilling stuff. And then we somehow grew up, grew out of having adventures, started using aeroplanes. So much more sophisticated, so much more convenient, so much more expensive, so bloody boring ....

One of the reasons we undertook our epic train journey across the USA in 2007, from Washington DC to Flagstaff and back, 100 train hours in all, was that I wanted my kids to get an idea of how big and full of variety the USA is. It worked. They still talk about it, 6 years later. Our country is nothing like as big as the US, but it is nevertheless big. Compare it to Holland. Or the UK. So I thought it was time to reacquaint ourselves with our great hinterland, our wide open spaces, our endless horizons, ... our heritage. Ok, the fuel price is hitting an all time high. In our little car it costs about a rand a km now. So a long trip sets you back a few thousand, and that is just for starters. But a plane ticket sets you back more, and there are four of us. So the decision was made - we would drive.

Cape Town, Beaufort West, Bloemfontein, Knysna and back to Cape Town, in a week. 2,200 km or so. Bring it on! Princess Secondborn and I would travel north and collect Princess Firstborn in Bloemfontein, who would accompany us back to the Mother City. At this stage I need to introduce another character to these blogs. It is overdue, since he has been a feature of our family life for some time now. He is princess secondborn's pursuer, a dapper youth I shall call Prince Lean Billed, given that he is of rather slight proportions. Prince Lean Billed would also be coming with us. I found this strangely comforting given that he is an absolute whizz when it comes to anything mechanical, and I am not. So dickey carburetors, strange noises from the engine compartment, oil stains on the tarmac - all his department and would be referred without further ado.

So it was that one very cold winter morning we set off from Cape Town. We waited until after 9 when all those pesky people going to work had cleared off the highways and byways of the City. The little Getz Diesel had just had a service and four new tyres. Despite the cold wind, it was dry. We stopped at the Winelands one stop to get some coffee. When we got to du Toit's kloof, I decided not to take the tunnel route, but to head up the old "up and over" R101. Not just to avoid paying the toll. I wanted to show the princess the views of the Hottentots Holland peaks, the Paarl and Franschoek valleys, Table Mountain in the far distance. The fairest Cape obliged us with some stupendous vistas and she happily clicked away with the supa dupa camera. There were proteas in bloom, baboons on the road ... it was really very pleasant.

Then in through Worcester, past de Doorns, up the Hex River pass. There was still a cap of brilliant white snow on Matroosberg. Dazzling. Touwsrivier passed. We continued to climb steadily as the vegetation changed from green fields to brown shrubs, the red brown sandstone to the grey shale of the Karoo. I tried to explain to the princess what little I remember from high school geography about folded mountains, sedimentary rocks, strata, table mountain sandstone, tafelberge and spitskoppe, fossils, glacial striae, all that stuff. Probably got most of it wrong. She listened politely.

Laingsburg, the river, the Vloed Museum, some OK burgers at Steers, and then on the road again. The "kanniedood" stretch between Laingsburg and Beaufort West. 200km of rather dull straight road. But today I found it beautiful. Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was my mood. The quaint little town of Leeu Gamka. Only about ten houses, but two churches. How does that work? I remembered our train getting stuck there for two hours in the middle of summer once, while we waited for a technical person to drive out from Beaufort West and tap the wheels, before we could proceed. No aircon. Small kids.

You can see the mountains above Beaufort West for about 50km before you get to the town. They are really quite impressive. We passed the entrance to the Karoo National Park, where we once spent two nights camping and had a fun time. Then the town itself. The rather run-down main street - I told the kids it is notorious for prostitution. Or so I heard. We had booked at "Wagon Wheels Country Lodge", just outside on the Johannesburg side. Again, not the grandest establishment, but also not the most expensive. Under $50 for all three of us for the night.

We found room 25. It looked ok. Nothing luxurious, but the door locked, the windows closed, the toilet flushed and there was hot water. Life could be worse. I left the kids there and went for a run though the town. There were literally dozens of bed and breakfasts. I wondered how many of them actually had tenants. Most advertised that they were luxury, four star or whatever. Many were converted Victorian family homes. They looked nice enough but I figured we'd be fine in old Wagon Wheels. I ran back along the dam wall, disturbing a dassie. Not many years ago, they had such a bad drought here that the dam was virtually empty and they had to truck in water. Now the dam is full - about 2 feet below the spillover, which is good to see. There is "leiwater" in the channels in the streets. Gardens are looking green and lush. Clearly a good year.

My run was just under 7 km and I enjoyed most of it, the exception being the bits on the national road where I worried about the big trucks running me off the road. I got back and had a hot bath - which was wonderful. We decided to head back into town and patronise the Spur for dinner - as most South Africans know, Mondays at Spur are "2 for 1". It was not unexpectedly crowded. The kids ordered a chicken burger (they brought two) and I ordered something called a Texan flame burger, which turned out to be a chicken cordon bleu type thing, with a rather zesty chilli sauce. Not bad, but I couldn't manage the second one they brought, so we took a doggy bag - breakfast or lunch tomorrow, I guess.

So here we are in our little room, the kids watching TV, me writing this and listening to James Taylor's Mud Slide Slim on my iPhone (which I love). Life could be a lot worse. The adventure has begun...

Tuesday

I passed out last night with the earphones in and James droning away. Never a good idea. One usually wakes up with acute earache, not on account of James but on account of the earphone, which has now lodged itself in your ear canal. No matter. Went back to sleep fairly quickly only to be woken up around 5 by knocking at the door, a lot of shouting, revving of big diesel engines, and general commotion. Turned out to be the navy getting their corpulent bodies into gear. They had stayed over last night. Since when do the military stay in hotels - times have changed since I did basic training. I made my way to the door and inquired rather irritably of two large men in uniform who had knocked. They ignored me, so I asked again and they said something like "probably that guy" indicating one of their brothers in arms, who was also not interested. The noise went on for about an hour. The language was ... what one would expect. They finally moved off. Nobody missed them. Given that they had filled about 3/4 of the rooms, I guess management weren't going to entertain any complaints. They didn't when I tried.

Couldn't get back to sleep so left the sleeping beauties and made my way to the dining room where I managed to get some coffee and do my emails. Never a good idea, given that they only brought all the office issues back into focus. On the other hand, that is 50 less emails to read next Monday...

And now I must go and wake the "kids".

===

We had the Wagon Wheels breakfast - not bad considering. The boerewors was that thin Karoo wors which I like. Just tastes better. While we ate we were regaled with a mixture of upbeat "discofied" American country music and Afrikaanse liedjies. One of the latter consisted of some twit singing about the glories of Three Sisters. See later. We were finally ready to leave at around nine. A quick trip back into Beaufort West to fill up with diesel - wasn't sure I would make Colesberg or whether there would be fuel in Three Sisters. Then we hit the road again. It is about 100km to Three Sisters, which consists of a couple of garages and a few more houses - nothing to write home about. Definitely nothing to write a song about. The "town" lies where the N12 and N1 meet - the Kimberley and Bloemfontein roads, but otherwise there is not much to notice. The "sisters" themselves are quite impressive spitskoppe, but it was a little cloudy and they weren't that clearly visible. Then there is a rather tedious stretch to Colesberg. Somewhere on the stretch you pass from the Western to the Northern Cape Province. In the old days it was all one Cape Province / Kaap Provinsie or, in isiXhosa, "iKoloni", which I have always found a tad amusing. Not that you would notice. There is just a signboard telling you that you are now in Pixley something or other district, and I happen to know that is not one of ours.

Along the way you also go through Richmond and Hanover, two real Karoo dorps. We weren't in a hurry so diverted through each and had a look around. I find these quaint country towns interesting, especially the old houses and churches, but the kids were, I think, just thankful that they didn't live there or have to spend the night there. I expect the towns have a life of their own, but it wasn't evident when we visited. There were a number of stretches of roadworks along this section of the N1, with Stop/Go arrangements, which slowed us a down a bit. At some, the local kids had seized the moment and were begging from the stopped cars. Afraid they didn't get anything from me, not only because I didn't have any. Just all beggared out in Cape Town.

Colesberg is similar, just a little bigger. It brought back memories of a number of previous trips - from staying in the International Cafe for R5 a night when I was a student to looking for a restaurant on New Year’s Eve a few years ago, hungry for Karoo lamb chops, and eventually having to go to the Wimpy at the One Stop because everything else was closed.

Just after Colesberg you cross the Orange River which even in the dry season is pretty impressive. We didn't divert to the nearby Gariep Dam (previously the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, until that name became decidedly non-PC). I wouldn't have minded going, but we still had a few hours to Bloemfontein and didn't want to be late for Princess Firstborn.

The last couple of hundred Kilo's through to Bloemfontein are not bad - single lane, but with frequent passing lanes. No tolls, thankfully - those come between Bloemfontein and Johannesburg. Lots of trucks, but didn't seem too bad. We got there around 4.30 and had time to fill up with diesel, find the University and Princess Firstborn's workplace by 5.15. We got a quick tour of the unit, met some of her colleagues and then headed for her flat in Heuwelsig, which appears to be the Constantia of Bloemfontein. She rents a cottage in the garden of a medical specialist and his wife, on Rayton Ridge, which looks north towards the Botanical Gardens. The garden is full of indigenous trees, particularly cabbage trees, which are some of my favourites. Consequently the bird life is good. I got to thinking about north facing houses and gardens. All my life I have heard about them - it is like an added bonus, an extra selling point, if your house is north facing in SA. Obviously because it gets more sun and is warmer in winter. But maybe there is something in our psyche as well, which prefers them. Looking north, away from the Cape, away from the Mother City, the connection to Europe, the umbilical cord, the British ... I wonder.

Wednesday and Thursday

We spent a couple of days in Bloemfontein. I got in two lovely runs in the Heuwelsig vicinity. Wide roads, no wind, no rain, cool dry air, beautiful views - it was great. We visited the Botanical and Zoological gardens, the Mimosa Mall, the Waterfront, the Olievenhuis art gallery and restaurant, and a sushi place - all in about 36 hours. Not bad, I thought. The town itself reminded me a little of what Johannesburg used to look like, about 40 years ago, when I was growing up, before it became the huge, terrified, gated community it is today. I liked Bloemfontein and thought I could easily live there. The people I met seemed very friendly, from the princess's landlord and landlady to the waitress at Primi's, who taught me how to say thank you in seSotho.

Then it was on the road again, back down the N1. This time just as far as Colesberg where we took the left fork onto the N9 and headed down towards Middelburg and Graaf Reinet, our intended overnight. I had purposely not booked because I thought we might get a better "last minute" deal at a B and B. We went over a couple of passes. I forget the names, but the first gave an altitude of around 1700m. The terrain was quite mountainous and a lot more interesting than the stretch from Colesberg to Beaufort West. The vegetation was still quite scrubby and sparse, but greener and lusher than that along the N1. It was overcast, spitting with rain on and off, and there was a strange yellow light which was very attractive. Before long we had passed Middelburg (didn't look very interesting, apart from the name of the hospital, which sounded very German and made me wonder) and then Nieu Bethesda - I had wanted to have a look around, but it was getting dark and rainy. We stopped at the offices of the National Park, but they said they were full and referred us into town.

And so we arrived in Graaf Reinet. One comes in past the township and the first part of the town looks like any other Eastern Cape town, with cash and carry stores, taxi ranks and the like, but further on is the old town, with the colonial architecture, and it is quite charming. We drove up and down the impossibly wide streets, looking for possible accommodation. It had started raining a little harder. I went into one B and B and was told that they could only give us two rooms at about R1000 each. When I intimated that that was more than I had in mind, they referred me down the road and we eventually got a whole house for R1000, including breakfast for 4. Not bad, I thought. It is actually a semi-detached house. The ceilings must be about 20 foot high. The walls are thick. The electrical distribution board looks like it is from world war one. But it is clean, warm, safe and comfortable, and we are very happy. We had the leftover chicken cordon bleu's for supper, with avocado on toast and now we are watching Leon Schuster's panic mechanic on TV - mindless, but there you are. Can't get much more South African than that. More is nog 'n dag ....

Friday

Friday morning was cold, misty and wet in Graaf Reinet. The establishment manager accused us of having brought it with us, but in that part of the country they are never upset by a bit of rain - they certainly need every drop. We made a short dash through the rain to the dining room, which appeared to be the converted space between two of the houses, nicely furnished and decorated. We had the full house, including the hash browns. Very nice! Then we hit the road to George, with a quick stop at the local Shell for diesel.

The road was good, the scenery lovely, flat topped mountains bathed in soft yellow light. The rain stopped after a short while and we trundled down some mountain passes to Aberdeen and then across a large plateau to Willowmore, then some more passes down to Uniondale. We passed a large empty dam with an impressive sort of scalloped wall which we discovered was the Beervlei dam. I could not figure out why it was empty - totally empty - until I found a notice in the parking lot informing me that it had been built in the 1950's as flood protection for the Sundays River valley and is maintained at 0% capacity. OK ...

We crossed the Western Cape border and then  it was on to Uniondale. Now we had to make a decision - should we take the shortest route or the safest route. The shortest would have been the R339 straight over the Outeniquas to Knynsa. Dirt road. People I asked looked dubious and reviews I read were guarded. The safest route is just to follow the N9 through to George. It follows the line of the mountains and then breaks through between Oudtshoorn and George down the Outeniqua Pass. Tarred, well maintained, passing lanes. Stunning views. Discretion proved the better part of valour. We followed the N9.

We had booked two nights at Carmel, just outside George on the Knysna side, set on a hill overlooking Victoria Bay. It is a Christian retreat centre. I have been a number of times and the kids have been twice, though they couldn't remember the first time. I love it there. The accommodation is modest but clean and comfortable. The surroundings as absolutely gorgeous, with views across Vic Bay towards Wilderness, a string of headlands, each one fainter, stretching away to Knysna. The gardens are indigenous, and at this time of the year lots and lots of aloes in flower, but also some of my favourite trees – cabbage trees, yellowwoods, waterberries. Everything has been placed with thought, it appears. The chapel has a huge glass window allowing one a full panorama of the coast. There is a bird hide built out of high supports which catches the early morning sunrise superbly. Just beautiful. Mealtimes are communal, which puts some people off. One usually ends up sharing ones table with others and they can be quite talkative. Not so good if one is searching for solitude and quiet. We managed to find the one table with only five chairs so were pretty much left to our own devices. The food is wholesome and generously proportioned. Meat/foul/fish plus 2 veggies, soup and home-made bread, pudding, coffee or tea. Porridge for breakfast, plus bacon and fried eggs. Kind of stuff I grew up on. And all this for less than a B and B would have cost…

We went through to Knysna on the Friday afternoon to register for the race on Saturday. There were roadworks outside Wilderness, which was a little tedious, and a lot of traffic in and around Knysna, not unexpectedly, since the Oyster Festival was in full swing. I found the tent, picked up my number and e-tag, declined to be sold an iPhone holder for R270, failed to find a pair of blue running shorts (which we are supposed to wear), and we left. We popped in at Vic Bay on the way home and had a walk along the promenade to Lands End, “vir oulaas”. Still one of my favourite places on earth. There were still a few surfers around, though the sun was setting and most had gone home. We had parked quite far up the parking lot in an effort to avoid the parking attendants (!) and when we walked back we decided (or I decided) to take the boardwalk, which tracks up the hillside and then down again. Only to find that it was missing large sections in its last and steepest section. No problem, the princesses did a sort of gymnastics bar regime and Prince Lean Billed and I did some cross country stuff.

Dinner was a communal affair back at Carmel. Their philosophy is presumably that Christian fellowship is a Good Thing, and so one inevitably ends up sitting with some strangers and having to talk to them. This freaks teenagers out, but they got used to it. The family we sat with was very pleasant. The meal was what my mother would have called “wholesome” – soup and homemade bread to start, pieces of roast chicken, veges,  rice for mains, and melva pudding for desert, all washed down with coffee. I enjoyed it. We excused ourselves as soon as it was polite to do so, and headed for our rooms. I joined the youngsters in a few games of Uno, and came last, but then decided to go and get myself ready for the race.

First decision: had to decide whether to take the long sleeved top or the vest. Easy decision when I remembered just about freezing at the start 2 years ago. Second decision: had to decide whether to wear blue cotton rugby shorts, as is required by ASA rules, or grey synthetic running shorts, Again as easy decision – I thought of 42km worth of cotton shorts rubbing against tender loin skin and went for grey. Decisions made, the rest was easy. Electronic tag threaded into shoelaces. Number pinned to running top. New socks and running cap placed ready. Running watch ready but we’ll do without the chest strap – who cares what the heart rate is! Cell phone and arm band holder ready. Again, probably do without the GPS as it would exhaust the battery, but need the phone for emergencies.

Saturday

I had set 2 alarms for 3 a.m. And it was a Saturday. I managed to get myself moving and staggered about getting myself together. The kids were up – bless them, they had agreed to take me through and drop me. I wasn’t happy for PF to go alone so everyone was going together. I drove through. It was dark, quiet and a little spooky. We saw maybe 3 other cars, but as we got near Knysna there were a few more, and once we neared the turnoff to Loerie Park, quite a lot more. I parked the car, got out and said my farewells to PF, putting on the plastic over-garment they supply you with – like a garbage bag with holes for your arms. I watched as the little car’s lights faded into the distance – they were going back to Carmel to sleep. There were a few other runners heading up the road so I just followed them. After a few blocks we came to the pickup point and had to show our race numbers and taxi tickets. Then we got put into a waiting taxi and soon we were off into the night. Up past Nekkies with the engine groaning. The only way for the driver to get the ancient beast up the steep uphills was to gun it on the downhills. Which he did. I thought the old crate would fall apart. I became aware of a cold draft on my bare legs at one stage and, thinking that a door or window was open, tried to close it. My fellow passenger pointed out that all windows and doors were in fact closed, but that there were gaps in the bodywork. We arrived at the drop off point and the ancient vehicle came to a squeaking halt. The two folks in the front seats got out but we couldn’t open the sliding door. The fellow who had told me about the gaps in the bodywork gave it an almighty kick, which I think made it worse. The driver got out and came around, fiddled for about five minutes – he couldn’t open it. Eventually we climbed out of the window! AT least I did, I am not sure how the rest escaped.

From the drop off point you walk about half a km along a forest trail to the starts. There is a clearing alongside a dirt road and the 21km start faces one way (east), the 42km start faces the other (west). When I arrived there were relatively few runners around. It was COLD! At the top of the clearing was a large Bedouin type tent, under which were the Pick ‘n Pay sponsored tables with hot coffee, tea, chocolate, and rusks, energy bars, banana’s and apples. All complimentary. I helped myself and walked back down to the lower part of the clearing where there was a small dam (making things colder), stream and a number of wood fires, each attended by someone (the fire risk in the middle of a pine plantation is obviously a huge concern). I chose a spot by a fire, found a low brick wall to sit on, took out my cell phone, opened Kindle and read some more of George Sheehan’s “Running and Being”. Thought I might find some inspiration. He makes the point that 100m sprints are all about muscle; marathons are all about mind. And he says a lot else besides. I really like his writing.

It was quite a long 2 hours waiting for the start, but it was preferable to the mayhem which I knew was going on down in Knysna. At one stage I went back to the tent and got some more coffee and a banana, losing my place at the fire in the process. The numbers had swelled meanwhile and the clearing was pretty full. They had got the PA system going and someone was going on about what a great race it was, interspersed with comments about the South African in the Tour de France and the possible results of the day’s rugby matches. There were very long queues outside what had been labeled “Toilet Town”. The other option is to take a warm up trot up the road and find a tree, which I did. I was a little surprised to pass a group of three female runners who had made the same decision but were having some difficulty finding a suitable spot, with much accompanying giggling. There are definite advantages to being male.

Time crept on to 7.00. Gradually the “real runners” left the campfires and made their way towards the 42km start. I was next to a woman from Gauteng called Phumzile. She told me she worked for  Classic FM radio in Johannesburg and ran for the same club. I asked her what time she was targeting. She laughed and said “Sub-qualifying”, in other words anything less than the cut-off. But she was a triple Comrades veteran. The announcements came over the PA and then the gun. I wishes her good luck, pushed the start button on my watch, and we set off. It was still dark and quite cold. No one was charging ahead which made a pleasant change from the usual 21km. There was plenty of space to move – only about 1000 runners entered and some no shows. Some of the runners were in groups, some ran alone. I like running alone. I zoned out and just enjoyed the occasion.

The kilometers were well marked. I had aimed to run at 8.5kph to make 5 hours, which meant 7 minutes per km. My major concern was going too fast, as I knew the second half of the race was tough and in the last marathon I ran out of puff. So I just relaxed and went with the flow. The sun came up. The road slowly turned south and then east. At 14km (1/3) my watch showed 8.30. I was on track for 4.5h if I kept it up. At 28km it showed 10.00. Still on track. This was beginning to look good. I asked a fellow runner, “Have you run this race before?” “Yes,” she said. “Is there much more uphill?” I asked. “Oh yes,” she said, and I got the impression she stopped short of telling me more. “Oh, then I’d better keep something in reserve,” I said. She nodded.

Somewhere around that point we were passed by a Bakkie, hooting like crazy, three runners on the back screaming “Move left, Make way!” or something similar. I moved over. I was a bit irritated – they were spoiling the quiet and calm of the forest where before there had only been the soft putter putter of the runners’ footfalls before. We were none the wiser – the bakkie disappeared. A little later a lady came past on a mountain bike. I called ahead to ask runners to move over for her. “No rush,” she said, “Are you part of the group who took the wrong turning?” I said that as far as I knew we hadn’t.  “Oh,” she said, “evidently the front runners did and ran 10km further than they should have – they had to take them back to the front in a bakkie!” So that is who the 3 runners on the bakkie were. Some poor race marshal would be for the high jump!

Every three km was a refreshment stall, staffed by support people from the Knysna Marathon Club. One must really take one’s hat off to them – they had been at their station since before 7 and faithfully doled out Cokes, water sachets to 1000 or so runners without any complaints. Some of the stations have music, some not. All of them have encouraging words and welcome applause. Well done, guys. So I guess it was at about the 30km stall that they said to us “The first runner came through about an hour ago and it was a GIRL!”. Not sure why that was such a remarkable thing, but suspect it had something to do with the three in the bakkie. The gradient up until 30km had been gently up and down – nothing to write home about. After 22 km it took a dramatic turn for the worse. First a steep short up, then a long and very steep down, from around 23km to 32km, down a stunningly beautiful mountain pass with precipitous drops on the left to a river, then a grueling long uphill, from 32km to 35km, winding up through the plantation to a fancy golf estate, where we joined the 21km route, and then another steep downhill – that took us up to about 38km I think. So that was about 16km of roller coaster, and it really killed my legs – not only the uphill. The result was that by the time I got to the final 4km I could only shuffle along. I walked once or twice, but found the energy to run the final 2km along the promenade and into the stadium. I was watching the clock. 2 runners passed me and I heard him say to her “Just keep on like you are and you’ll make it.” It being 5 hours. “Damn it,” I thought, “I can also make it.” So I gritted my teeth, concentrated on my breathing and tried hard to ignore the pain in my muscles and joints. It worked. I crossed the line with 23 seconds to spare. The announcer even got my name right.

I cannot describe the feeling. 5 hours for a standard marathon is no great shakes, but for me it was an achievement. I could have cried and nearly did. I took my medal and held it as though it really was gold plated. I grabbed a couple of cokes from the table, and an Energade, and wandered through the channels to the exit where I found an open piece of grass and lay down. I sent sms’s to herself and the kids – they had been held up at a roadblock so hadn’t been there for my finish. “No worries,” I said, “I looked like a piece of crap when I came in, so you didn’t miss anything!”

We got a boerewors roll each, bought a T shirt and then headed back to the car and back to George. I bathed (with some of the Deep Heat stuff they had given us in our Goody Bags) and went and lay down on my bed. Soon I was asleep. I got up around 6 and we went for dinner, which was steak and veges – delicious. There was no TV in the establishment, so we drove into George and found the Spur to watch the Super XV rugby match between the Sharks and the Bulls, sipping a Windhoek Draught while I watched. The kids had milkshakes. Then we drove back and went to bed. I didn’t have the energy for Uno.

Sunday

I was up just before dawn, dressed and packed. We had to be out of our rooms by 10 and it was a 4-5 hour drive back to Cape Town. Carmel’s grounds are quite extensive and run down several sides of the hillside. They have landscaped them beautifully and planted a lot of indigenous trees, shrubs and flowers. It really is very pretty and peaceful. I went and sat in a shelter called “Gordon’s Rest” and watched the sunrise over the headlands. Indescribable. It felt very peaceful.

Too soon it was breakfast and then time to head West to Cape Town. The trip was pretty uneventful. The weather was turning a little but not bad. PF drove about 200km and I drove the rest. We stopped for cold drinks in Heidelberg.

It had been a full week. 2800km and 7 full days. 4 different towns. A Marathon. Lots of interesting places visited. It persuaded me of two things. Firstly, I miss those old style family holidays where the trip was part of the holiday. Secondly, I can run a marathon and even enjoy a marathon. Bring them on….

 The view from du Toit's Kloof Pass

 A cabbage tree in Bloemfontein Botanical Gardens

 Oliewenhuis in Bloemfontein

 Some interesting artwork in the grounds of Oliewenhuis

 The empty, waiting Biervlei Dam

 The stupendous view from the Oudtshoorn Pass

 Sunset from Wilderness while stuck at the roadblock

 Victoria Bay, the surfing mecca

 The Knysna Forest Marathon - around 25km I think - looking back

The Knysna Forest Marathon - around 25km I think - looking forward

The view from Carmel over Vic Bay

Peninsula Marathon 2013

Don't ask me what made me do it. I was fairly happy doing half marathons. In fact I ran a really nice 2.02 just two weeks ago in Tokai and enjoyed it. Then some friends at the running club who have entered comrades 2013 and the 2 Oceans 56km Ultra mentioned that the deadline for entries for the Peninsula Marathon had been extended. I hummed and hahhed, phoned a friend, vacillated, procrastinated ... And finally went online and paid my R100 odd for the "full". No problem, I thought, I'll just take it really easy and if it gets really bad I'll bale out. The limit is 6 hours, which means you only have to average 7kph. But of course no one wants to run a 6 hour marathon - I thought I could maybe do a 5 or even a 4.5. 

Herself was less than impressed. She told me straight: I don't think you should do it, I don't want a dead husband! But I knew I had to do it - for one thing I had paid my money and I am one quarter Scottish by descent, for another .... I just had to. As the big day drew nearer I had surprisingly few second thoughts. I didn't run at all during the week before the race, just one short session of swimming to keep the muscles stretched and toned. I tried to get an early night the evening before the race, but that didn't work out - eventually retired after 10 and then couldn't fall asleep - this despite having dozed off in front of the TV earlier!

We were up at 4. Herself had very kindly agreed to drop me at the start. This race is not a circuit, but a (very) long straight line. Around 5 she dropped me at the Cape Town stadium and I made my way slowly across to the start in Somerset Road, Greenpoint. It was still dark, but warm and windless, and there was quite a buzz around the place. It was a largish field, but not hectically large, like the 2 Oceans. I had decided not to use the Endomondo GPS tracker on my phone, because I wanted to be able to phone herself if I needed to and I was worried about battery time. So the mobile went into the arm band, and I clipped the smallest iPod onto my vest and wired up. Chest strap on, heart rate monitor working, "body glide" smeared generously onto nipples and inner thighs (way too much detail here, I suspect), and we were set to go.

We started promptly at 5.15. Not a lot of fanfare, just a ready-set-go affair, which I preferred. We set off at a gentle trot towards downtown Cape Town. Right into Buitengraght, left into Wale. We passed the incredibly ugly provincial legislature building followed by the equally beautiful St George's cathedral. Then into Adderley, past the slave lodge, the Groote Kerk and a host of other well known Cape Town landmarks, all the way down to the fountains and the traffic circle, then back up Adderley all the way to Darling, left into Darling and out of town past the lovely City Hall. Left again down past the Good Hope centre - another example of a really ugly building if ever i saw one, but it didn’t spoil anything. It really was a very nice tour!

We left town on the M4. At that point it is called Victoria Street, I think, but it becomes Main Road around  Observatory and remains so for the rest of the run. Under the Eastern Boulevard and then out through still sleeping Woodstock, Salt River and Observatory, where we picked up the first hint of what was to come - south Easter. At this point it was welcome, refreshing, invigorating. The 10km mark is around Mowbray and I passed it in about 1h10m. That was according to plan - I was thinking 1h10 for the first 10km, then 1h20, 1h30 and 1h40, which would give a total of 5h40 for 40km, and then I could take the last 2km easy and make it in under 6h. I waited for the 12km water and Coke table, grabbed a sachet and a cup, downed them and then pulled the Blackberry out of its pouch and sent herself an SMS: "12km, all fine". To which she replied, "Great".

We carried on through the quiet predawn streets of Rosebank, Rondebosch, Newlands, Claremont ... it felt good. There was a bit of chatter from runners behind and in front of me, but I was lost in my music and the legs were feeling good. I was enjoying myself. I felt like I could run forever. After Claremont we hit a bit of uphill but it was pretty mild, compared to say Chapman's peak or Constantia Neck. There is a fairly steady climb past Harfield and Kenilworth until you get to Wynberg and then it starts going down again. Somewhere around Wynberg the sun rose. I remember noticing it through the gaps in the buildings. The drinks tables were spaced every 3km and I made a point of having a Coke every time one was on offer, as well as taking a couple of water sachets. One went down the hatch and the other I squirted onto my balding patch, from where it ran down to my sweat band.

Plumstead, Diep River, Retreat, Steenberg ... I think the 20km mark was around Steenberg. I slowed at 21km and sent herself another message. "20km and all well" and got a similar response. Then on the road again. By this stage we were quite strung out and just occupying one side of the road. Motorists passed us on the other, their apparent attitudes varying between friendly and supportive and frankly irritated and belligerent. The wind had started to get up again. Of course the south easter is in your face all the way from Cape Town to Simonstown. If it is mild, it is a blessing. If it is strong it is a curse. At this stage it was still pretty mild.

Around Steenberg we were joined by the half marathoners, who had started at Bergvliet. They had fresh legs and fresh faces, chatting away. I expect it was fairly easy for spectators to differentiate the two groups. I guess I could summarise the race up to the 25km point as a really nice run - relaxed, not too strenuous, near perfect conditions... the pace not blistering but reasonably respectable for me, even for a half marathon. 

The something happened. I am not sure what. I can only say that I started to become increasingly aware that my hips ached, my calves ached, my feet ached, my knees hurt, my shoulders ached ... my whole body seemed to be saying "enough". I didn't run out of puff - my breathing was fine, my pulse still steady at 140-150, which is what it had been since the start. It was just the PAIN! I couldn't believe it. Every step was an effort. OK, I thought, I'll try walk-run. So I walked the hills and ran the downs. Didn't help much. Then I tried walking 10, running 10, and various other combinations. Again, not much help - even the walking hurt. By this stage we were past Lakeside, Muizenberg, and heading to St James, the 30km table. I had some Coke and water and sent herself a final SMS. "30km, getting really tired and sore. Fish Hoek in about 30min". This despite the fact that it is only about 4km from St James to Fish Hoek. She said she would meet me at Barracuda's.

The wind had stiffened to a fresh south easter. The views across the bay were stunning but I must confess I did not appreciate them fully. All I could concentrate on was my discomfort. I ran-walked into Fish Hoek, along Beach Road. I spotted herself and Princess Secondborn outside the restaurant. I could have cried and almost did. I slumped down on the pavement and my foot muscles immediately went into spasm causing me to let out a squeal which prompted herself to declare that I should stop immediately and retire. But I still had 2h15m before cutoff and only 8km to go - I could walk the rest if needed and still get my medal, although I probably wouldn't make 5h.

Not to prolong the agony of this narrative, that is exactly what I did - I walked the rest. Every now and then I tried running, but it was just too sore. Many around me were walking too. It didn't feel too bad. The 5h "bus" passed me around Glen Cairn. I felt an urge to join them but when I tried to run I felt a cramp starting and had to stop and sit on the stone wall for a while, then resumed walking. At Simonstown Station herself and the princess drove past in our little red Peugeot. They were waiting at Jubilee Square when I came past and walked with me to the end. The Princess fed me chocolate, but I was feeling a little nauseous and couldn't really stomach it.

After what seemed an eternity we turned down into the Navy sports grounds and the final few hundred metres. I must say it felt good to take the "marathon" lane at the finish. 5h25m. Underwhelming. Well, at least it was under 6h. I got my medal and Coke and then stumbled around the ground looking for some shade in which to lie down - I just needed to get my weight off my hips, I thought. It was pretty hot by then and I needed to cool off as well. The forecast had been for 38 Celsius, and although it didn't feel that warm in Simonstown, it was getting pretty steamy.

I finally found a shady spot behind a tent. A kind lady offered me a seat but I really needed to lie down. The grass was wet from where they must have tossed out some water, I think, but it felt like heaven. There I lay on my back for about 10 minutes, I guess. Then I got up - slowly - and stumbled in the direction of Main Road where I was to meet herself with the car. The princess found me and led me like a blind man up the road. When we got to Main Road there was no sign of herself. I lay down flat on the pavement in the shade, much to the princess's embarrassment. Curious runners stopped and asked her “Is he OK?" and one "Is he conscious?". “He should turn round so that his head is lower than his feet”. One said "I did a 2.13! - half that is" - 2.13 was round about the winning time for the marathon. I smiled weakly.

Herself duly arrived, I somehow managed to lever my body into the 107 and we drove slowly home. "You were right", I told her, as I tried in vain to get comfortable, "42 is too far for me - I should stick to 21km". But deep inside I knew that it is only a matter of time - the bug had bitten. There must be a way to do it. Better preparation. Expert advice. Can't be that difficult. I think it is a bit like what I imagine (and have observed) it is like to have a baby. You can go through living hell during the pregnancy and delivery, but 6 weeks later it is a rosy blur which seems almost enjoyable in retrospect, and 2 or 3 years later there you are - pregnant again! I think that is the way it is with most long distance runners. As Schwarzenegger said, "I'll be back".

Cathedral

Wheeling pigeons; yelling, whistling taxi-guards;

strong south-Easter on my half-stubbled cheek;

beseeching beggars; racing, hooting taxi's;

rhythmic strumming of a sidewalk guitar-quartet;

sudden escape from the heat, the glare, the noise;

lady warden gently, silently shuts the door;

liturgical mumbling in the porch; sunlight-flooded bright;

faithful handful at their midday prayers;

further up and further in; deeper in;

into the gloom, the darkness, the silence;

hard, bare oak on cold, tiled floor;

cool comfort of the rugged sandstone walls;

red roped-off sanctuary, ornate wooden choir-stalls;

towering arches; soaring rafters;

rank on rank of charcoal grey organ pipes;

high wrought iron fence bars our access to holiness;

breathe deeply; drink in the stillness, the solitude;

rest my heavy, weary head on cupped hands;

reveal yourself, show me your hand,

show me you love me, show me you care;

reveal yourself to my family, my friends;

to the seekers, the yearners, the loveless;

show yourself; flood the room with light,

so that we can see you and know you are here.

ten to two; must be going now;

out into the noise, the harsh, garrulous world;

to meaningless meetings and senseless assignments,

while he stays behind, cruelly invisible;

laughing silently.

Or not.

Luca

My name is Luca. Actually that wasn’t my registered name – my Mom’s breeder, Auntie Jane, called me King Kool. It had to start with “K” because my litter was the 11^th she had bred and it goes alphabetically. My Mom’s name is Misha and my grandpa was Louis. He had a longer name, and I am told he was a triple champion show dog, but I have forgotten it. I am a pedigree Pembrokeshire Welsh Corgi – the same breed favoured by Her Majesty, Elizabeth II, the reigning Queen of England, and made famous by that worthy dynasty. But more of that anon.

I was born in May 2003. When I was still very small, still suckling from my Mom, but after my eyes had opened properly, some people came to visit our house to have a look at my Mom and her new litter.  One was a middle aged man and he had with him two young girls, aged 11 and 8, who I assumed were his daughters. They seemed very excited. We – my brothers and sisters and I - were in a sort of playpen – Mom was taking a rest from feeding us. We were still quite unsteady on our feet then, and we were stumbling our way around the pen, play-fighting, tumbling and doing the kind of things puppies do. The girls picked some of us up, cuddled us, made excited noises and then left. That was in June.

I didn’t think of them again until about a month later. By then we were eating puppy chunks and Mom had stopped letting us drink from her. That hurt, but hey, life is tough. One Sunday afternoon the door bell rang. Mom and Grandpa barked furiously. We all pricked up our ears, or would have if we could have gotten them up. Lo and behold, it was the man and his girls again. He sat with Aunty Jane over at the dining room table for what seemed like a long time. She seemed to be explaining something to him – slowly, patiently – maybe he wasn’t too bright. Then Aunty Jane came across and picked me up. Great, I thought, maybe I am getting a treat! Not so – she put me carefully in a box, with a wire mesh window, closed the door and bolted it. I was confused – this was new territory. I had been in a cage before, when we went to the vet for our injections, but we were all together. This time, I was alone and I wasn’t happy.

The box swayed back and forth and I felt vaguely seasick. I was carried toward the door. The girls were skipping around, back and forth, making excited noises. We went out into the garden and I saw my Mom looking at us apprehensively. I felt a pang of pain at the thought that I might be leaving her, and my siblings, but also excitement about what lay waiting for me. The man opened the car door and placed my box on the back seat. The girls climbed in next to it and spent the entire journey home looking through the wire window and making strange noises, pulling funny faces.

When we finally stopped and the car doors were opened, there was a scent in the air which I didn’t know – salty maybe, sharpish, exciting. It was also windier than I was used to. I was taken from my box and held by the man. One of the girls rang the front door bell. A lady answered it. The man thrust me at her surprised but delighted face, said “Happy Anniversary, Dear” and kissed her. And so I got my introduction and first smells of my people – himself, herself and the two princesses.

I liked them all, in different ways. I soon learned that herself was responsible for food, so did my best to keep on her good side at all times. I sang my finest songs for her, kissed her full on the mouth as often as she requested it, jumped up onto the bed or sofa next to her and schmoozed her unashamedly, muzzled her when  I thought she needed to stroke me … I really paid her a lot of attention, and I think it paid off. When occasionally she did get cross with me – barking too much, leaving calling cards on the lounge carpet, chewing up clothes pegs and other sundry and harmless amusements – I made sure I looked as woebegone and repentant as was caninely possible, and she very quickly relented.

Himself, I regard more as a sparring partner, although to be sure, he is the Boss. He likes to play rough with me, and although I am bred to be a Champion Herder and Seriously Tough Dog, I am actually quite a softie at heart and I am not that keen on horsing around. So I humour him, growl obligingly when he pulls on my bone, jump back and forward like a demented goat when he wants to play-fight, fetch the ball for him when he throws it – once or twice at any rate, until I get tired.

The princesses are delightful. The only thing they don’t like is when I bark and they are either watching TV, speaking to their friends on the phone or trying to study. Then they shout at me “Luca, shut up!”. But mostly they are really happy to cuddle me, pat me, scratch my back and so on. Diligent staff are difficult to find these days.

When I first got to my home, there were a number of other animals already in residence. One was an large, ancient, black Labrador cross called Nougi. He was seriously old, rather smelly, and not very bright. He had a very good nature though, and didn’t get cross with my puppy play, even when I sank my razor-sharp teeth into his tail. Well, I couldn’t resist – you see I don’t have a tail – the breeder had it removed when I was very young – and I found Uncle Nougi’s long black one fascinating. It didn’t taste too good, mind you. He sang a very loud and rather discordant song every time I did it!

The other was a whitish, rather small (though still larger than me, at that time) terrier / Pomeranian cross type who had no teeth and a really bad attitude. She was also extremely old and seriously crotchety. I think she was also pretty much blind and deaf by then. She spent most of her time lying on a small mattress in the passage scratching – she had bad skin problems, which seemed mainly to affect her lower back and backside, neither of which was a pretty sight! Every time I walked past her blanket she would snap at me. I didn’t worry because she had no teeth anyway and couldn’t see where she was snapping – half the time she gummed the blanket! Her name was Great-Aunt Cassie. Whereas Uncle Nougi tolerated me, Great Aunt Cassie did not – she would quite happily have sent me back to Aunty Jane the breeder.

Then there was Danny the African Grey Parrot. He spent most of his time in his cage, thankfully, but every night, herself would take him out and let him sit on her shoulder while the family watched TV. When he was with her he did not like anyone else coming near – clearly he felt very possessive about his owner. Whenever I tried to muscle in and get a cuddle, he would tilt his head sideways – that is how he focused – and I could see him sizing up my ears, which by the way are large and tend to stick up. He put the fear of God into me, that parrot.

There were cockatiels – a succession of them, actually – but they didn’t come out much, kept to themselves, and generally just made a lot of noise and mess, which didn’t bother me.

We had many visitors to the house. So many that it got confusing. One regular visitor was a lady with a very dark skin, compared to my people, whose job it appeared to be to clean the house and iron the washing. She came twice a week in the afternoon. When she arrived she would shoo all of us animals out into the back yard and then get busy with her work. She never spoke unkindly to us, and even knew our names, but we were left in no doubt as to what was required – “out!” As soon as she departed, of course, we would get back inside and it didn’t take too long before it again smelt and looked like “our house”.

When I was about 8 weeks old, soon after I had taken up residence in “our house” with “my people”, himself became quite concerned about my ears. I don’t know why – they weren’t bothering me. But the problem was evidently that one was “up” and the other wasn’t – and for a pedigree Corgie this was just “not on”. He consulted the breeder and I heard him telling herself that the breeder had advised strapping foam plastic splints into the ears to keep them “up”. I sounded thoroughly disagreeable, and I determined to get them up on my own. Try and I might, I simply could not get the recalcitrant ear to stand up. Just when I assumed all was lost, and that I was doomed to having plastic foam in my ear, it popped up on its own, and thereby removed the need for any splints. Phew!

Being of high birth and all that, it was evidently expected of me that I would follow in grandfather Louis’ venerable footsteps and make my mark in the show arena’s of the country, if not the world.  The first of these occasions was at Pinelands and I was still little and in the “puppy class”. Himself and herself are not, I must add, dog show types, having never owned pedigreed canines before me. Aunty Jane, the breeder was there, and she gave them some tips – “just walk him around the ring”, “if he is being difficult, tempt him with one of these treats – just keep them in your pocket, and give him one afterwards”, and so on. All very well. I saw herself put the treats in her pocket. I could smell them. She put the choke chain around my neck, attached the lead and we were off. She was sweetly saying something about “This way boy, come on now, good boy”, but I was not hearing her – those treats were calling me. I could hear them – “Luca, come and get us!” I made a lunge towards herself’s pocket, just about strangling myself in the process. Too high – no luck. The  another – ditto. Undeterred I carried on – I was going to get those treats or die trying. The result was a spectacle later described by himself as reminiscent of a yoyo or a dingbat – a little ball of fluff bouncing up and down on the end of a lead, while herself pleaded, coaxed, threatened and beseeched me to please walk nicely – all to no avail. I came second – out of two! They tried me in one more show, with similar results and then gave up. We are all happier for the decision.

I had a fairly uneventful and untraumatic puppyhood with one or two exceptions. The one involved being attacked and the other was more embarrassing.

My people used often to take me for walks to a local park. There were usually other dogs there but we didn’t bother much with them and vice versa. It was large enough for us to do our own thing, check out some molehills for moles (never did quite manage to get one), pick up and deliver the “mail”, chase the odd hadeda ibis or Egyptian goose and bark at a seagull or two. It was on one of these occasions when I was viciously attacked by a large white Alsatian type hound – he simply rushed up and grabbed me by the neck. He was about twice my size and very nearly killed me. To this day I don’t know what his problem was – some ancient altercation between the Germans and the Welsh? Or had he had a bad night of indigestion after eating a rotten bone? Herself did her valiant best to fight him off, but he was stupid as well as vicious and didn’t let go easily. To cut a long story short, I needed a lot of painful stitches and a drain to be inserted at the vet – not my favourite place as it is – I generally manage to terrify the assistant into having to muzzle me. Herself went with me for the first few rounds and then himself to get the stitches and drain taken out. I am not sure which was worse. I made it quite plain that I didn’t enjoy either.

The other incident involved a sock. One of the princess’s socks, as I recall. I think I found it in the laundry basket. I forget why exactly I decided to chew it, but I did. Maybe the taste of the washing powder or fabric softener was attractive. At any rate, I gave it a good chew and then accidentally swallowed it. What happened was that herself saw me chewing it, shouted at me, I got a fright and – gloops – there it went. Well that set the cat among the pigeons! She was on the phone to the vet within minutes and the advice was pretty alarming. “Give him salt water to make him vomit. It may come out the other end. If it doesn’t he may need an operation.” Needless to say, I did not take kindly to being force fed salt water. In fact it is one of the few times in my life that I have had to bite herself. The other time was when she insisted on putting that tick and flea stuff on my neck – I ask you! She got the message and desisted. So began the long wait. Every time I went to the garden or to the park, my rear end was under intense surveillance. A day went by. Two days. Three days. Eventually it came out – on the lounge floor. I didn’t feel any different but my people looked much relieved.

In 2005 first Uncle Nougi and then Great Aunt Cassie shuffled off peacefully. They were very old and at the end became ill and were, I think quite content to go. I missed Nougi, and even missed the toothless old bat snapping at me. The house seemed very quiet, even with the parrot’s whistles and hootings. Not for long. I should have enjoyed it while I could. On Christmas Day 2005 Aunt Jane welcomed a new litter of Corgies. This time the mother was my sister. All the pups received names starting with “L” since it was the next litter after mine. One of the pups was named Ladybird, and my people decided that I needed a companion and that Ladybird would be that companion.  Except they renamed her Emma. Emma made her grand entry in February 2006 when I was just over 2 and a half years old. She was very small and reminded me of one of herself’s furlined slippers which I had often been tempted to chew (but never had). Technically she was my niece. I adored her and would do just about anything for her – with a few exceptions, you understand – one must have one’s standards.  Despite her being somewhat smaller than I am, it has always been clear who is in charge. I am afraid that she just needs to curl her little lip at me, and bristle her whiskers, and I immediately acquiesce. It can be something a simple as a request to clean her eyes with a good licking. It can be as major as “move over, I want your food”. When madame speaks, I listen and obey!

Danny the parrot finally succeeded in his nefarious designs and managed to get his beak into my right ear. I cannot describe the pain – the thought of it still haunts me and I was definitely psychologically scarred for life. I made enough noise to bring the fire brigade and to make it worse, my people seemed to find it vaguely amusing. Really!

When I was 4, my people simply disappeared one day. They packed some large suitcases, got in their cars and disappeared. They had done this before and generally reappeared in a week or two, but this time they didn’t. A kindly middle-aged doctor and his wife came to stay in the house and looked after Emma and me. We liked them a lot. They took us for lots of walks, and fed us well. But we did wonder what had happened to our people. And then six months later, just after Christmas, they reappeared like nothing had happened. They smelled a bit funny, and the princesses had grown a little. We didn’t hold it against them. Life went on.

At some stage himself got himself a little torch thingy – it shined out a bright red dot. I think he used it as a pointer for his lectures. Anyway, it looked exactly like a little red insect running around the floor and up the walls and even though I KNEW it wasn’t, well it was fun to chase it anyway. I can chase it for hours, but unfortunately he loses interest after a few minutes.

Now I am 9, which I am told is 63 in human years. That is old enough to retire, and retire I do. Every night at nine pm I retire up the stairs my bedroom (which I allow himself and herself to share with me). I give herself a glance or two to find out whether she is coming to bed, but if not, I don’t wait. An old dog needs his bed and mine is upstairs. I still enjoy the good things in life – food, walks, food, cats, food, pigeons, food, Emma, food … and of course sleeping. I am happy to sleep just about any time of the day, but I particularly like a late lie-in on the weekends, when I can jump on their bed and snuggle up for a cuddle. If they stop stroking me I am very good at giving them a nudge to remind them that they are there for a purpose. Life is good. Even the parrot has calmed down a little. He will be around long after I have shuffled off. I hope my successors have the sense to have smaller ears.