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Click to enhance Trees, like us, have a finite lifetime, although it generally extends for a significant period beyond human life expectancy. According to Mrs Google, Methuselah, a Great Basin bristlecone pine (Pinus longaeva) is around 4850 years old (that’s a lot of rings counted) and still growing strong – malapropism intended. Glencoe Baobab, located near Hoedspruit, South Africa, is but a sapling, in arborist-speak, nearing 1850. Comparatively, the oldest living person is Ethel Caterham of Surrey, England, who has reached the ripe age of 116 years (when last I checked Google). She still has a way to go to better Johanna Mazibuko from Klerksdorp, who died at the (unverified) age of 128. Sadly, the remaining lifespan of the tree in picture is weeks, maybe, months. It stands in the path of a residential estate currently under development. I’m crying over the loss of a single tree while in the Amazon rainforest, construction accounts for the loss of around 1.4 billion trees annually. But I’m not Brazilian, or my tears may have ended the local drought. The cost of progress raises a dilemma. I claim to be pro change. But I raise my hand when it comes to removing particular obstacles to change. We cut down trees because we need paper. We need houses and furniture. We need to braai during the weekend rugby match when, let’s be honest, Namibian hardwood is the best. Yet I never question these tree felling activities. I don’t give them a second thought. Neither do I consider the fact that I live on an estate of over 300 houses, one of a group that covers hectares of once productive farmland. Smacks of hypocrisy, doesn’t it? But, for me, this tree is different. It stands out against the backdrop of the magnificent Outeniqua mountains. The last tree standing on a hillside that will soon contain a housing estate, ironically, called Eden. I look at it most days on my way to gym, or anywhere for that matter. It's off the only road leading out from the estate, so I cannot miss it. You will be missed, lonely tree.

Click to enlarge We have a natural tendency to remember the past – good or bad. The glass-half-emptiers hanker over the good old times, but now the world has gone to hell in a hand basket. The phrase was commonly used during the American Civil War, but it's currently popular, again, for some reason. The glass-half-fullers see opportunities amongst the obstacles. They probably advocate the gone to heaven in a hand basket idiom which, apparently, predated the hell version. I’m known as a glass-half-empty kind of person, but that’s because I'm a realist and drink faster than most. The COVID lockdown period is somewhere in the recess of my memory, but not something I often dwell on. Probably because I was one of the luckier ones. Prior to the epidemic, I'd already been working from home for several years. Virtually all my clients were accustomed to Skype sessions – something our company had insisted upon. Yet, there were times during lock down, when not working, that proved frustrating. Confined to our homes, I walked circuits round the house for exercise (other than riding my bicycle that went nowhere). The dogs followed me for the first two circuits each day, then sat under a tree, watching me with bemused expressions. I also entered into a photographic challenge with a good friend of mine, some 450 kilometres away. Each day, we had to submit an image relating to a theme decided by one of our wives, and the results were judged by another friend of ours. The loser to buy dinner for all parties after lock-down had ended. The picture you see here is one of my entries, although I cannot remember whether it won on the day or not. Amazingly, once lock-down was lifted and we ended the challenge after 21 days, there was only a single point difference between us. I must assume the judge was biased, because my friend won. As you can imagine, I was gracious in defeat, but my Christmas card list has reduced by a couple of names. I can’t help thinking, even in the bad times, we managed to have good times. Or good things happened to us. Now, I’m off to fill my half-empty beer glass.

Click to enlarge Taking the next step in life, for any of us, can be daunting, even life threatening. Not for this little guy, however. He’s going to step into a puddle. It’s going to splash water and mud onto his new red boots and trousers. It’s going to be fun, and he’s going to do it again. And again. But at this point, it’s an unknown entity, and it’s scary. The water might be deep. Over his head. And there could be monsters lurking within those depths. Big scary monsters that eat children. Who knows? His parents, that’s who. They know it’s an ankle deep puddle. It’s why they’re happy for him to take the risk. To discover his next step is not life threatening. By keeping their distance they’re creating an environment where he can learn and derive pleasure from his endeavours. The little boy is learning caution, although he doesn’t realise it. His hesitation is a safety mechanism and gives his parents enough time to yell a warning. Or even leap to his rescue. As long as they don’t rush in and hold his hand or pull him away from the puddle so he doesn’t get wet, he’ll have an experience. His reward will be fun. As long as they keep their distance. In years to come, he probably won’t remember this experience. If there was a monster in the puddle and it snapped at him, he would remember it. And that his father rushed over and smashed the monster, rescuing him. It's the way of life. We remember more of the scary, horrible things than the little, inconsequential happenings that gave us pleasure. Maybe it’s nature’s way of teaching us caution, risk assessment, and how to stay alive. But then, if his parents continue to allow him to do things like getting wet and muddy he’ll learn caution and judgement on his own, and be able to make decisions that, normally, will keep him safe and happy. He’ll be able to assess the difference between a puddle and a great big hole that hides all kinds of dangers. And he will come to know that there is no such thing as monsters. Well, mostly.

Click to enlarge During a recent trip to   Arniston   (also known as Waenhuiskrans) we wandered through the little fishing village called Kassiesbaai. (That’s a lot of place names for a single sentence, isn’t it?) The village is a heritage site made up of white, mostly thatched cottages, inhabited by fishermen and their dependents. Except, not many of them go to sea to make a living these days. The fishing village spreads over a small hill and most of the people you meet are delightful, despite living on the breadline. They’re used to visitors and very agreeable to handouts. For the foodies, Willeen’s restaurant on the south-eastern side serves an excellent plate of fish and chips. Like most visitors, our purpose was to take photographs, as you've guessed. The people of Kassiesbaai are quite amenable to having their pictures taken – in return for a small incentive. And because the population spans very young children to very elderly persons, finding someone with outstanding photographic features is easy. I found Johannes, pictured above, agreeable to posing for a few shillings, as they said in the old days. Days from which he hailed. Once a captain of a fishing boat, time and circumstances have wiped away his smile, replacing it with an acquiescent expression of resignation. His main gripe is that he’s been declared too old to go to sea. I couldn’t establish whether the community or some higher authority issued the restrictive proclamation. None-the-less, it’s left him penniless except for a meagre government grant. When we were done, I gave Johannes 100 Rands for his time and effort. He almost smiled and his eyes glistened. Thinking him close to tears, I moved off in embarrassment. On reflection, I was of two minds. One hundred Rands for modelling is nothing in the photographic world. Yet, for Johannes, it was a windfall he’ll probably remember for the rest of his days. Standing around for less than thirty minutes, he'd just earned a tenth of his monthly grant. A lot more than any of his peers earned for the same effort. I still felt a little guilty. By the way, the image above is what we refer to as ‘low saturation’ – somewhere between colour and black and white. I thought it an appropriate rendering for this picture.

Click to enlarge Yesterday afternoon, I spent nearly two hours in the company of a solitary bird. To be honest, I wanted a soft-serve ice cream cone with a Cadbury flake in the middle and where better to get one than the beach at Herold’s Bay. Because it had to be a reward, I first needed to take a few photographs to justify the indulgence. A great beach for surfers, swimmers and sun worshipers, Herold’s Bay doesn’t lend itself to award winning seascape photography. Neither were there any Vogue or Sports Illustrated models strutting their stuff at the time and, besides, someone my age taking pics of young girls could result in an arrestable offence. I drove along the beach until I came upon the little egret fishing in the rock pools. Although it’s called a little egret, the bird in question is fairly large, especially when it stretches its neck. A keen fisherman in my younger days, watching this bird do what I haven’t done for many years, gave me immense pleasure. And a sense of deep envy. It was also a lesson in patience and concentration . The bird stood perfectly still, poised, but ready to dart its long beak into any seafood delicacy that ventured within its range. Similar to my past fishing excursions, unfortunately, there were very few fish in the pools. As a result, the bird did a lot of standing and very little darting. I know the feeling. I would have liked to get closer to the little egret but two things stopped me. Firstly, I have less confidence in my rock clambering skills these days and, carrying expensive camera equipment, I preferred not to take a chance. Secondly, the tide was coming in and I had visions of myself marooned on a rock, surrounded by the sea. It’s something that’s happened before. That left only one choice – a long lens. It also gave me the opportunity to learn something by experimenting with camera settings. I eventually waved my thanks to the little egret, now looking hungry and forlorn as it stood on the tidal pool wall, as I made my way to the ice cream van. There’s nothing like Cadbury flake and vanilla ice cream .

Click to enlarge Ever experienced something remarkable, then marvelled at the fact that the encounter was entirely fortuitous . It happened to me this week, again, when I went on an early morning photo shoot with a friend. On the Leentjies Klip beach in the Wilderness, with the rising sun behind me, I had my camera set up but was by no means enamoured by the picture in the viewfinder. It’s the kind of thing that frequently happens to photographers. You know there should be a decent shot for the taking, but it isn’t there. Usually, when this happens, you move away, pick a different angle, maybe come back another day or simply decide that there isn’t a picture to be had and never return. Not with your camera, at any rate. With the sun not fully risen, the landscape was bathed in a dull, dusty mustard colour. Never say die, I pressed the shutter button several times. That’s the beauty of digital cameras. Take as many shots as you want and delete what you don’t like during the edit phase. It costs nothing. Then, something weird happened. For a moment, the scene was lit up by a bright, orange light – as if God, or someone, had flipped the switch on and then off in a matter of seconds. During this time, I took the picture you now see. As I said , within seconds, the orange hue was gone, replaced once more by yellow, although no longer dull or dusty. I examined the image in my viewfinder. The change in colours rendered it bizarrely different from the scene now in front of me and I called my friend over to take a look. I may never experience this phenomenon again. But it doesn’t matter. It happened and I was present – albeit for a one-off lucky click. On another occasion, I might not have pressed the button and regretted it forever. Sometimes your powers of observation result in an unusual sighting or occurrence. Then again, sometimes you’re just lucky. Either way, suits me. Oh, and the seagulls in the foreground. They weren't there. I added them - for luck.

Click to enlarge You’re probably wondering – what’s he on about? What’s hidden? I mean this steenbok couldn’t be more obvious. Well that’s because I highlighted the animal and the rocks amongst which it is sitting. Yeah, it does stick out against a dulled, blurry background. But hang on. Is this a steenbok? Certainly that was my immediate reaction. Those horns have grown outwards and backwards. The steenbok horns are normally small and straight up. Yet the environment and situation are typical of a steenbok. They tend to be solitary animals, except during the mating season. They’re often seen on koppies and amongst rocks and they tend to sit or stand still until the last moment, only bolting when it’s imperative to do so. Difficult to spot in the wild, but obvious once you see one. I think I found a steenbok calmy sitting amongst the rocks. And it makes a lovely picture. Could it be a reedbuck ? Possibly. A friend who knows his antelope thinks so. But then it’s a juvenile because the horns are underdeveloped. In which case, is it likely to be sitting out in the open? On its own? Probably not. Also, the surroundings don’t match expectations, given these animals are normally found near water. Maybe it’s an impala. Google thinks so. But again, then it’s a youngster judging by the size of its horns. And the environment doesn’t lend itself to this argument. Neither does the fact that it’s alone. – unless the photographer isolated it in the shot. (I didn’t.) And the classic rear end M isn’t evident. Although, sitting on its rump may have kept this impala telltale hidden. Hmm, I don’t think you’ve picked the right one this time, Google. Does any of this matter. Maybe, if you’re a naturalist. Or extremely fickle. For me, I came across a beautiful animal that I almost didn’t see , it was so camouflaged amongst the rocks. And the word steenbok translates into stone buck in English. Good enough for me.

Click to enlarge My sense of direction is non-existent. I’ve been known to leave my front door and be lost. Actually, that’s not true. I’ve never been lost in my own front garden., but I’ve left a store in the local mall and walked 100 metres before realising I was headed in the wrong direction. In the old days (am I really saying this) streets were clearly marked. Directions were easily given and easily followed. Carry on down Church street; at Mountain Road turn left; at Main street turn right . The place you’re looking for will be 50 metres up the road . Even I could follow those directions. But nowadays (yes, I am really saying this) the challenge is finding a sign that gives you the name of the street. It’s either not there or has faded to the extent that it cannot br read. Unless you have Google maps and can understand what it’s trying to tell you, you’re lost. You might think the image above is the Vachellia Karroo   tree, aka the Sweet Thorn . In reality, it’s an Irish directional sign for to pedestrians. I once spent an hour in Dublin trying to locate a restaurant that was practically in sight of the hotel where I was staying. I started by asking directions. ‘ To be sure ,’ I was told. It took a while to understand that I had to cross the river and then I would find the place. I don’t know what the opposite of ‘To be sure’ is, but I experienced it. I ended up asking several locals for directions and finished up nowhere. It might have been my misunderstanding of Irish English, my poor directional sense or the people I asked either didn’t know or, like me, were lost. Finally, I asked a local taxi driver for help. A call on his radio soon had a dozen of his colleagues puling up alongside us for a discussion. Success. All I had to do was cross over the river (for the third time) and it would be in front of me. It was, and from the doorway, I could see my hotel .

Click to enlarge Meet Trichonephila fenestrate - aka as Hairy Golden Orb-web Spider – a female specimen in this instance. Beautiful, isn’t she. Unless you suffer from arachnophobia – making you one of 3.5% to 6.1% of the global population, according to Google. I’m assuming that the word ‘population’ refers to the human and not the spider populace which, judging by the little buggers on my front lawn that jump on you and bite, outnumber people. But as suggested below, many male spiders may well be arachnophobic, for good reason. If you’re a male Trichonephila fenestrate, your relationship with the female species may not be enduring. The objects of your affections have a habit of eating their lovers. Being smaller – as evidenced by the little male, top of picture – doesn’t help and one of the few escapes from its cannibalistic end is autonomisation . (My spell check doesn’t recognise that word either, so let me tell you it means ‘a self-defence mechanism in which an animal or insect or arachnid intentionally sheds or discards one or more of its own body parts—usually an appendage like a leg or tail—to escape a predator's grasp or avoid injury’.) Again I’m indebted to Google. One needs to get it right when dealing with difficult to pronounce (never mind spell) names. A slip of the tongue, or finger, and you (like me) could end up with Trichophilia . Now this term could possibly, at a stretch, be applied to the male of the species given that it is a Hairy Golden Orb spider. But I don’t think the neologist (you look it up this time) who dreamt up trichophilia had arachnids in mind. Because the word means ‘a hair fetishism or a paraphilia involving intense sexual arousal or obsession with human hair, including touching, smelling, or watching it.’ Despite the dangers the female Golden Orb spiders hold for their suitors, the good news is that they’re not prone to biting humans. And, in rare occurrences where this might happen, their venom is not significantly concerning. Just as well because their silk, used to build webs spanning more than a metre in width, is five time stronger than steel and can even trap small birds. Now, if anyone has a remedy to stop the jumping spider bites on my leg from itching, please let me know.

Click to enlarge We are all familiar with the phrase, ‘ But is it art?’ It’s an expression often applied to a painting, sculpture or collection of ‘stuff’ assembled to represent an artist’s interpretation or impression. Most times, it’s uttered when the viewer has no comprehension whatsoever of what the artist intended. It’s amplified when the artist wins an award, acclaim or high recognition for something we don’t understand. And it’s sometimes accompanied by the expression, “You’ve gotta be joking.’ Is photography any different? It depends how you look at it. Photography is frequently defined as painting with light. 'Painting' would suggest the photographer is an artist - someone who creates art. But on the udder hand, Darren, photography is seen by many as accurately capturing reality – a process using a mechanical or, lately, digital device.  A photograph is, as near as damnit, a replication of what the eye saw – give or take a few missing nuances like the third dimension, etc. ChatGPT says ‘photography captures a real moment in space-time coordinates’, whatever that means. It goes further to suggest, ‘Photography becomes art when it moves beyond documentation into interpretation.’ Then, just when photographers felt their work was irrevocably confined to the dungeons of the visual capture of reality, achievable by anyone with a scientific or mathematical brain - nothing more - someone invented a photographic category called, ‘ Creative Art Photography .’ But wait, there's more - there's also ‘ Fine art photography .’ And, again, there's a difference. Suddenly a whole world of imagery has opened up. If you’ve got a few hours to spare, try Googling ‘Creative art photography’ and then clicking ‘Images’ on the Tool bar. Believe me, you will be astonished, as was I. Some of the creativity is simply mind blowing. The concept of capturing reality has been stretched far, far beyond mundane imagination. It’s no longer a matter of ‘An artist creates, while a photographer records reality.’ By the way, this picture is of paint peeling off a gun housing in Simonstown naval base. So, next time you think, ‘But is it art?’ think again.

Click to enlarge Visit any waterhole in the Kruger Park and you’re guaranteed to find a ubiquitous Egyptian goose. Native to Africa and widespread over the continent, the birds have also been introduced to the US and Europe where they’re admired as an ornamental species. Despite a variety of predators including fish eagles, jackals, monitors and crocodiles, Egyptian geese breed prolifically and their numbers are often the cause of their bad reputation. They’re not popular on golf courses where they congregate in masses and their soiling of the greens is cause for complaint. On the Noordhoek Common, in the Western Cape, I once stopped counting when I reached the 100 mark. If you’re the owner of a thatch roofed home your feeling towards the birds is probably far from friendly. They’ve been known to strip thatch from dwellings to use in nest building. These nests, unlike other waterfowl, can be found in trees, on steeples and on buildings. I once observed a clutch of goslings drop like stones, one by one, from a three-story balcony onto a concrete pavement where a protective mother herded them off. That they survived, astounded me. Egyptian geese are also very territorial. At a waterhole one evening, I watched a solitary bird hold a large flock of guinea fowl at. bay. Charging at them, wings flapping, put the fowl into a panic and they retreated time and time again into the brush. After 30 minutes, I left and the guinea fowl were still thirsty. However, one cannot but admire the magnificence and character of the birds. At full stretch, as in this picture, they’re splendid creatures. The black and white of the wings blends beautifully with the browns, orange and greys of the rest of the bird, while the prominent orange eye matches the colour on the back of the neck of a sexually mature bird. It’s no wonder that they are frequently the subject of art and sculpture. While Egyptian geese don’t rank as a favourite of mine, there are times when I change my mind.

Click to enlarge Ever taken a careful look at political party’s emblem or logo? Most of them are obscure or boring. To understand their meaning and symbolism requires an explanation. Fortunately, for the party concerned, our vote isn’t based on the logo – although if we understood its meaning, we might choose a different place to make our cross. What we need is a party which has a dragonfly for its emblem – and there are over 3000 species in the world to choose from. (Dragon flies, not parties, that is.) There’s much to be said about dragonflies – some of it true, some fiction, some fantasy. Even in their nymphal phase, which can last up to five years, they are predatory insects. Sadly, the average lifespan of an adult dragonfly is around five weeks or less. (About the same length of time the average politician’s promise lasts.) Dragonflies are top predators. Their muscle structure means they can fly faster than most other insects – the cheetah of the insect world. What’s more, they can also fly backwards and even upside down.  All of which makes them deadly hunters – ask any fly, midge or mosquito. Lions have a hit rate of about 20% while dragonflies boast a solid 90% plus success rate. But there’s a spiritual side to dragonflies. Some people believe they carry a message from a departed, loved one while for others they offer good fortune, especially if one lands on you. Most importantly, it is said that they symbolise new beginnings and transformation – which is why they would be ideal emblems for the right political party. And fortunately for politicians, the belief that dragonflies will sew your lips together if you tell a lie is a myth. And here’s the best fact about dragonflies: The eat between 30 and 100 mosquitoes a day. That's the equivalent of about 20 KFC meals to the average politician. Share this blog with your friends - and let them take wings.