Broken promises...

So, here I am again. This time it's with a broken promise. In my last entry, I promised a tale of yore. However, I am currently sitting in a picturesque little village in the heart of the Black Forest, and somehow the setting calls for more discussion of the present.

During the course of last year I wrote a fantasy novel. It's the first time I've ever written a book, and it ended up being very long. I so enjoyed the telling of the tale and the way one actually lives the adventure with the characters, that I simply couldn't stop writing. Eventually I had to force myself to shelve all the surplus adventures and experiences that I wanted my main character to experience and stick to a plan to get the book finished. As it is, the book is far too long for a first-time, no-experience, never-been-published sort like myself to ever have a reasonable chance of getting an agent to even read it, but it will have to wait until the right agent finally does request a copy. Every time I read through the manuscript and do a bit of cutting and editing, it breaks my heart to rob the young Jim of ever more of his secret world.

Approximately 40000 of the 160000 words were written in the little village where I now languish on a 300-year old balcony at ten in the evening. The rushing sound of the little river that escapes a narrow, steep gorge in front of the old hotel creates a continuous backdrop sound, until one is not sure if it's the evening breeze in the trees of the forest or the insistent little torrent one is hearing. This water comes rushing down a series of cascades, seven in all, and the falls as a whole form the core of the landscape below the secluded forest home of "The Keeper", the polite and knowledgeable old man who Jim one day realises is the most powerful wizard in the secret realm of the faerie that he has the good fortune to discover. The inspiration for my tale of medieval knights, elves, goblins and celtic scenery comes from this little region of the world that we all know as the Black Forest in Southern Germany. Travelling around here, one begins to understand the brothers Grimm. The secret groves among the dark boles lend themselves fantastically to the image of long-forgotten forest creatures that our ancestors tried to describe in their fairy tales. When the ferns creep over the moss-covered rocks in a forest stream and the patches of sunlight seem to intrude on the bright green grass on the banks, one can feel the peace and a slight feeling of hidden menace, should the light leave before you do. I know my words don't do justice to the scenery, but I feel compelled to try and describe it anyway.

The last time I was here, my wife and I took a walk up the winding path alongside the seven pools and the cascades that link them. It is a steep uphill climb, and along the way one can see the massive roots of huge, ancient old trees winding their way over solid rock formations on the steep banks alongside the pathway. How the trees remain anchored on these rock bases during a storm is beyond me. At the tips of the roots (some as thick as my torso), the last tiny little end disappears in a crack in the rock, and one must assume that this is where the giant of a tree gets its nourishment. When we arrived at the top of the falls, true to my nature I decided to break away from the beaten (in this case signposted) path and see if there was anything new to find. We made our way through stands of silent giants, their leafy greenery disappearing up in the gloom of the forest roof, until eventually we came across a neatly maintained little gravel road that wound away around the hillside through the forest. Seeing the promise of bright sunlight that seemed to glow around the end of the next bend, we thought we might chance upon a clearing from which we could look out over the never-ending sea of forest that we knew stretched away northwards of where we were. However, one of the ways in which the forest likes to trick its unsuspecting visitors is to lure one ever deeper into its depths with enticing promises of more, and we rounded the corner only to see the neat little road disappearing around yet another bend, from which direction the bright light seemed to be coming. The procedure was repeated twice, for by now we were wondering just what it was that was casting such an alluring glow down this secretive little track through the forest.

Upon rounding the third bend, we found ourselves suddenly in the midst of a lush little enclave, surrounded on all sides by the dark forest. It was in the form of a small valley, and the road wound down between two meadows of thick green grass, separated from us by an old wooden post fence. About three cows were grazing in the meadow on the right and below us the road followed a dip between a wooden cottage and an old barn in the centre of the clearing. The scene was so unexpected that we found ourselves drawn towards the cottage, the road luring us ever forwards. The silence of the forest seemed to extend over us, and the only sounds to be heard were the light tinkling of the bells the grazing cows wore. It was a hot day, the sky above the hidden valley a bright blue and the heat of the sun on suddenly exposed skin gave a welcome feeling of warmth after the shaded secrecy of the forest. Feeling like intruders, we passed below the silent buildings beside the road and stepped into a scene from the past.

We were in a large, enclosed yard that formed the front garden of the lonely cottage. The road passed through the centre of this area and wound through the lush green fields in front of the cottage before disappearing back into the dark forest. There were a number of rough-hewn wooden tables and benches scattered about near the fence in the far corner of the yard, but the whole place appeared deserted. Tacked to one of the wooden walls of the cottage, among ancient, handmade farming implements, was a weathered sign advertising "Rothaus Bier", one of the best beers the Black Forest has to offer. I couldn't believe my luck! I appeared to have stumbled upon a lost inn in the middle of the forest. Thoughts of Rip van Winkel came to mind as I wondered if it really could be that there are time warps in certain places that we unknowingly stumble across from time to time. Imagine my surprise and small start of fright when Rip himself suddenly came to life on the porch! From a worn old wooden chair next to the open front door, an ancient old man with white hair, red and black checked shirt with braces attached to his worn old corduroys, and a gnarled old pipe clutched between his teeth, stood up and greeted us in the thick dialect of the Black Forest. Fortunately, this is very similar to the Swiss dialect of our own little village on the northern border of Switzerland and the southern fringe of the Black Forest, and we were able to conceal our surprise at the sudden appearance of this apparition from the past, who had been peacefully dozing in the shade of his quiet verandah. In the manner of peasants the world over, he nodded at our returned greetings and gave us a thorough once-over with his piercing blue eyes, before turning and gesturing at one of the benches in a shady corner of his yard. Not believing my luck at stumbling upon this authentic piece of the past, I made my way over to the table, knowing not to try and engage an eccentric old forest-dweller in non-essential small talk. Once my wife and I had seated ourselves we took a moment to enjoy the ancientness of the scenery surrounding us. After a while, the old man reappeared. Despite his obvious age, and although he walked slowly and carefully, the strength and hardiness of his bent old body was obvious. He placed two ice cold Rothaus beers between us on the table and asked if we wanted anything else. I hadn't ordered anything, but was more than ready to demolish the beer. The walk and the early autumn sun had made me quite hot. We assured him that we were fine for the moment and he nodded and went back to his place on the porch. Within minutes he was asleep again, and we were left to our own devices in this secret world that he lived in. I spent a number of unforgettable hours there as the sun passed over the lost clearing, writing away on my story until there was no battery power left in my laptop.

During the course of that wonderful afternoon a number of characters showed up, either passing through on the winding little road with a shout of greeting to the snoozing old man, who would open one eye and raise a finger in greeting before nodding off again, or, as in the case of one young fellow, leaving the road and stopping over for a cold beer and a rambling chat with the old chap, who would settle in the shade next to his guest to share the happenings of the forest for a while. This young bloke in particular spent about an hour chatting away with the old man, and I couldn't help but prick my ears at their conversation. My wife and I speak English to one another, so most strangers assume we are tourists and cannot understand them, and most rural dwellers are quite secure in the belief that their particular dialect is unintelligable to the next county, let alone foreigners, so I was treated to a sample of the life that these people lead while the two unlikely companions, a bent old man with white hair and a strapping young man clad only in worn old blue jeans with neither shoes nor shirt, shared the gossip of the day. The young chap was obviously very curious about us, my wife reading her book in the cool of a large tree and myself tapping away on a laptop, but the old man spoke not a word about us, neither to explain that we could understand them nor to offer an opinion on us. It crossed my mind to share a word with the young man, for he was not averse to giving me a broad smile whenever he caught my eye across the yard, but I was too busy integrating these two forest characters into my story to allow distractions. Instead, I returned his smile and unspoken greetings with a smile and nod of my own while committing this timeless scene to memory. If ever I return to the wide open spaces and timelessly african scenery of my younger years, I will always treasure memories such as these, that are woven so intricately into the bedtime stories of Europeans the world over.

I think that this post has been too long now, so I will end the recollections here. As with my tale of Jims journey of discovery in "The Realm" that he discovers and whose lure he can't escape, I find that my fingers simply fly over the keyboard with no concept of time whenever I travel in my mind through this magical area. To those of you who ever consider coming to Europe on holiday, or who live in Europe and wish to visit Germany, do yourselves a favour and visit the Black Forest.

It's positively enchanting...

Time

Well, time goes by and certainly waits for no man. The last entry was in May and I promised myself that there would be at least one for June, yet here we are in July with barely time for an entry before August! So much of interest has happened since the last entry, but try as I might, I haven't found the time or the inspiration to jot it down here.

This weekend I took a welcome break from the usual routine of Friday night pub, Saturday home renovations, Saturday night party with close buddies at home, Sunday sleep in and spend afternoon in pursuit of leisurely activities close to the heart. Instead, I slept the weekend away with no alcohol and lots of healthy food. This fine Sunday morning found me wide awake at 06h30 and raring to go. Of course, after years of fine-tuning the family to one's personal needs, it's not easy to change the routine, and so at around nine in the morning we got going on a fine walk through the forest that surrounds our little village here in the birthplace of federalism and rösti.

Our stroll on the flatlands below the forest to the next village was accompanied by the early morning summer sun, just breaking through the flatland mist that lingers over the wheatfields before dissipating in the full heat of late morning. After 20 minutes of brisk walking, the morning cool had bid us adieu, and we were happy to hit the hill path that leads up through the dappled forest to the small plateau on which the southern remnants of my beloved black forest remain. The older one gets, the rarer the feeling of pumping heart and quivering muscles a simple, brisk walk can bring about becomes. On occasions such as this, I thank my lucky stars for the love of reading that I learned as a child. It seems to me that only through the shared experience of the written word can we truly begin to appreciate all that there is to be appreciated. If one truly reads, voraciously, one can experience certain things that others take for granted, or that no longer have a place in our modern lives, and which would never normally form part of the 'normal' course of one's own life. It's all too easy to succumb to the stress and pressure of responsibility and forget the things that our grandparents considered essential.

Imagine how it was just a short hundred years ago. What we take for a good round of exercise would have been a normal "business trip". Go to the forest, fell the right tree, cart it home, saw it up, plane it and make it into the perfect bedroom cupboard and then transport it by wagon to the buyer in the next village. I sit in a local pub and observe the sausage-like fingers of a weathered old man in his 80's and can only imagine the physical duress that his life entailed. I wonder at the health of men like this too. Back home in South Africa (in the bad old days of Apartheid) when one saw a small little black man with his wiry arms and calloused fingers, one wondered at the strength he possessed, yet now I see that it's the honest work that one does that creates the man. A short while ago I was forced through circumstance to work like our blacks back home did during my childhood. It made a man of me, in more ways than one. You are not complete until you have sweated blood and tears and have had to PROVE yourself to your fellows in order to get ahead. In my case this lasted nine years here in the land of cheese and wine, and I can only take my hat off to those generations of hard-working, striving black people back home who, no matter how hard they worked, or how capable they proved themselves to be, were destined to remain in the same, hard jobs they were allowed to do. I like to emphasise the "back home" part, because in my heart I will always be a South African. I wish that there were no criminals, no money-hungry beaurocrats and no race problems in South Africa, but I know that I can't change this. I used to wonder at the fatalism of the Rhodesians that flooded our land during the 80's, but now I understand. The land I knew no longer exists, and the reality of what should be can no longer be realised. Not until the race-hate that we engendered dies down. How many generations will it take before South Africa settles down and gets on with modern life?

Anyway, this is not a forum on South African race relations, so let's get on with it, shall we? Once we descended from the forest and reached our village again, we stopped off at a local restaurant to buy the kids an ice-cream. Naturally there were a bunch of locals having their Sunday afternoon beers and lunch, and what with rural Switzerland not being a place where you can sit apart from others, we were drawn into a discussion on the entry of Switzerland into the European Union. This is a very big thorn in the side of the Swiss peasant, and as I consider myself to be a proud Swiss peasant of note, I found myself listening with interest to what was being said. In the interests of saving my readers from my usual long-windedness, let me quote a few things that were said:

"Ha! How can they keep on forcing the issue of us joining the EU? How many times do the Swiss people have to say no?!!" (Gotta love the Swiss referendums, don'tcha?); "How can anybody expect that hard-working Northern races who get up in Winter at 05h00 to go to work are going to support Southerners who get up at 07h30 and sit in the coffee shop until 09h00 before starting work?"; "Why should Germans, who can't even meet the grade here in Switzerland, work hard (for them) and diligently all their lives and retire at sixty-five, only to ensure that the Greeks, who work 32-hour weeks and retire at fifty-five, can have the same currency, liquidity and status as them?"; "Do they think we're ready to give up our status and reputation as a hard-working race just to have the benefit of free trade and open borders with Portugal and Spain? There are enough of them begging to work here and take our strong currency out of the country to show that their own systems and ethics don't produce like ours do!"

Need I say more? Echoes of South Africa....I don't know. I hope not. I wish a happy and prosperous future on my wonderful, rich (in people and resources) country. Just hope they can get over it and get on with it. As I keep on promising, this is supposed to be a blog on the oddities and fun of life in general, with excerpts from my own rich experiences, but somehow I don't seem to ever get around to it!

I promise my few readers a tale of the past in the next entry. Though some of you are bound to have heard many of these tales over the years, I will attempt to put each little story into a comprehensive package that we can all laugh about. Interspersed, of course, with current snippets of life in Heidi land.

Yours,
...