Explore the Overberg

by Jacqueline Dowling

Leaving Cape Town’s rush hour traffic, cresting Sir Lowry’s Pass, we drove through a moonscape of flattened fynbos, granitic rocks, felled conifers and scrubby grassland.   Suddenly, a whole vista of trees and  orchards  brilliant with roses opened up before us.  The Elgin Valley, Appletiser country, where the hills are literally alive with fruit trees as far as the eye can see, and where The Overberg begins.   Spring in this area is bloom time:  the trees covered in  white and pink froth of blossom, vineyards in early buttery leaf and roses everywhere, climbing along fences in a riot of colour,  grown to give early warning of soil deficiencies or insect infestation. Late snow ices the surrounding peaks . Simply put –  it’s stunning.

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There are three popular farmstalls between  Sir Lowry’s and Houwhoek: Orchard which has a restaurant, art gallery , bakery and small winery: Peregrine, a bit further on boasts a fine bakery , restaurant and selection of wines, farmstall products and the local info desk.   Carry on along the N2 to Houwhoek where farmstall and the oldest hotel in the country, Houwhoek Inn, nestle in a green valley surrounded by old and shady oaks.  The inn, built originally in 1779 on a tollgate in the days of the Dutch East India Company, is a good stopover for lunch under the trees in summer.  A quaint collection of whitewashed buildings comprise the body of the inn which overlooks a two hundred year old gum tree growing outside the pub and acres of grassland rising up through forests to high mountain peaks, .  Situated in the Kogelberg Biosphere,  a world heritage area of outstanding beauty, Houwhoek is said to have taken its name from the early wagon drivers who, having crossed the mountains and begun the steep descent to the then Houwhoek village, would shout ‘Houw’ which meant put the brakes on or we’ll all go over the edge

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Over Houwhoek Pass and you’re almost in the centre of The Overberg, where there are picturesque, historic and peaceful places to explore, not far away.   The name Overberg means Over The Mountains, Over Het Geberghte in Dutch the language in which they were originally named.   It stretches from Elgin/Grabouw to the Breede River at Cape Infanta: the northern boundary formed by the Riviersonderend and Langeberg mountains, with the villages of Genadendal and Greyton slumbering in the foothills. Rolling wheatfields silver-green in the sunlight rush across hills and along valleys, chased by shadows and the gentle prevailing wind.   Geese follow ploughed swirls across an Impressionist’s palette of colour.  A panorama of valleys, mountains and rivers where blue cranes and guinea fowl peck in furrows.  Springtime  brings brilliant daisies, fields of yellow canola, purple lupins and lush grass where Merino sheep graze,  peering through thick creamy fleeces.   The original stock, according to legend,  were imported from Spain two hundred years ago.   They thrived and the news got back to Spain which ordered that ‘the original stock ‘ be returned forthwith.    This is sheep country, one of the most densely stocked in South Africa and the cradle of the wool industry.  The Cape Agulhas Light was once fuelled by oil from local fat tailed sheep.

Between Bot Rivier and Caledon you’ll find a quaint farm stall and restaurant – Dassiesfontein.  Famous for its traditional Boerekos, bread made with stone ground flour and baked in wood ovens,  vintage kitchenware, a selection of Welcome Dover stoves, Africana collectibles . . . the list is long . We stopped there on a cold day in early Spring:   a tantalising aroma of wood smoke and coffee in the air.  Inside, a fire burned in a wheelbarrow, coffee came in a big old enamel coffee pot accompanied by two enamel mugs, handles thoughtfully cloth bound, and a basket of hot new bread.  A browse through the various ’boutiques’ had me making lists of things to buy on the way back.   Shelves groaning with local Overberg produce added yet more items to the list and a determination to return.

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The  R406 turnoff to Genadendal and Greyton is on the left, shortly after Dassiesfontein.   Genadendal (Valley of Grace) ,  the oldest Moravian Mission on the continent, was founded around 1738 and is run as a community project.   It’s a wonderful place to visit: the square, surrounded by old ochre and yellow Bavarian style houses, boasts no fewer than twenty five national monuments and a beautiful, dignified Moravian church: the pipe organ the oldest in South Africa.   On Sundays the square is filled with every conceivable form of wheeled transport including donkey carts and horse drawn buggies.  The animals wander the lanes undisturbed during service, and on certain Sundays a brass band plays under the oaks.

The Genadendal museum has been declared a National Cultural Treasure.   Here you’ll find the first fire engine in the country, a fine collection of musical instruments, early  Cape and hand-made goods and furniture.   The Old Print Shop contains one of the earliest mission printing presses in South Africa and the water mill has been restored to working order.   Flour is stone ground, baked in open air ovens and sold.   The Genadendal weavers’ work is rapidly finding a secure place in its genre throughout the country, and abroad.

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Return to the R406 and turn left to Greyton.  Named for Sir George Grey, the village is the last in the valley and straight out of a book of English water colours.    Thatched houses in colourful gardens, oaks and canals line streets where ducks and donkeys are a common sight.  A Saturday market is held on the village green and the annual Rose Festival happens in October .  Many artists and crafters have made their homes here – it’s a great place for treasure and craft hunters.   Not only is Greyton a desirable week-end getaway,  it is also a centre for mountain biking and hiking.

This is just a small taste of The Overberg – there is so much more.

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Timing in the countryside of the mind

by Penny M

I set my alarm for 8.15 a.m. before I went to bed last night – after all, my appointment the nextWhat happens if you wait too long day was for 10 a.m. (plenty of time).

Never mind that I had to bath, dress, put on makeup, have breakfast and meds, strip the sheets off the beds (Mondays are washing and cleaning days), pack my handbag with prerequisites for my appointment, and walk up a 45 degree hill to catch the bus.

It was 8.33 a.m.; I was just getting into the bath when it dawned on me I would have to catch the 9 o’clock bus to reach my destination, Boots in Taunton, by 10 a.m.

I dipped in the bath, put moisturiser on my face, a stroke of mascara and discarded the rest of my non-medical routine. Breakfast of porridge, almonds, sunflower seeds and yoghurt became a packet of cheesy oat biscuits for the bus.

It was raining, so on went the boots and raincoat; back upstairs for scarf and gloves.

“Bye, Mum.”

Out the door and up Golden Hill which became an Everest of puffing prayer.  My heart struggled to catch up with the shock.

Countryside living tends to books, screens, social media, and the odd walk.  Popping out for something (without wheels) involves a bit of a time plan.   I miss my car; I could plot my course of action so incredibly well when I had my four-wheeled friend.  I had appointments down to a fine art, knew the quickest routes to avoid rush hours, school turnouts and month ends.

I’ve realised why I don’t walk as much as I should, even in this country where I can safely wander. It’s because I must have a measurable purpose with exercise and fresh air as by-products. Wandering along aimlessly with nobody to talk to except of course my invisible friend just doesn’t do it for me.  But a walk up the road to the village to actually buy something, post a letter, catch the bus – now that’s different.

But I digress.  Buses are amazing spaces for blog writing and provide lots of time for thinking and breathing. If you are reading this then you will know that I made it, but with new resolve to add an extra hour to my alarm clock – the one I always thought was there. There must be a market for 26 hour alarm clocks – now there’s a product for the Dragon’s Den.

How did I make it?  I put it down to the accuser who sat on the shoulder of my common sense and whipped me to succeed or die of shame.  I think my heart has forgiven me and returned the extra seconds I thought I might have lost in the rush.

I love the English countryside and know I need to walk more, so would somebody please lend me a dog?

Getting to Know You, Australia

By Susan Roberts

It’s funny how, once the first few cogs click into place, the wheels begin to turn smoothly, in the way that you always knew they were meant to turn. I’m not a cyclist, but from what I understand, that moment when you switch into the correct gear is the moment your wheels find proper traction, and you move along a lot faster. Finally, my cogs have connected, my wheels have found their tracks and are turning smoothly, and my life is starting to gather pace.

At the end of next month it will be two years since I touched down in Australia to start living my new life here. After the frenzied packing and goodbyes of the preceding months, all was calm for a few weeks. I was relieved to no longer be the centre of my crazy world, but happy to be an orbiting moon on the outer periphery of an altogether different universe. I was content to let life happen around me as I slowly got my bearings and settled into an alternate existence.

As the bewilderment slowly eased off, this foreign life became more familiar to me, but there was always one thing missing. As much as I loved the idea of living a writer’s life, my funds weren’t going to support it forever. Despite being granted permission to work a year later, I was unable to get a job. An ordinary job, nothing special. Just something to enable me to earn my own living, and to move into a rented place of my own so that I could get back to the “normal” life that I knew and missed.

Who knew it could take so long to find something like that?

The humanitarian organisation I started volunteering for on my birthday last year proved to be a gift in itself. For the first time since getting here, I started to make new friends outside of the family circle. I experienced for the first time what it was like to be part of an Australian organisation; a work-force despite there being no salary to go with it. By the time we had our volunteers Christmas lunch, I knew that I was part of something that mattered, something special. I longed to work for them full-time, but if that couldn’t happen, it was a place I knew I would always enjoy spending my free time in.

I’ve been applying for some of the paid jobs within that organisation ever since, of course, and with increasing desperation as my own paltry funds dwindled away.

Suddenly, in the last month, several things have coincided and I am now working part-time at two jobs. I’m still not completely out of the woods financially, but doing these two jobs are the steadiest things I’ve been able to do in almost two years, and I intend to hang onto both of them for as long as possible. I’ll continue with the volunteer work too, because I love doing it.

The really great thing about no longer pounding the virtual pavements in search of a job, is that I now have more time to dream, to build my little castles in the air. My little, windswept, outback shacks of castles that are not very high in the air at all. My dreams have changed over the years, but suddenly I have new fodder to inspire them.

For example, the internet articles I write are all about places in Australia, and at least half of them are places that I might otherwise never have heard of. I do a lot of research – online, in books, and personally if I can get there. Learning about new places opens my eyes and inspires me even more.

I’m getting to know Australia at last, up close and personal. Two or three days a week I sell fruit, vegetables and meat to Australians. Two other days a week I help to sell clothing, books, furniture and bric-a-brac to other Australians, in aid of funds to help those less fortunate than the rest of us. I spend the remaining days of each week researching towns all over Australia to see what news I can find to interest Australians online. Some of these people have lived here all their lives, while others have only just arrived, like me, but we’re all part of the same country now. Just different cogs on the same set of wheels.

I can’t wait to see where these tracks lead me next…

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The Book Collector

By Jac Dowling

It’s been a busy and extremely interesting time at our Bhuki Cafe lately. Yours Truly woke at 2am on a Road to Damascus and had an epiphany – whatever that means in today’s argot. What happened was, I had a good idea (like Pooh), which was immediately taken to our core committee at our favourite coffee shop, and they liked it. Possibly the mountainous scones and coffee softened the moment, add homemade jam and butter and you’re away.

The Antiques Roadshow was a stalwart of the BBC for many years, still is probably. So I thought, why not have a Bhuki Booktiques Roadshow and invite Benadė, our Book Collector, for muffins, coffee, assessment and valuations? So we did, and it was a huge success, except that he didn’t get to eat his choc muffins and his coffee went cold, but never mind, we had some happy punters and sold lots of teas and munchies while people waited.52007

It was so successful that we’re repeating the exercise in July and, if there’s another inundation, it may well become a monthly happening. Benadé has a shop absolutely stacked and groaning with books, how he ever stocktakes will probably remain a mystery, but he loves books and is happy to see what members bring to The Bhuki, chats about the provenance, assesses and, if required, values. Fascinating except that we now have to put a time and number limit on who brings what because one dear soul arrived with a box full, and that took TIME – which was when the coffee cooled! So we thought max 2 books and ½ an hour because we only have the facility for 2.5 hours each Friday before it returns to the reference section. Having recently read The Shadow of the Wind, I’m even more fascinated by the concept and just so happy that books are once more coming back into fashion.

‘A book should serve as an axe for the frozen sea within us’

Kafka.

typeremingtong-graphicsfairy002Anyway, we have our very excellent free local newspaper The Village News firmly supporting our literary efforts, two book pages once a month, a Bhuki piece and lots of great art, wine and restaurant coverage. They keep away from the grizzlies that occupy all our papers daily, and publish a very special fortnightly paper . After all, Hermanus is becoming a serious arts centre and we’re proud of our small town’s achievements.

On a different, but still book note, I was presented with a 1986 large, and I mean large, Wind in the Willows in which each page is most beautifully illustrated. It will go to a loving home at Christmas, in the meantime I shall continue to feast on what it has to offer. And may you feast on whatever takes your fancy until next month. I didn’t mention the limited edition history of the Rhodesian army – bound in elephant hide and gold metallic borders, slip case et al. The elephant, the owner was quick to explain, died of natural causes and was not hunted or poached!

Merchandising Matters by a Marketing Refugee

By Penny M

(layouts for the naïve)

I have come to the conclusion that Merchandising is the unsung hero of retail marketing. clothingNot only does it require creative flare, but intuitive thinking. Behind every tidy, well signposted display lies the logic of customer flow, seasonal grace and the innate ability to get inside a shopper’s head.

The other day, I met someone for a coffee in the restaurant on the top floor of a local department store.  As per usual, I had to ‘spend a penny’.  Intent on my purpose, I hurtled through the baby and children’s wear departments, but on my way back I slowed to browse through the cute array of spring range clothing for tots, some with jaw-dropping prices. Visions of my grandchildren appeared in various outfits and I was momentarily mesmerized.

I resumed my seat at the restaurant like a long distance refugee – the relief was palpable – I hadn’t purchased a thing.  When my companion decided to visit the toilets on our way out, I accepted an advertised invitation and made a bee-line for a sale-priced sofa to wait.  It was strategically placed on the edge of exorbitance.  I took the time to ponder the wonderful ingenuity of merchandising.  Of course, where else would you put the cutest department than on the beat from the restaurant to the restroom, a necessity for mothers and grandparents?  The comfy couch with panoramic views and an invitation to try it out was just another clever ploy to sell tots clothes to NanniPen.  There were no men screeching brakes here.

The menswear section was just inside the doors on the ground floor, another good plant.  I have a vague recollection that perfume and jewellery were close by.  In my opinion, ground floors are for quick buys.

Unlike women, men generally don’t shop around.  They aren’t likely to be found wandering on the second floor looking for a pullover or a tie.  Neither would they go too far for a gift for a friend, wife or girlfriend, though most would like to think they’d gone to ‘hell and back’.  One look at busy browsers is enough to drive the dashing outside and online.  I guess you could say that most men shop with purpose and it’s a rare woman who returns home with only what was on the list.

The toy, furniture and lingerie departments are all on the top floor – need I say more?

I have started my birthday list ahead of September which seems to be our family’s favourite birth month.  I suspect there will be some parcels winging their way to Australia in somebody else’s suitcase by then.  I can still outrun advertising, but when it comes to my precious grandchildren, merchandising matters.

Penny Mitchell – Communications that Matter – matternatter.com

 

Big Magic – Elizabeth Gilbert

By Sue Trollip

I ‘read’ this via audio book and kept wishing I had a pen & paper to jot down the lovely morels of wisdom.

Easily my favourite quote from Big Magic:

“Create whatever causes a revolution in your heart.”

In this book Gilbert deals with fear, the muse, creativity and ideas, amongst other topics.

“A creative life is an amplified life. It’s a bigger life, a happier life, an expanded life, and a hell of a lot more interesting life.”

Gilbert has this theory about how ideas come to us and wait. If we don’t run with them, they float away and land on someone else.

“The universe buries strange jewels deep within us all, and then stands back to see if we can find them.”

She considers ideas to be their own entities. They don’t belong to us no matter how we try to cling to them. Once an idea has gone, it’s gone. But, she advises, be patient, because another one will be along shortly.

Be polite to your ideas, she advises. It would be awful if word got out amongst the ideas that you were a grumpy diva author.

She also addresses fear:

“perfectionism is just fear in fancy shoes and a mink coat,”

Or (another favourite),

“Basically, your fear is like a mall cop who thinks he’s a Navy SEAL.”

In true Gilbert fashion the book has anecdotes, insights and many wise words. It’s on my list to read again in about six months. By then the good things I remembered in round one will have had time to simmer and I’ll be ready for the ones I missed whilst dodging snowballs and articulated vehicles on the I80.

Unrequited Love – Years Later

By Susan Roberts

Do you ever think back to the lost loves of childhood? I do. I still remember the boys I fantasised about while still in primary school. There was one in particular whom I’ve never forgotten.

He was a boy I saw at the ice rink, and he was a wonderful skater. He was a few years older than me, and I thought he was just gorgeous. I must have been 10 or 11 when the ice rink opened and ran for a few brief years in our town. I used to save my pocket money for tickets to go skating. I also saved for my first (and only) pair of figure skates. My sister and I attended Saturday morning skating lessons given by a past UK Olympic champion, and we stayed for the public skating sessions afterwards. That’s where I first saw him.

I mentioned that he was a really good skater. In fact, he was well on his way to becoming a junior champion, along with several other serious young skaters. Tall, good-looking – he had the ability to make skating look easy, which it definitely wasn’t when I tried to do it.

He never noticed the pathetic creature that was me, the girl who could barely let go of the safety rail without falling over. He was too busy perfecting his moves in the centre, where he and other local champs practised their competition work. One afternoon I skated after school and saw him in his school uniform, so I knew which school he went to, but I still didn’t know his name.

The ice rink proprietors put on a variety concert, using the cream of the local skating talent. Our family went to see it, and – there he was, doing a solo piece. He really was extremely good. I still have the programme, and I’ve never forgotten his name since I first read it that night.

While I might be ready to spill my own secrets, others might not, so to protect the identity of innocents involved, for now I’ll refer to him as Beloved Crush.

Living in a fairly small town, it was easy to look up surnames in the local phone book and find someone’s address. There were only two addresses of people with the Crush surname: one on my side of town, and one far away on the other side. But which one was his?

One Saturday afternoon after skating, my mother commented that she’d seen one of our local doctors (who also happened to be called Dr Crush) in the car park outside the ice rink, obviously waiting for his offspring.

My mother didn’t know about my passion for Beloved, so it was an innocent remark about one parent commiserating with another on the wasted life spent waiting for their offspring outside of schools, dance classes, cricket matches and – in this case – ice rinks.

I could hardly wait to get home and kidnap the phone directory. Oh, wonder of wonders – Dr Crush lived a few streets away, higher up the hill. I hugged my secret to myself with schoolgirl glee. I knew where Beloved lived at last! Now to put the second part of my plan into action…

If my parents thought it odd, they never said anything when suddenly, in addition to the new-found keenness for skating, I developed a habit of taking my somewhat bemused spaniel, Honey, for walks almost every day.

Back in those pre-television days, the evenings were long and filled with family activities. We often took both dogs for a short walk, but my walks with Honey became daily afternoon excursions. At the time, I liked to imagine that my parents thought I was becoming a responsible pet-owner, but I’m sure they sniggered quietly to themselves as they heard the leash rattle and the gate click closed. They must have known there was an ulterior motive.

Honey quickly became the fittest dog in town, because Dr Crush’s house was further than I had thought it would be, and up quite a steep hill. Also, Honey and I were chased several times by bigger dogs in the area, and we both learned to run fast. But it was all worth it. Honey was fit and enjoyed his daily adrenaline-fuelled run. Over the weeks we found alternate routes with fewer dogs, but of course the destination was always the same.

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Beloved Crush’s house was a big one, on a corner with a waist-high hedge that was easy to see over. I walked my pooch nonchalantly past, sometimes pretending complete indifference, but always hoping to see Beloved in the garden or drive. With visions of romance bubbling in my head (even then, a future romance novelist), I fantasised about chance meetings on the pavement, or being invited inside because it was a hot day and I might look pale and thirsty, and as a doctor’s son, Beloved might be concerned for the welfare of the diligent dog-owner whom he surely recognised from the ice rink. Perhaps he had a dog as well, and we might find our common ground there, if not at the ice rink.

I gazed upwards at the windows, wondering which room was his, hoping to see a glance, a glimpse to nourish my dreams on the long walk back down the hill.

But it was never to be. Weeks turned into months and I never got any closer to Beloved – either at the rink or when passing his house. I never saw him in the garden or with his dog. I knew it was the right house, of course, because I’d seen the doctor’s car in the driveway. Back in those days, any car owned by a doctor had a small cross on the number plate – like the Red Cross symbol – in case they had to park somewhere illegal in an emergency.

The ice rink was my idea of heaven, but unfortunately there was a pattern in my town. Almost every new activity that started up lasted only a season or two before local apathy set in, took over and the activity closed, soon to be replaced by some other new activity. And so it was with the ice rink. It closed and life moved on.

A year later I entered high school. A few years after that Beloved must have finished at his high school, but I never saw or heard anything about him, ever again.

Many years later, I had a chance conversation with a girl I knew from high school. She had been a more serious skater than me, and she knew him. After all those years, I finally found someone who knew Beloved Crush.

I threw something into the conversation about our family having vaguely known his father, Doctor Crush, because we had lived nearby.

She laughed. “Oh no, this boy wasn’t related to the doctor’s family.”

“But he had the same name,” I said.

She shrugged. “Common enough name, but he certainly wasn’t that doctor’s son.”

“Where did he live?” I asked.

“I can’t remember. Somewhere on the other side of town. Far away.”

All those anguished childhood dreams I had nursed, all the walks I dragged my poor dog on, all of them melted away and vanished forever, to later become nothing more than the subject for this blog-post about unrequited love.

Such are the dreams of youth. Wonderful in fantasy and memory, but in reality so far off the mark. I wonder where he is now…