South Living

First the colours. Then the humans. That’s usually how I see things. Or at least, how I try.
—Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Leaving as Autumn hides behind the pinkest peaks, the Helderberg mountains. Leaving when light closes earlier in the evening and the languishing on patios with wine and a flimsy frock, over for the season. Colours become muted, vivid colours that have coloured the blood in my veins for the past few months.

To wake to natural light. To wake to light with the chi chi of the guinea fowl discussing the neighbourhood. The hooded mantle of London in winter sucks all joy, but the brightness of morning, sharp and African bold, brings every assurance that this will be a good day.

In a few short months, living South, what made it so wonderful?

Magnificent gardens. Unlike most who lean toward wine tastings when visiting a wine farm, I find myself lost in the creations of some of the most beautiful gardens in the country. Surrounded by mountains, backdrops unlike any other, design and plantings from perfumed paths of roses to kitchen gardens plump with produce, to arboretums and proteas, patriotic proud. Everything looks so healthy, partly because the oaks and camphors in the landscape have decades of jolly girths and dappled leaves to create pools of cool spaces. The invitation to have a picnic, or simply sit on a bench and never want to move. I have many favourites, and discovered, with great delight, hidden treasures which I want to keep deeply hidden, secret garden style.

Many of these gardens may include a cáfe or restaurant, perhaps a deli and other culinary delights. It is a day’s excursion, take it slow and allow yourself to be spoilt in prettiness.

‘Tis a fishy place. Fish on the menu, chopped chunks of fish on tables in the harbour. The locals are fishermen long, long settled with stories of the Philippines and fellows jumping ship to live in the little alcove of Kalk Bay. Struggle they do, but proud they are. Language as colourful as the boats bobbing in the bay. Seals fat and lazy ignore the curious as they succumb to the soporific sun.

Tidal pools. Alluring and comic as swimmers attempt the razor ice water. Only children dive right in. The numbness of cold immersion and quick exiting is finally rewarded with a ‘oh my lord, I did it’ cappuccino at the cafe across the road. A farmhouse breakfast or a scone the size of one’s fist.

‘Tis a bohemian place. Macrames and T-shirts with local printed slang. Nostalgic Toby jugs and Defence Force pips worn by soldiers back in the conscription days. Leather goods, diving tanks and tiny tops with tassels - beads shops, brass shops, book shops and Mozambican prawns. Eclectic and electric blue to view with a hectically coloured cocktail at Cape To Cuba.

All about the colours. Always bright and cheery.

PS I am lost to describe the colours blue of the ocean. Blues and greens.

Road trips. South Africans have mastered the art of the Road Trip. Padkos and playlists. Inland, hinterland, farmland - down to earth time. Wimpy breakfasts and ‘moer koffie’. Darkly fascinated by the reckless skills of bullet taxis immune to the laws of the road. Road stalls offerings of unessential nostalgia and we buy it anyway. Toffees and doilies with beads on the edge.

Sleepy towns with Brookie lace; frilly wraparound verandas. Cheese and wine and lying by the pool. Scrubland, vineyards, mountains passed through tunnels, ochre giants between history and headstones in the veld.

Cape Town Grand. Grand Cape Town. How to define the buzzing, the energy of this city lying between the mighty Table Mountain and the Atlantic sea.

‘Gosh it’s so beautiful’ to the view from just about anywhere. Glamourous, quirky, edgy and elegant and then, quite by surprise, you rise at dawn to find a whale frolicking in the bay. Casual like. Whale watching before lunch.

Poorer mortals like me have become acclimatised to power cuts, filling the flask, stocking up on the candles. Getting off the grid is the phrase du jour. Not all are able to avoid the grid and gather at Mr. Build It to buy headlamps for post dinner reading. A sense of humour still prevails while government corruption continues to pollute our lives, we roll our eyes and visit the penguins, the escarpments, the beach to remind ourselves it is still worth it to be here.

And when I stand on the top of a plateau, the silence of the African mountains loud and proud of the Silverback baboons that live in her crags, the snakes that look for rocks to bake. Proud of the eagles, kites and other raptors that swift above and search below, I find myself wondering how those pioneers transversed these dangerous peaks for a better life in the past - in the history books. In a way, I think everything about living in South Africa requires courage, a bold heart and a pioneering spirit - and the sun, for the rewards surpass our own expectations.

Defying Doubt en route to Como

White bells