Yesterday was very rewarding

(This week’s Photo Challenge Reward)

Tip for people who like my pictures: you might like follow the mentioned/linked WordPress blogs as well ;)

Last month I was ‘awarded’  two social media accounts (annual contracts) of restaurants in the village.  This local acknowledgement felt for me as a reward. The profile picture of YUM Eat Cafe with owners and staff framed went viral (yesterday evening over 100 retweets plus quite a few shares on FB) and that on its own is also a reward. But look into the picture. It tells many things; one is that of the croissants. These are made from scratch by the two chefs and baked into perfection with modern kitchen technology (timing, temperatures and moisture/humidity in oven pre-programmed) and the reward is a perfect delicious tasteful croissant.

YUM Eat Cafe

The second picture (shot yesterday) is of Stanford Harvest.  Stanford Harvest is part of the Elandsvalley Farm just outside the village and their food is fresh from the land. This farm restaurant promotes itself also by attending markets in the region. But yesterday was unexpected. Every year there is this Bird Fair in the village that attracts bird lovers from around the globe. There are a wide variety of presentations and lectures and the organisation is usually perfect. This time however the organisation forgot seemingly that all the participants also have to eat. Vivienne McOnie (co-owner of Elandsvalley Farm/Stanford Harvest) discovered this omission and within no time kitchen staff was mobilised and within one hour the food stall was up and running. The reward: Hundreds of meals and plenty of fresh produce (including honey of the own bees) sold!!! Stanford Harvest

 

Drinking as the Gods

Mead, meadery

Bees are the ‘processors of the main ingredient of mead

Within some months a Meadery will open its doors in our village Stanford, South Africa. That’s where one can drink the Drink of the Gods. Mead is known from ancient mythology but also authors as J.R.R. Tolkien describe the use of this millenniums old ‘beverage’. Nigel Borrington is an Irish photographer who like to add Irish poems to his blog postings. Scottish people are not always happy with that, so it seems, although they have to admit that the Irish can write poems. However the Irish spelling of the word ‘Whisky’ is subject to heated discussions as the quality of the drink the Irish call ‘Whiskey’ is also a hot item between the Scotch and the Irish. But maybe they can make it up with Mead. Since the owner of the new Meadery is of Scottish descent herewith a poem from the Scott Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894).

HEATHER ALE

From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children’s
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer’s day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father –
Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink –
“I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink.”

There stood the son and father
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
“I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.

“Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,”
Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow’s,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
“I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.

“For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take HIM, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it’s I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep.”

They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten; –
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.

“True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale.”