When I look at the landscape of my life—at the things that bring me pure, unadulterated joy, the rituals that ground me, and the deep obsessions that fill my days—I see the hand of one man.
I am, in almost every way that matters, the living continuation of my father’s quiet passions.
Dad was a gifted photographer with a natural eye. You could see it instantly in the framing of his prints: a patience for light, composition, and human moments. Both my sister Jo and I inherited that precise visual gene. Along with Mum, Dad had an instinctive urge to keep a record, charting our childhoods frame by frame. When he wasn't carrying his still camera, he was hoisting his video recorder, persistently documenting our lives—filming the sacred, hilarious chaos of Christmas morning present-openings despite Jo and me groaning from behind our wrapping paper that we felt far too on-show. Later in life, that very same archival impulse became a defining part of who I am: an unshakeable need to capture beauty for posterity, to preserve family stories, and to build Life Trove, my beloved personal blog.
He gave me my wanderlust. He loaded me into the car for sweeping, formative road trips along the Garden Route to Knysna, through the rugged stone canyons of the Swartberg Pass, and into the game reserves of Zululand. Those journeys ran on an easy, unspoken synergy: me pressed against the glass with my binoculars, tracking birds in the bush, while Dad leaned into his camera to record our passage. Long drives, open horizons, and the thrill of discovery became part of my bloodstream.
He gave me my soundtrack. His cherished stereo system—a piece of equipment he treated with immense pride and care—played the backdrop to my youth. It was a joyful, eclectic rotation: Olivia Newton-John, the Grease soundtrack, ABBA, country classics, and the grand, soaring symphonies he loved, especially Richard Clayderman and the disco-orchestral hits of Hooked on Classics. Decades later, instrumental and classical music remains my truest comfort.
He gave me my adoration for dogs. Growing up, our home was never complete without four-legged companions: Cindy, Scamp, Tina, and Meg. I can still see Dad standing at the top of the driveway, firing tennis balls into the distance, or throwing his arms wide as he arrived home, sending Tina into frantic, ecstatic puddles of canine delight. That pure, uncomplicated love for dogs has anchored me across my entire adult life.
He gave me my love for screen and story. Our family was among the first on the block to get a television set, and later a VHS player. Saturday nights were a sacred household liturgy: settling onto the sofa with coffee and chocolate to watch Magnum, P.I., The A-Team, MacGyver, and Knight Rider, or getting swept up in grand television epics like Little House on the Prairie and The Thorn Birds. He and Mum would drive me out to Cavendish Square to catch classic cinema like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
He passed on his fascination with history. Dad was captivated by the Second World War—the very conflict where my mum's dad (my gramps) had served—and he sat rapt through every episode of The World at War. Watching it beside him ignited my own lifelong appetite for history and documentary. He cultivated my imagination with books, introducing me to Jock of the Bushveld and a beloved childhood tale about a blind lumberjack and his faithful dog that permanently hooked me on reading.
He gave me his humor—and that unmistakable, mischievous, naughty streak. Dad had striking green eyes, the exact shade I see in the mirror today. Whenever he delivered a cheeky double entendre, those green eyes would dance and sparkle with delight. More often than not, he would find his own punchline so utterly funny that his laughter would dissolve into an affectionate, wheezing coughing fit before the sentence was even finished.
He taught me the sacred art of the passion project. In his backyard workshop, surrounded by heavy metal lathes, cutting oil, and tools, Dad spent thousands of patient hours building miniature, coal-fired steam locomotives from raw steel. It was his ultimate sanctuary. He poured his creative soul into those engines, finding immense pride in their craftsmanship and sharing that devotion with kindred spirits like Jimmy, Derek, and Stan. I didn't inherit his mechanical hands, but I inherited the exact same soul: that fundamental need to retreat into blissful solitude, to lose myself in passion projects like Life Trove and Wisdom Trove, and to connect deeply with the rare few who share those devotions.
Above all else, Dad gave me my love of the natural world. He loved sleeping out on the patio beneath the open night sky—a habit I still treasure. He loved the ocean, catching Indian Ocean swells on his white polystyrene board, forging my own passion for open-water bodysurfing. He led our weekend pilgrimages to Constantia Nek, where we walked beneath the trees gathering pine cones to feed the family hearth. He guided me up Table Mountain through the rocky cleft of Skeleton Gorge, and he paddled alongside me through the desert canyons of the Orange River.
And from him came my deepest love of camping.
My absolute fondest memories of Dad reside in our annual "boys-only" camping trips to Uilenskraal, just outside Hermanus. Grandpa, Dad, and I would pile into Dad’s mustard-yellow Variant and make the pilgrimage to the coast. We always pitched camp in the exact same spot beneath an old, familiar tree.
The ritual was unchanging. We would drive heavy wooden pegs into the earth with a solid rubber mallet to erect the great orange tent for Dad and Grandpa, followed by my own smaller tent nearby. We'd unfold the weathered camp table and chairs, take a long walk along the tranquil waters of the lagoon, and settle into the evening.
At night, Dad and I would slip away for a stroll through the adjacent campsite, wandering amidst hundreds of dark, dilapidated caravans. In the gloom, the rows of silent vans felt spooky and mysterious, but I never felt a single prickle of fear. Walking in the dark beside him, safe inside the shelter of his gentle presence, I would often be overcome by a sudden, private swell of love so profound that my eyes would literally well up with tears. On the way back to the tents, we'd duck into the little camp shop to pick up bars of mint chocolate.
The mornings were a feast. All three of us possessed formidable appetites. We would haul out an ancient, heavy iron frying pan and balance it over the heat, piling it high with bacon, eggs, sliced bananas, thick bread, and tomatoes. The sizzle and rich, gorgeous aroma rising into the salt air was pure, intoxicating anticipation.
When I was young, I didn't see the depth of what I had.
Gramps was the larger-than-life figure in our family orbit—flamboyant, charismatic, outgoing, and effortlessly demonstrative. As a boy, I idolized that swagger. I held Gramps up as the hero on the pedestal, and in doing so, I undervaluated Dad’s quiet, self-effacing reserve. I took his patience for granted. I pushed against his steady boundaries during my prickly teenage years, unable to comprehend the immense gift of a man who ruled not with an iron fist or performative charm, but with steady, unconditional kindness.
Dad passed away in 1995. He left us far too early, when I was still too young to understand how quickly the runway ends.
What I wouldn't give to sit across from him today. To have a quiet hour in the sun, to share these rich, enduring passions with him as an adult, and to finally thank him properly for the entire architecture of my life.
I cannot pull up a folding chair beside him at Uilenskraal. I cannot ride beside him through the Swartberg Pass, or step into the oil-scented air of his workshop to watch him turn brass on the lathe.
Yet every time I frame a photograph through the viewfinder, every time I hike a rugged trail, every time I pitch a tent under the trees, throw a ball for a dog, or smile at a cheeky joke while my green eyes twinkle—I realize he never truly left. He is woven into the very fabric of how I experience this earth.
He gave me the best of who I am; and in every joy I carry, my father lives on.
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