On a warm, summer night the scent of pine, wild thyme and eucalyptus hung heavily in the air. It was late. A hunter’s moon had been riding high since early evening yet the moonlight had only now, many hours later, vanqiushed the last fiery embers of the dying solstice daylight in the western sky and shafted triumphantly through the forest, lighting the secret paths by which the assassin stalked her target.
Author: O Zangado
Just loping around. Extremely fond of roast boar in particular, meat in general and cooking on the barbie. Fish is good too.
Oi!
Right, you lot! Sit up straight and pay attention ‘cos this is reallly, really important and I need your advice.
Postcard from Portugal
Ferret – I really hope you enjoyed your holidays. I have spent the intervening time trying to reconcile the image of something small pink and furry donning a hi-vis jacket and liney gloves every morning. Here’s my contribution, for what it’s worth. 1,000 words on the button.
Dear Auntie Araminta and Auntie Bilby
Skydiving (Mark II)
“If at first you don’t succeed, then skydiving is not for you”. Brian grinned inwardly as he read the flyer advertising a parachuting course at a local airfield. He liked the droll humour of the advert and this was just the kind of challenge a young,gun in his position ought to be pursuing to maintain the interest of the stockbroker’s daughter to whom he was engaged.
A Lope to The Cave for Janh
Janh challenged me recently to post some photographs from around The Cave so, with some ambivalence and apologies for the amateur photography, please join me on a lope from civilisation up the hill to OZ’s lair.
On this day
The Cross of St George is fluttering quietly, but proudly, above The Cave this morning.
OZ
Guten Morgen, Herr Smith…
Guten Morgen, Herr Smith. Papieren, bitte. Ve heff noticed zat you are driving zis privately-owned, taxed, tested and insured vehicle mit ein zigaretten in your handen. I am ein Überuntergruppenoffizer of zer council’s thought polizei, sturmtrooper divitzione – my name vill not concern you. Ve know you heff no children und are sechzig yahren old, but at some point ein wunderkind might be placed in zis vehicle und catch meniingitis through zer passive smoking. I heff to advise you zat such behaviour is not to be permitted. Resistance is futile. For you, Herr Smith, zer war is over. BANG…….
Featured Blogger
Gosh! What can I say? I return from an unwelcome yet necessary lope to Blighty to find I have my moment as “featured author”. Thanks, Bearsy, but I rather hoped to be adopted as DNMT’s erudite, tame (I draw the line at “pet”) wolf, rather than the fangs and claws image sometimes displayed on t’other side when something stupid makes my fur frizz. Not that anyone should ever ignore my carefully cultivated lupine image, though. 😀
Oz
For Bearsy
Bearsy – I saw this and thought of you tonight.
OK, it’s not a polar bear and it’s not wearing shades, but it cracks me up every time. Thanks from The Cave for DNMT
OZ
Home
I know that The Cave is mentioned frequently in my posts and comments, but there is a reason for this. In my life I have had only four homes – the home in which I grew up, the home where Zangada and I spent most of our married life, our home in Australia and, finally, The Cave.
Each of the first three homes was very special to me, especially now in terms of memories, because I left none of them without a tugging of the heart strings. This must have been preying on my mind of late for I woke early one morning not so long ago with a waking dream and the phrase “Home, the house you can walk around in the dark” bouncing round in my head, the point being that anyone can live in a house for a while, but what makes a home?
For me, in each of these four homes, I could wake up in the middle of the night and, for example, make a cup of tea in total darkness, being able to put my hand on every ingredient, teaspoon and cup knowing instinctively on which shelf and in which drawer each sat. But much more than that, Home represents safety. Security. Home is not Heimat – “The Homeland” in whichever language and a totally different concept. Home is much more specific than that, so I asked an artistic friend to interpret the phrase. The above frame was the result and I think it sums it up perfectly, much more so than my inadequate photography. At some point they will carry me off the hill paws upwards, and bring my ashes back to be buried here.
What does home mean to you?
OZ
Boadicea's Chariot 
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