My Sanctuary

For the past six years and more, I and wife are having our little haven by the side of a river meandering down from the Ulu Langat mountains. Our companions are the myriad of flowering plants, fruit-trees and koi-fish. Not forgetting the birds and the bees and of course, my dog, a female Doberman which enjoys racing round my lawn chasing the squirrels from stealing my fruits. Sipping vintage puerh tea every morning, we watch the (little) world go by within the confine of our sanctuary.

Tea-shop Visit to savior the 2005 Xiaguan Nan Zhao

Lunch with wife was soapy noodles cooked with fried cod-fish at an restaurant located at Bandar Puteri Puchong.  It was a delicious meal but a bit pricey.

We then adjourned to a Chinese tea-shop nearby. Friendly owner Patrick and his wife attended to us.

 Some purple-clay teapots salvaged from the Desaru wreck were shown to us by Patrick. These items over 200 years old, are priced at over RM15,000 each compared to less than half the price about two years back. There is definitely a craze in this hobby/business as the sales are brisk. I am not into this, yet, although my interest in Puerh tea cultivated some six years ago still remains intense.

Patrick brewed an excellent puerh tea for our enjoyment. It was a sheng (raw) 2005 Xiaguan tea branded Nan Zhao

The tea was good in colour (fairly deep amber and clear broth), with pleasant unique aroma ranging from that of sugar-cane at earlier rounds and to honey flavour at later rounds, plus very strong Huigan after taste. The close to 8-year-old tea has assumed an mellowed character just prior to turning vintage.

It was only after the second brew that we were pleasantly surprised that this tea had induced sweating especially at our the palms and noses and surge of pleasant heat sensations in our bodies. This trait is only attributed to rare excellent vintage teas.

Another tea connoisseur Alex who joined us later also gave very high praise to this tea. All felt thoroughly refreshed by this excellent brew.

According to tea enthusiasts, the 2005 Xiaguan Nan Zhao has great potential to become a classic in the years to come. Incidentally this early spring tea was placed second in the Tea Tasting Competition organised in China by the tea magazine Cha Tien Shia in the year 2006.

                                           Image of 2005 Nan Zhao
                            
                             Read more at http://www.bluechippuerh.com/
                                        



                               
     

Back Home

After a tiring drive from Singapore, with very heavy down-pour along parts of the way, we were finally back at home late yesterday. The weeds have over-grown parts of the lawn, and the terraces were strewn with fallen leaves. A bit messy, sort of an eye-sore.

This morning while plodding around the garden, I was surprised that a small snake has invaded my haven. Extremely irritated, and with the help of a rattan stick which I always keep handily, I sent the little creature to oblivion. This act was noticed by wife who made a lot of grievances about the over-abundance of plants in the compound, thus attracting the intrusion of unwanted guests.

                     

                   
                                   

What an irony. It can be life's little lesson. Just let our guards down for a while, there comes our foe  into our comfort zone. This incident is but a small irritation, unlike the hazy crazy days of yore when I had to face off the challenges of enemies of demonic proportions. Lucky me, I managed to come out unscathed.

The Lotos-Eaters

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

“COURAGE!” he said, and pointed toward the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon,         5 Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.   A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,         10 Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops,         15 Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush’d; and, dew’d with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.   The charmed sunset linger’d low adown In the red West; thro’ mountain clefts the dale         20 Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem’d the same! And round about the keel with faces pale,         25 Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.   Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them         30 And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,         35 And music in his ears his beating heart did make.   They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore         40 Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, “We will return no more;” And all at once they sang, “Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”         45   CHORIC SONG I There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,         50 Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,         55 And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.   II Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone,         60 We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown; Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings,         65 Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, “There is no joy but calm!”— Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?   III Lo! in the middle of the wood,         70 The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow         75 Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days         80 The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.   IV Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.         85 Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labor be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last?         90 All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave?         95 All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence—ripen, fall, and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.   V How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem         100 Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other’s whisper’d speech; Eating the Lotos day by day,         105 To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory,         110 With those old faces of our infancy Heap’d over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!   VI Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives         115 And their warm tears; but all hath suffer’d change; For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange, And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold         120 Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain.         125 The Gods are hard to reconcile; ’Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labor unto aged breath,         130 Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.   VII But, propped on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet—while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly— With half-dropped eyelids still,         135 Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine—         140 To watch the emerald-color’d water falling Thro’ many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.   VIII The Lotos blooms below the barren peak,         145 The Lotos blows by every winding creek; All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we,         150 Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.         155 For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,         160 Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,         165 Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.         170 Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Singapore

My better half and I have been in Singapore for a week now, domiciled in junior's condo. Junior's wife is about to give birth to junior's junior in about three week's time.
How time flies as it is still fresh in my mind that it was only not too long ago that I graduated, donned the uniform and assumed various posts in the course of which my other half brought forth in this world my three kids who had since grown up, and that I too had retired from the daily grind into the sanctuary of my country home. And now my grandson is on his way. What a life....
Tomorrow we shall drive the four-hour road journey back home in KL and to pamper my flowers and trees. There the roses were about to bloom when we left them. Just wonder if there is any blossom left for me to smell when I return? Life's uncertainty now is left to some trivialities unlike those hazy crazy days when I fought toes and nails with life's formidable challenges.