A quick lunchtime trip to the False Bay Rugby Club with the newly-mended Mrs 6000 gave me a chance to chuck the Mavic around, much to the joy of the kids and dads playing on the rugby field.
This was all about having fun, not a photo or video expedition, so there’s not much to report other than the fact that it was nice to get some fresh air and some more but you can have a look at a different view of things here if you want.
School holidays are now upon us, so not only does that mean an extra hour in bed each morning, but I will also be using every opportunity to spend some time with the kids and – because I have a little bit of annual leave coming up – flying some new places too.
We have a strange attraction to geographical extremities, don’t we? There’s a fascination with being the most Westerly person in Britain, or the most Northerly individual in Mauritius or whatever.
Regular readers will know that I like to spend quite a bit of time down by the Southernmost point in Africa. And actually, there’s something quite sobering about wandering down past the cairn there, turning to face North and knowing that each and everyone of the more than one billion inhabitants of the continent are in front of you. Even regularer readers will know that I hold the record for having written the most Southerly blog post on the continent.
For all that I love the place, it’s disappointingly nondescript. No towering cliffs, no jutting prominence (careful now). It’s flat and if there wasn’t the little monument there, you’d be hard pressed to identify the particular bit of coastline which is the official tip of Africa. And maybe that’s why so many tourists think that it’s Cape Point that matters, but for all it’s rugged beauty, including towering cliffs and jutting prominence, it loses huge marks for only being “the most southwesterly” point of Africa.
What does that even mean?
The most Southerly village in Iceland – as we all know – is Vík í Mýrdal. I bring that up because they’ve got a big, black beach and a stack there, as shown in this 8 second exposure:
Iceland has always been one of those places that I would love to visit, and if I ever do get to go there, Vík í Mýrdal (population 318) will certainly be one of the places I will want to see. Aside from the dramatic landscapes, other reasons to visit Vík í Mýrdal include it being the warmest place in Iceland with an annual mean temperature of 5.3°C, as well as the long overdue eruption of the Katla volcano which experts feel, when it occurs, will completely obliterate the village by melting the Mýrdalsjökull glacier, which lies over the volcanic site.
Should this ever happen, much may be made of the fact that only the church survived the flash flood. But this is merely because it’s built on higher ground, just outside the village, rather than any divine intervention.
It’s Father’s Day today, but my first experience of the day was waking up from a horrible dream of being taken before sunrise, to a wine farm, which was closed, and at which there were over 50 beagles.
It could have been the virus I’ve got, but there were cold sweats all round.
Then I realised that this wasn’t a dream at all. The wine farm really was closed and there really were more than 50 beagles in attendance. This was a Beagle Run, and we were in the midst of it. With a beagle.
The cold sweats returned. And they were very cold, because Paarl is very cold on June mornings before sunrise.
The Beagle Run is a fortnightly (or so) opportunity over winter for Beagle owners to get together and
wonder why the hell they got a beagle allow their dogs to run as a pack while chasing a scent trail. Which is basically what beagles are meant for.
Some beagles are very good at this. Those beagles win prizes. Other beagles (and here I include our beagle) are less good at it, and cower pathetically on the start line as the pack heads off, before glancing up half apologetically, half questioningly at you as if to say “Well, that was quite an exciting moment, wasn’t it? So what do we do now, then?”
What we do now is walk, beagle in tow, to meet the beagles that have done things correctly, and then repeat the process four or five more times until – covered in mud and disappointment – we get back to the car.
It was good exercise, in fresh air, with wonderful views. And then we came home and I got showered with Father’s Day gifts. I’m still a bit (very) bleugh from my virus, but I’m lucky to have such an amazing family, and the beagle is very lucky to have us too. Other families would have left it at the closed wine farm in disgrace.
Most of the photos were taken by Mrs 6000 because I was trying to find the beagle most of the time and the light was terrible.
It’s been a while since I’ve included anything from friend-of-the-blog BrianMicklethwait.com. That’s not to say that I’m not a daily visitor to his haunt – I am. But he is him and I are me, and thus it’s only when the paths of our mental scribblings cross that I choose to share his stuff with you. Sometimes that happens three times a week. Sometimes once in three months. I don’t keep count or have a quota to fulfill: when it happens, it happens.
Good news, reader: it’s happening right now with this image of a bit of wall of the 5 star boutique Milestone Hotel in Kensington:
See it there? That’s 3D Latin, that is…
Which, according to several (or more) websites, translates as:
I hope in adversity, I fear in prosperity.
or, in more basic terms:
I am hopeful in times of danger; I am fearful when things are going well.
Which seems both a positive outlook, but also a bit pessimistic at the same time. So overall, pretty neutral and perhaps even rather sensible, then?
Given that generally, we live our lives not in a constant state of one extreme or another, but mostly somewhere down the middle, this 3D Latin thing will only kick in occasionally, but when it does, it will surely temper our acute and foolish emotions and restore some sort of natural order to proceedings.
I like it.
Actually, not “good save”. “Good” doesn’t do it justice. Any adjectives which would do it justice would have to be conjoined with a swearword.
But then if you were doing about 150mph (241kph) between two very solid looking dry stone walls on a chunk of metal whose only contact with the ground is about a handprint’s worth of rubber, and you had a wobble like this:
…then, in my opinion, the use of any swearwords – copiously and vociferously – is entirely justified. James Hillier (for it are he) went on to finish 4th in the Senior TT (which is what this was).
I know that your time is valuable, but the whole video is only 33 seconds long, so DO keep watching for the slo-mo. Oh, my goodness.