The Restory Retreat Centre

There is a place, just a few kilometres from Wakkerstroom, where we start looking for the Reds every time we drive into town. On that spot the low hills are close to the road on either side and it is here where we usually find the herd of Kalahari Reds grazing. They are different from the other goats that we pass on the road. They tend to blend into the surroundings, but when the sunlight falls on them at a certain angle, they shine like copper kettles against the hill side. Photograph by Tollie Jordaan Initially we only saw them. Then, on a particular morning, we spotted the dog. Big, high on its legs, light of colour with a black muzzle. Somehow different from any other dog that we’ve seen in the vicinity of a herd of any kind. It wasn’t chasing or herding the goats. It was just there, amongst them, somehow part of them. It was the very first time that we’ve come across an Anatolian Shepherd, other than on the pages of a book. 

The house It grows larger wall after wall sliding on some miraculous arrangement of panels, blond and weightless as balsa, making space for windows,alcoves, more rooms, stairways and passages,all bathed in light,with here and there the green flower of a tree, vines,streams casually breaking through- what a change from the cramped room at the centre where I began,where i crouched and was safe, but could hardly breathe! Day after day I labour at it; night after night I keep going- I'm clearing new ground I'm lugging boards I'm measuring, I'm hanging sheets of glass I'm nailing down the hardwoods The thresholds- I'm hinging the doors- Once they are up they will lift their easy latches, they will open like wings. Mary Oliver from Dream works 1986 I came across this poem by Mary Oliver in 2009,long before any thought of starting a new life elsewhere came to mind. I thought it beautiful and loved its spaciousness. I felt m

Photograph by Matilda Clifford Pray as you can, not as you can’t.                                                                         Abbot John Chapman For a while now we have had a certain discomfort with our prayers at meal time. Set prayers become words of habit. My grandfather used to pray in Dutch, in all probability because his father, who might have actually known Dutch, prayed that way. My father prayed the same prayer before every meal as my grandfather did, but only in Afrikaans. Something might be said for tradition but somehow too much is lost in the process. In that sense an informal or free form prayer is better. However, that still left us uncomfortable on a certain level. We feel that we are conveying a certain message by praying that way. As if we are the point of origin in this case. We have done the planning and preparing with the food that we indeed feel privileged to have and with that done, we call on God and say thank you. Ou

I love this ache. For too long I have felt nothing. But then, the Spark (See the post Caught in the amber ) . And now the Ache. What to do with all this beauty?! It drives me to distraction: A Rapunzel sun spinning wintry grass to gold; the textures and colourways of story book stone walls; Katryn's amber eyes; Mily's purr and silken weight on my lap; the single new purple flower on the rosemary bush; the Zaaihoek dam under a sapphire sky; salad greens on a simple white plate; the huge supermoon rising just beyond reach; the puffed and perfect fiscal shrike on the fence, the huge open roses of cabbage; the icy crispness in the air; the cattle's curly winter coats... The impossible beauty of the Zaaihoek dam in winter.  Photo by Matilda It's too much to handle. So I knit. In the colours and textures of this winter. Maybe to somehow catch it in a scarf, a cap, a pullover. I don't know. I should do more with this, but I'm not yet sure precisely what. So I kn

Suppose you were driving to Cape Town and you saw this sign or Not so bad that you would need to stop the car, back up and read again, but you have to agree, something is just not right. But suppose you saw this sign Much better, isn’t it? And for good reason. The font initially used in Britain and later adapted in many countries on road signs was developed by South African born typographer and graphic designer Margaret Calvert and her colleague Jock Kinneir. It was a process starting in 1957 and after many trials, errors and experimenting ended in the 1960’s. A new font was born in the process – Transport font. They also invented and designed Transport’s related family of road signs commonly seen on road sides: You haven’t thought “Nice font!” after finding the O.R.Tambo Airport off ramp sign with great relief, did you? Well, next time you use this one-of-the-most-read-and-directional fonts in the world, lift your cap for those in

AND FOR NO REASON Photo by Ralie du Preez And For no reason I start skipping like a child. And For no reason I turn into a leaf That is carried so high I kiss the Sun's mouth And dissolve. And For no reason A thousand birds Choose my head for a conference table, Start passing their Cups of wine And their wild songbooks all around. And For every reason in existence I begin to eternally, To eternally laugh and love! When I turn into a leaf And start dancing, I run to kiss our beautiful Friend And I dissolve in the Truth That I Am. ("The Gift" - versions of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky) After my previous post, Caught in the amber , I had a very stimulating discussion with a friend who sent me the above poem as a response. The carefree lilt in Hafiz's poetic voice is exactly what I yearn for, but I must admit that more often than not, I am forever seeking answers to the many whys and wherefores that life present us with. Call it design,

A small river we cross on the way to Newcastle. Photo by Matilda This time round I have been waiting very long for the spark. That tiny little flicker of a thing that sets the ready kindling alight, slowly warming my insides with ideas licking slowly higher and higher, until I can no longer contain myself. And start creating in a burst of red hot energy!  It is not a necessary ingredient in the life of an artist, I am told. One should create, write, sculpt whether you feel inspired or not. It comes with the doing. With the keeping at it. So I'm told and it has been my experience for the most. But there is a marked difference. If inspiration can be graded, I would have to say, the keep-at-it-and-it-comes-along variety has always been rather lukewarm for me personally. It does not seem to heat up much, but burns steadily and quietly, producing well... well, producing sellable products. But it hardly raises my pulse.   While I'm in the creative slow cooker I am f

Photographs:  http://www.beachhouse.be Shrimp fishing using heavy draught horses was for centuries a common sight along the coast of Belgium, the Netherlands and parts of France and England. Now it is only practiced in Oostduinkerke in Belgium. Two hours before and an hour after low tide the paardenvissers or horse fishermen ride with their Belgium Draught horses or Brabants into the sea. A net is dragged between two horses wading breast deep through the water. The catch is then emptied into huge wicker baskets hanging from the side of the horses. Although the tradition goes back 500 years, today there are only 7 fishermen left who fish shrimp this way. In 2013 UNESCO recognized shrimp fishing on horseback as intangible cultural heritage  Everything about this speaks to me: the gentle giants, the rituals that are part of manual labour and tradition, the sea. A visit to Oostduinkerke – definitely on my buc

OK, in order to get the bigger picture and compare the "before" and "after" you have to go back to the post Beauty longing . I was busy restoring the huge old dining room table. Oregon with teak legs was my guess at that stage. This is my first big woodworking commission since we have moved to Barrowfield. In order to complete it I had to do quite a lot of repairs on the machinery that would be needed in the process. The belt sander got damaged during the move. I welded the cast iron table where it broke at the base. Two weeks before our move down here, they broke into my workshop at Rietfontein and stole the electrical motor with its particular bracket off my table saw. It was no mean feat to replace it. In the process I got to know most of the electrical suppliers in Newcastle, drove to Alberton to get the bracket components, made adjustments to that and put in a bigger circuit breaker at the distribution box as the new motor kept tripping the previous one.