GLENCOE BAOBAB TREE

 

Can you see the matchbox on the trunk?

We went in search of this tree: we made our own long weekend of it. I did a bit of reading about champion trees of cities and countries. A fascinating subject. Glencoe — not Glencoe in Natal; this is the Glencoe tree near Hoedspruit.

At one stage it was the champion tree of our country, South Africa, and then the old fellow fell over — and someone wrote that it was all over and that it was no longer worth visiting. It is indeed worth the effort to find and see the tree. But in our modern internet world, it is no longer much of a search — you sit in the comfort of your own home, contact the owners, and they send you the so-called “pin”, and there you are, jumping into your car and driving there at a respectable speed.

Do go without a tour guide, because there are tour guides who do not know where the tree is, even though they are standing only a few paces away — and then they see another baobab. Look at it. Sigh and click their tongues. Look. Take a bunch of selfies, jump back into their tour vehicles and move on to the next item on their journey through the TO-DO list for the day.

You know the TO-DO list, don’t you? Every morning you get up and look for your TO-DO list and start working at it like a madman because you are chasing “experiences” — that is what this mad rush is called: experiences for you and your little children. The more, the better. The more superficial, the more important, because then you can tick it off on your TO-DO list; also lovingly referred to as MY BUCKETLIST. Your list does not get any shorter because your other friends keep urging you to chase after even more things. Life is all too short and the BUCKET LIST is growing.

I have a simple concept in my head about this merry-go-round and this mad chase after the winds of change. People shout: “You are surely inseparably part of this rat race. Aren’t you?” You know, I have not been part of this silly game for so many years now that I no longer feel bad about it. Why not? As I said, I am not part of any rat race. The reason is very simple: I AM NOT A RAT. I was created in the image of Almighty God and not in the image of a rat — rats get rat poison.

I am not a rat.

It is abundantly clear that my wife and I are not rats

So, my wife and I quietly drove at a maximum of 100 kilometres per hour north from our home in Rivonia to Hoedspruit to go and look at the tree.

We spent the night in Middelburg, Mpumalanga, and chatted with family. One of my nieces asked where we were going, and her sister answered: “He is going to look at a tree.” Indeed. That is the purpose: to go and look at a tree.

[This reminds me of the time I went to Britain in 1975 to look at specific pieces of furniture and to look at a rare book: the first-day edition of William Shakespeare’s work; it was not available; I found a first-day publication of THE CANTERBURY TALES, written by Geoffrey Chaucer between 1387 and 1400.]

That afternoon I went for a walk around the guesthouse and looked at a crumpled-looking tree. Behind the generic concrete fence, a woman with curlers in her hair stood shouting at me: “Sir, do you have a problem?”

I thought to myself that, even if I did have a problem, I was not going to discuss it with her.

So, I answered her: “Madam, I am looking at the tree on the pavement.”

Then I simply walked off.

Early the next morning, just after breakfast, we set off on our way to the Tree.

We slept in the tented camp. Needless to say, it is not the standard of our home, but that was not what we had gone there for either.

The owner received us as though we had known one another for years — and pointed us in the general direction of their pride: that way.

 

The seedpod

And she gave me a seed pod, with compliments from her husband.

For the next five days I probably walked around four or five times every day to go and greet this old giant. My cell phone camera worked overtime.

I had the idea of using a matchbox to provide a sense of scale — the moment I put it against the trunk, at that very moment I felt downright silly. Surely this was the most grotesque piece of visual imagery I could possibly have thought of.

As I took the photographs, a thought seemed to hit me over the head: get something else for scale, get something else for scale.

No! This is not right.

Yet I left it, and carried on taking photographs. These are the most bizarre photographs yet — and I discovered that bizarre imagery tells a story far better than I can do with words.

The age of the tree was analysed using carbon dating, and the scientific finding is that it is between 1,850 and 2,000 years old — the article was published in 2012. Here is the link to the article: Scientific article on the Glencoe baobab https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0168583X1200273X

The old tree broke in 2009.

Wilma Stockenström wrote DIE KREMETARTEKSPEDISIE, and J. M. Coetzee translated it as THE BAOBAB EXPEDITION. This book was the first item I packed for our expedition. And I introduced this Old Giant to Wilma’s book.

That Old Giant messes with one’s head — now I am very proud of my photographs because I have captured the true image of this enormous old beast.

Do have a look at my gallery of photographs.

Please write me your story and send it to neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

Read More

BRING AND TELL AT GENEALOGY some lessons my late dad taught me

 

My yellow-wood plate I turned many years ago.

Bring and tell us about your past.

The things you make.

The things you look at.

The things you have acquired, no matter from whom or when.

If you cannot remember from whom, that does not matter either.

Perhaps you made some of these things yourself. Bring them and tell us about them, because they are part of who you are and where you are going.

My interaction with tools comes a long way of many years. My late father was right-handed. I left-handed. And that in itself caused stresses between us. He couldn’t teach me. And me was an unwanted observer – so it seemed to me. Later years, he apologised to me about it; my reaction was immediate and truthful: the best lesson I learned from being in your presence was to observe: tools are made for a purpose: USE IT. And so I did.

Bring it.

Tell the story.

That was at our June 2026 gathering.

One person spoke about the medals and awards he received during his army days. He brought his own medals, as well as those of his late father, and we looked at them. Everything was beautifully framed and exceptionally well cared for.

Another chap displayed a few very old Bibles and, with nostalgia in his voice, told us about them. One Bible had, in those days, been sent to South Africa from the North, where WWII was raging; its two outer covers were made of olive wood. Once again, these items had been exceptionally well preserved.

Another brought along his mother's opera glasses. I was amazed at the way he took them out of their case — gently, almost as if his mother were watching him.

One of my friends has an old, dusty lathe that has been well used and that he still uses regularly. It had previously belonged to someone else; he bought it somewhere for fairly little money. An old, well-used lathe in new, eager hands can work wonders. To him, it is a beloved working tool.

For one of his granddaughters' weddings, he turned a whole lot of candleholders from offcuts of pine. It was a special request that Grandpa should make them for her. There was even one specifically earmarked for the main table: Grandpa's handiwork.

What did I bring?

I brought some of my tools.

Today I have very few tools because I sold most of them when I moved from Morningside to Rivonia.

Geelhout houtskyf 13 December 1998

Before I tell you about the little bit of tooling I still have, I want to tell you about my Knysna yellowwood platter.

I completed it on 13 December 1998. Since then, it has stood in a place of honour in our home, on our sideboard.

The years have been kind to this platter.

The patina has developed into such a deep yellow — the outstanding characteristic of yellowwood. When it first came off the lathe all those years ago, it was very light and looked more white than yellow. Oxidation from exposure to the air, together with all the hands that have dusted it over the years, has turned it a deep yellow.

My kitchen knife with the shortened blade

A knife — a kitchen knife: the kind you use every day in the kitchen, the kind you use at the table when you sit down for dinner. That old-fashioned knife with a handle made of that light yellow-white-beige sort of material.

You find them at flea markets and in other shops that sell off old odds and ends.

But this knife is a kitchen knife with a difference.

Somewhere along its life's journey in a kitchen, the original knife suffered a blow: the blade cracked. And so it migrated to my garage.

I needed something like an all-purpose utility item in the garage, and this old fellow looked like a very suitable candidate. You know the utility-kind of philosophy: that everything, should be usable.

Then the tip broke off. I filed it roughly round with my electric grinder.

It is the most versatile piece of equipment in my garage: scraping dirt from under fingernails, tightening little screws, scraping clean empty plastic yoghurt containers, scraping dried paint off screwdrivers — man, think of something and you can probably use this tool for it.

My contraption from my friend

When I displayed it at our genealogists' Bring and Tell gathering, the men's tongues really got going, and there was quite a buzz around it.

Why did he give it to me? I don't know exactly why he gave it to me.

I had given him a gift: a plaster cast of the front end of a pair of pliers. He gave me a contraption.

Here another story is beginning to emerge.

When we moved house about four or five years ago, I saw these pliers lying around. And I wondered where they had come from. The more I looked at the thing, the less I liked it.

Until one day I picked it up and examined it properly.

Now there is a competition between these pliers and that knife: which of the two is the most versatile and useful?

My wood chisel

This wood chisel, too, developed a life of its own in my hands.

Somewhere — I think I remember buying it in a second-hand pawn shop — I came across it. The handle was missing.

Well, that was not a problem.

The handle was gone, and it didn't matter.

At home I took a piece of scrap oak and turned a handle.

The oak, in turn, came from a scrap piece that had come out of a factory making oak furniture.

I also fitted two bronze metal ferrules over the ends for protection.

Almost as versatile as that knife and my pliers.

Next, I will write something about the pieces of equipment I cast in plaster.

What do you have?

Somewhere, there is something in your house or in your garage that has a story.

Write that story for me and send it to me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za.

Send some photographs along as well.

Read More

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

On my pavement

Some time ago, one day while I was standing on the pavement outside our house working among the plants, something happened to me. It was such an unusual experience that it immediately caught my attention. I do not often listen to music, and I cannot sing, although I very much enjoy singing in our church on Sundays. I suppose that, with our gifted organist, my off-key voice disappears among all the other voices. I enjoy it.

But on that particular day — while I was working among the plants on the pavement—I began to sing, or perhaps merely hum, the hymn Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah. Then the words would disappear. Suddenly a few words would come back. No—I do not know the lyrics of the hymn at all. But that day! What was happening?

I carried on working with the plants. I took the long new shoots of the wisteria and the bougainvillea and wove them back among the older branches. My gardener also knows that he is not allowed to cut off these shoots; I will tell him very specifically when it may be pruned. The golden rule is to tie it back, because then it forms a wonderfully thick layer of branches and leaves.

And all the while the hymn kept turning over in my mind.

I hummed it and quietly murmured the words whenever they came to me. Otherwise, since I did not know the lyrics, I simply continued humming.

The hymn remained in my head. And on my lips. No — I did not get goosebumps or cold shivers. It was simply a strange occurrence taking place within me.

Can I remember the exact day on which it happened? I asked ChatGPT for the lyrics afterwards, and the date of that conversation was Saturday, 9 November 2024. It was an ordinary sunny day, and I was wearing my sunhat to protect my bald head from the harsh sunlight. No — I was not delirious or in some kind of trance.

According to the brief notes in my diary, I was alone at home that day.

Annemarié had gone to a masterclass for botanical artists.

Our gardener was not working that day.

In the meantime, I restored the seat of a small, half-sized Tulbagh chair that I had made years ago. The woven seat had broken, and I replaced it. The chair was in the garage while I waited for the wood glue to dry. So, it is clear that I was under no stress, nor was I rushed in any way.

My half-size Tulbach chair

I was calm.

Alone.

Standing on the pavement, weaving the branches and leaves back into place.

Was there anything special about that day? Certainly not.

Was there anything at all that might have triggered these words to surface? No, not that I can remember. Remember, it was not the complete hymn—only brief fragments of it. And, of course, the melody.

When I had finished working, I picked up my gardening gloves and my pruning shears and went inside for a cup of tea. Then the melody disappeared. Only the memory of the experience remained, gently nudging me and directing my thoughts throughout the rest of the day.

It was the very first time in my entire life that anything like this had ever happened to me.

To deepen the mystery even further, I do not attend an English-speaking church for regular worship. We do occasionally sing English hymns in church, but they are usually those short, repetitive charismatic choruses that are sung over and over and over again, almost mechanically.

I cannot even remember where or when I last heard Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah. At a concert? No—we seldom attend concerts. Welsh? No—that would be completely mistaken. I did not even know that the hymn had originally been written in Welsh by William Williams in 1745 under the title Arglwydd, arwain trwy'r anialwch.

Here is a link to the song: https://youtu.be/1jkzdhpbLiw?si=AZj_aYb97Mi7IttF

Here are the words:

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but Thou art mighty;

Hold me with Thy powerful hand.

Bread of heaven, Bread of heaven,

Feed me till I want no more;

Feed me till I want no more.

 

Open now the crystal fountain,

Whence the healing stream doth flow;

Let the fire and cloudy pillar

Lead me all my journey through.

Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,

Be Thou still my strength and shield;

Be Thou still my strength and shield.

 

When I tread the verge of Jordan,

Bid my anxious fears subside;

Death of death, and hell's destruction,

Land me safe on Canaan's side.

Songs of praises, songs of praises,

I will ever give to Thee;

I will ever give to Thee.

 

Please write me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

 

Read More

ON A FARM AMONG VENERABLE OLD GIANTS

 

Adonsonia digitata - give your imagination wings

My wife and I spent a few days visiting a group of venerable old giants. Three, four, even five times a day I went to chat to them. I spoke to them, touched them, and told them that I simply could not understand.

They did not remain silent.

Every day they welcomed me with open trunks and luxuriant leaves, and they answered me. Their awe-inspiring, gigantic forms and quiet presence were, at every moment, their conversation with anyone willing to spend time listening.

Simply to be in their presence was an experience.

I, a human being barely 76 years old, standing before these giants — known as Adansonia digitata —was confronted by an overwhelming presence, and I found myself a bit uneasy. However, impressive humanity may be, these trees have stood here for centuries. They were already here at a time when Jan van Riebeeck was not even an infant.

Spend time with these giants - you will be rewarded. Don't rush in their presence - they can wait. 

André P. Brink, himself a giant of South African literature, writes of Kupido Kakkerlak (please read BIDSPRINKAAN) that there are certain people whose backgrounds are so eventful and so extraordinary that the best way to approach them is to sit quietly and let your imagination wander to places you have never been.

Well, I believe that Adansonia invites you to speculate freely, to dream, and to let your imagination run wild. However, you ought to be quiet when you are in the presence of a baobab tree—especially those on Glencoe Farm near Hoedspruit in Limpopo.

As you lean against the trunk of Adansonia, reflect on Psalm 1 in the Holy Scriptures. The description of a tree planted beside living waters may well strike you deeply. But be careful not to become captivated by that description alone.

There is so much more than meets the eye.

It is not the only tree worthy of admiration. Stretch your imagination and broaden your vision.

Just take time and look at trees

Look at trees.

Acacia trees.

Oak trees.

Peach trees.

Pride of India.

I even have a “pronksterttuitpeulboom” growing in my nursery, which I raised from a single seed.

Do you know what a “pronksterttuitpeulboom” looks like?

Not?

Neither do I.

I have no idea what it will eventually look like. Mine is only a one-year-old seedling. I have never seen one fully grown in real life, yet I am raising one.

As you look at my photographs, I want to ask you to give wings to your imagination. Step into the world of your imagination and tell yourself a bedtime story.

Another of our South African writers—also a giant—is Wilma Stockenström. She wrote the novel KREMETARTEKSPEDISIE, which was translated into English as EXPEDITION TO THE BAOBAB TREE (J. M. Coetzee, Nobel Laureate in Literature). I took my own copy with me and introduced it to the baobab trees on Glencoe Farm. They now know that Wilma captured their story in words.

Now, I invite you to look at the tree upon which Jesus Christ hung—suspended there by His hands and His feet with a stately crown of thorns from a thorn tree. Reflect on why He did so, and then write me a letter:

neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za](mailto:neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

Read More

Egyptian Coptic Church, Johannesburg inside - photo Neels Coertse

 Please take a look at my character study of Fr. Takla, monk of the above Church that was brutally slaughtered with two other monks at the Monastery at Cullinan March 2026.

Neels Coertse with Fr. Takla at the Coptic Cathedral Johannesburg 2023

I do attend at times the criminal trial in the Palace of Justice, Pretoria. 

I will keep you up to date with what is happening.

Please write me a letter at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

Read More

EARLY MORNING: MIDNIGHT DRAGONS STARING AT ME FROM THE DARKNESS

 EARLY MORNING: MIDNIGHT DRAGONS STARING AT ME FROM THE DARKNESS

Sketch of my right foot - I injured it when I was about 4 or 5 years old and the scar is still visible

EARLY MORNING: MIDNIGHT DRAGONS STARING AT ME FROM THE DARKNESS

The midnights dragons were staring at me from the darkness of the night. I looked at them. I decided the best way to confront them, was to get up and stand on my feet. Then I went outside to my shower room and have a shower. They don't have a leg to stand on when I am showering. 

I showered with the most wonderfully hot water running down my back as I stand with my head against the stone wall. The warm water flows over my back while I wash my body, and each toe individually. It is an unhurried process. The warm water runs over my body and down the drain. Foam. The scent of the shampoo. A clean body. My beard washed thoroughly.

Thoroughly rinsed.

Drying off.

Each toe.

The foot.

The ankles.

Left leg.

Right leg.

Left arm.

Right arm.

Face.

A bald head with little or almost no hair.

The beard. Shaving: the left side. The right side. Under the chin. Between the lower lip and the edge of the beard. Drying off.

Applying skin cream.

And I look at my feet: 76 years and a few months old.

And my hands. Just as old.

Thank You Lord God for that.

Sketches of my hand

They have carried me to many places: murder scenes. Theft cases (shoplifting). Abortions. Weddings. Divorces. Births. Prisons. Death-row cells in Pretoria. Church services. Baptisms. Prayer gatherings. Libraries: the Vatican Library. Court libraries. Friends. Family. Municipal libraries. Private libraries. Mostly my own library with my own familiar books—and quite a few that I still have to read.

Then, as I dry myself, I am grateful that I can dry each toe on my left foot and on my right foot individually.

The heels.

The soles of my feet.

The Achilles tendons.

The calves.

The kneecaps—each one—and grateful that they are in good working order.

The seven openings in my body that function well. During the flu, my nose worked particularly well.

The empty dishwasher

I am still exorcising the early morning demons.

Then I stand in front of our dishwasher. Grateful that I still have the eye-hand coordination to pick up each cup, each saucer, each teaspoon and tablespoon, each fork and knife. To place them on the tray, then walk around the corner and put each one back in its own designated place, knowing exactly what I am doing. And while I do this, I can still pray for my people—my people who read my blog. I do not know who you are.

Why do I think of you?

Why do I pray for you?

Just because? No. Not just because.

Because Jesus Christ encourages me in His Word to pray for everyone—and you are part of everyone.

Wherever you may be.

And you read my blog—thank you very much. The very least I can do is pray for you.

I have no idea who you are or what your personal circumstances may be.

There you are, and there is your connection with the God of Truth and the God who loves you.

If you feel so inclined, write to me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

Read More

BEES BRING HOPE AND TIRELESSLY LABOUR IN CREATION

 

Painting by my wife, Annemarie Coertse

 This morning, I went to my "maternity ward" to make horse-manure compost tea. I use what is foul and smelly to bring new growth to my plants. As I filled three refuse bins with water to cover the dry horse manure, thinking about many things and praying for my people, I heard a sound directly above my head. And the sound kept buzzing.

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.

It was the sound of creation continuing its work of creation—that was my very first thought: creation was taking place here in my maternity ward. And I am privy to such a phenomenal drama.

Using horse manure to make compost tea is one thing; the buzzing was another.

Every now and then I stopped filling the bins with water just to listen.

Listen carefully.

Then I looked up at my neighbour's cypress tree peering over the garden wall.

I stood perfectly still.

Listening.

Watching.

Painting by my wife Annemarie Coertse

Then I saw how creation carries on: bees already circling, buzzing, diving and rising, diving and rising. Bees bring hope. They keep working regardless of what is happening around them; they know nothing of the Madlanga Commission.

I know it has been a very long time since I last worked on my blog. But when I heard how tirelessly creation carries on, I simply knew: this is the day I must write. The fact that I have not written anything for a long time does not mean I have done nothing. On the contrary, I have accomplished a great deal. Much of what I have been busy with will eventually find its way into my blog.

In particular, I have been reflecting deeply on my life of faith.

The painting of these bees was done by my wife, Annemarié, and she gave it to me as a gift to share with my readers.

I send you my greetings and prayers for God's blessing.

Please write to me: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

    

Read More