Hope in Fields of Flowers

About three years ago, I sat under a tree and heard someone say “Hopefield,” and decided that that is the place where I’m going to live.  We were running the rat race.  Tinus is an Air Traffic Controller and at point I was a teacher, (who cared - oink oink) in a collapsing education system.  I was recuperating after having been hospitalized for stomach ulcers, at my folks’ house here in Saldanha - my sanctuary – coming to terms with the fact that I am indeed mortal.

The West Coast of South Africa is a harsh and arid landscape with a peculiar hidden beauty.  The people who live here are a unique breed who can survive in this strange dry land, which rewards its devotees with a paradise-like winter landscape of brilliant green and gold - fields of corn and cranola.  And then after winter comes the flowers.   People from all over the world come here during August and September, to experience the mind blowing vistas of painted hills.  Flowers as far as the eye can see.  But the true beauty only becomes visible once you stop and get down on your knees as if in prayer. 

My dad drove me through the little village, I saw my little house on the hill, and bought it.  My time in Hopefield gave me so much, taught me so much.  For the first time in my life, I owned power tools - no, no, owned AND used - power tools.  Hooo-raaaahhh!! I built, I fixed, I grew.  I met an array of beautiful people with great hearts, open minds and helpful hands.  I find it impossible to believe that in one village so many people with a similar mindset came together, and that I was fortunate enough to be there as well.  Strangely enough we were all “inkommers.”  A word used by the local people to describe people coming in from outside, we came, we saw and we stayed.

And then we left.  We leave quite a lot, both Tinus and myself are nomads.  In our, soon to be twenty one years of marriage, we have never stayed in one place for more than three years.  Hopefield was the most difficult place I ever left.  Two months ago, I cried bitterly, as I stood on the Veranda at the Merry Widow with Ilze and Lizana, not wanting to let go.  Then the whirl winds came and tossed us around, and when we came down, our friends here in Hopefield caught us, and held us tight.

I now know why I cried so the last time we left – I thought that we were at the end of our friendship, that we will never be able to return to what we had.  And now, as I sit here on the floor between my suitcases, ready to leave for the airport, my heart is light, I know it will always be as it is.  I am fond of saying one can never go back, but you know what, you can, I did, and now that I know one can go back, I am ready to go.  

    

        

        

Magic Bread and Dreams

On Saturday we went to Eugenie’s house warming.  We’ve been meaning to have a house warming for the past two and a half years, but there was always something:  As soon as we are done with the stoep, (that’s what we call a veranda here in Africa) … as soon as we’re done with the pantry …. as soon as we are done with the new bathroom … we need to get the ceilings done.  And so the months crept past…It is so nice to see what she’s done with the house.  Skye’s reply to Ulrich, when he asked her what the house looked like, was a breathless: “It’s so beautiful.”  Strangely enough, I looked at this pretty little house, standing on its own little hill framed by the Milky Way, and there was no connection.  I have moved on.

When we arrived the fires were already burning.  The traditional South African barbeque (braai) is something to appreciate.  In this particular case two deboned legs of game (Springbok) were the main features on the menu.  One was marinated in buttermilk and the other in red wine.  There were some artfully done salads, chocolate brownies for desert and a selection of wines, cheeses and bread.

I am a vegetarian and so I naturally gave the meats a wide berth and took myself some bread.  The bread was brown, like earth after rain, cut in chunky slices.  As I was looking at the cheeses trying to decide which ones to try, I bit into the bread.  The slightly sourness sparkled on my tongue and caused a tiny fireworks display of happy hormones to be triggered somewhere on the inside of my head.  If anyone did see my expression at that point I’m sure they’d have though I had too much wine.  I must’ve looked dazed at least.  I realized that this is not the kind of bread you can eat standing up and I went to sit down under the stars a little apart from the crowd, with my single slice of bread on a plate.

The next bite was part crust.  The crust was the perfect balance of crunchy and chewy.  Like tasty gift wrap around the perfect gift.  It spoke to my Pagan Soul.   “From the sun to the Earth, from the Earth to the grain, from the grain to us, Great Mother, we thank you for this blessing.  I could taste the sun and the wind and the wisdom of the Earth which grew this perfect grain in dark secrecy. 

At this point Mathe and Hans arrived.  They are both German, and both of them have beautiful stories of their own, which I might tell you later.  They came over and sat down next to me and Mathe turned this slice of bread into a story.  Mathe and I got to know each other better, sadly, only a short while ago, when she asked me to teach her to speak Afrikaans.  She already speaks four languages fluently. We exchanged the normal pleasantries, chatted over this and that and at some point Hans left with one of their twin girls.  Mathe reached over and broke a piece off the slice of bread on my plate ate it and said:  “You know I baked this bread?”  In her lovely gently rolling German accented English.  “It takes twenty-four hours to make.”  It made perfect sense, nothing less for something this perfect.  “I love working with dough, the feel of it in my hands,” she said and continued:  “All it is, is flour and water and salt. And also the yeast, it is natural sour dough, I make it over several days and I have to feed it regularly. Working with dough like this, is like magic.”

 She told me she wants to build a wood burning oven, at the moment she “does all kinds of things” with her oven to make the bread taste like it’s done in a wood burning oven.  “That is my dream, “she said, “to have my own little artisan bakery.  You gave it to me, you know.  We sat here on your stoep, and you told me, I have to have a dream.”   

I smiled as I remembered:  I told her of a Bushman (Khoi-San) I met many many years ago, who when I asked him how old he was, said he didn’t know; Numbers were not important to him.  He said he is as old as his greatest achievement and as young as his fondest dream.   And there under the stars, sharing magic bread with a beautiful soul who has a dream, I thought it’s time for me to get myself a new dream.  

Where Wild Roses Grow

 It is quiet, but not the bad quiet that scares one but that comfortable silence in which you can hear the chirping of birds, bees buzzing in the lavenders and in the distance, the sound of people.  Life here at the River Cottage is slow, but good.  We spend time just being.  Waking up in the mornings, help the kids off to school and since it’s freezing outside – and still almost dark, we mostly jump back in bed for an early morning snooze.  Once the friendly rays enters the room in the colours of the happy door’s stain glass panels we get up, have breakfast and go for a walk by the river. 

John and Marie-Louise are the greatest hosts, almost fay-like in their ability to be away when one needs to be alone and present just when one needs company.  John is an Italian Kenyan – one of those blond, blue eyed Africans with the wide openness of Africa, visible not only in their eyes, but also in their hearts and minds.  Marie-Louise grew up as a citizen of the world with a wine exporter as a father.  She did her law degree in France and after many winding roads ended up here in Hopefield with John– creating beauty. 

This is actually true of everyone here, while we were in this storm of uncertainty and fear I had the feeling that everyone here in Hopefield were standing with wide open arms, houses and hearts, ready to welcome us back.   Eugenie offered to move out of her house (she rents the house from us) so we can move back in there!  

The darling dear Merry Widowers said it goes without saying that we can stay there for as long as we need.  John and Marie-Louis have only recently decided to make part of the River Cottage available as an overflow for the Merry Widow and Tinus decided that this would be the perfect place for us to rest and regroup.  I could see the combined effort everyone put in to make the place beautiful and comfortable and it makes me feel so loved and cared for.  The Antoni’s (John and Marie-Louise) market the space as an artist’s retreat, and it is absolutely perfect for that purpose.  The peace and quiet one finds here is the perfect space to heal and grow.

Marie-Louise’s company – ‘Wild Roses Grow’ supply interior design and décor items in natural fabrics to various clients throughout South Africa.  She has only recently decided to open a small shop at the River Cottage, called ‘The Trading Post.’  Her opening will coincide with the Hopefield Flower festival – only two weeks away!  They are working very hard to get everything picture perfect for the great day.  

In the mean time Tinus is so much better that I can see my dear husband chafing at the bit to get back to work.  He spends most of his day emailing and getting himself up to speed with the new job lying ahead for him.  He will be leaving for Dubai as soon as his visa has been arranged and the kids and I will follow on the 26^th.  I am so sad to think that we have only two weeks left here.  On the other hand it would be great to get settled and have a home of our own.  I love travelling, the in between bits, on the train or the plane or in a car on a road to somewhere or nowhere, where you can do nothing immediately but be where you are right at that minute.  But we have been in between for almost two months now; it is time to reach the destination.