It happened rather quickly. First our daughters got married, then one son moved to the Karoo and the other opted to teach English to Czechs in Prague. I retired at about the same time and began looking for a smaller, more manageable home.
But my husband was ill. Within a year he had died of cancer and with him went all thought of change.
“Don’t make hasty decisions,” friends advised. “Wait a year or two.” Uncertain of what to do, I waited for three, reluctant to leave the familiarity of home and friends in Joburg.
Then my house was burgled and I felt that it was time to move on.
I dreamed of a quiet retreat in some beautiful spot, away from the stresses of city life. In retrospect, I should perhaps have given more thought to the needs of my advancing years, to a time when I would need the facilities I then took for granted.
My older daughter urged me to join her in the Karoo. My younger daughter was relatively close by in Port Elizabeth. I’d be nearer my grandchildren and – I was assured – I’d have a more relaxed lifestyle.
So I sold my house, packed my possessions and, after months of house hunting, bought a home near the village of De Rust in the Western Cape.
I fell in love with the little farm the moment I stepped on the stoep and looked at the view. The Swartberg mountains stretched beyond green fields of lucerne. A river ran through the bottom of the property. The garden was alive with birds. Sheep grazed in nearby fields. So did a flock of ostriches. The property was off the beaten track. I would have time to write, read and relax. Best of all, it cost no more than the home I’d sold.
The transition was not without difficulty. When the removal van left I faced the prospect of sorting out my furniture on my own. I found there was no refuse removal – it was a chore I would have to handle myself. The the hot water wasn’t working, and the nearest plumber and electrician was 30km away.
The view was great, but what was I doing so far from civilisation? It was the start of an adjustment process with some cons but as many pros.
Initially I thought I’d be lonely. Yet within the first few months I had more visitors than I had had in Randburg.
A friend arrived from Britain to visit, followed by a young trapeze artist from Argentina and then a fellow journalist from Joburg.
My son took our various guests on tours of local attractions, showing them Thomas Bain’s famous Swartberg Pass, the Cango Caves and the nearby Garden Route.
I made friends with my neighbours. The farmers arrived with gifts of onions, tomatoes, pumpkins, meat and wine.
The riempie bench I’d brought with me stood unused on the stoep for long periods when there was no time to sit idly with coffee and a good book. I planted vegetables and even a few fruit trees. I made jam and marmalade. I tried to get a flower garden under way – but almost gave up when a flock of sheep broke free and demolished many of the plants.
Initially I was kept busy converting an old barn into a cottage for my sons. Local builder Dawid Sass arrived to help. I spent my days running back and forth buying building materials.
When the renovations were complete, I was exhausted. I left the building rubble piled up in the driveway intending to find someone to remove it later, then went to visit my daughter in Port Elizabeth. When I returned it had gone. My entire entrance had been transformed.
“What happened to the mess?” I asked farmer Frans Delport.
“You’re not cross?” he asked. “My wife said I should have checked with you before I instructed my staff to clean up.”
I told my neighbour, George Derer, I wanted to buy a tall reading lamp. A day later he brought one he’d made for me. When I go away for a few days, he insists on caring for my pets.
The community spirit in the valley is tangible.
One evening my son returned from the village to say he’d spotted a bat-eared fox on the road home.
A visitor saw an owl in my garden, another a grysbok in the lucerne patch. Baboons raided the vineyards to the annoyance of the farmers.
One morning I found a mongoose among my gooseberries. He and others became regulars.
A more exciting moment came one evening when I heard my Labrador barking outside the back door. I peered into the darkness and spotted a huge porcupine. Unfazed by the fuss, he settled down in the back garden for the night. Once or twice we spotted Cape cobras on the gravel roads. I was living in paradise – serpents and all.
The local gossip was invariably about animals or the weather. Crime was something that happened in cities. Or so we thought.
One day a neighbour returned from the village with hot gossip. Youngsters had broken into a house belonging to a foreign couple who had locked up and returned home for the northern summer. The thieves had taken the groceries they had left behind. The incident had everyone shaking their heads. Crime in the village? Unbelievable.
I was to learn that the rural poor are indeed very poor. A large number live on “all pay”, the government pension given to unemployed mothers, children and the disabled.
Alcoholism is a problem. Everything, in fact, is a problem for the poor, transport particularly. The railway system which provided a regular train service was stopped some years ago. The needy now look for lifts. Or walk – or inspan a donkey cart.
The indigenous locals are mainly the descendants of the Khoisan, their only language Afrikaans. The lucky have jobs on farms, the unemployed linger in the village hoping to earn a few coins as “car guards”.
My domestic worker is a grandmother who comes twice a week to help in the house. Rosie is a sweet-tempered woman – and a preacher at the local “church”, a little building donated by a farmer where people meet to pray and socialise. I am invited to services on special occasions when mothers with nursing babies, children and labourers gather.
Just recently I was asked to attend an event where the girls were to model fashions they had created. The entrance fee? A plate of eats. The function was pure pleasure, the “fashions” concocted with strips of cloth and plastic bags. But it was the dancing afterwards that warmed the heart as girls and boys exuberantly swayed their hips to the beat of recorded music playing in the background.
I know several of the young performers. They play on the gravel road waiting for the school bus that arrives before seven on weekday mornings. During holidays, when lunch is not a given, they arrive at my gate asking for ’n stukkie brood, asseblief (a piece of bread, please.) Now, as I watch them gyrate on the church floor, I feel a sense of pride in their lack of inhibition. They are happy simply to be.
My first years slipped by with record speed. I soon abandoned my Joburg paranoia about locking up. On hot summer evenings, the screen door is there to keep insects out rather than deter burglars. It’s a safe world.
And yet as time goes by I am overwhelmed by a sense of isolation. I miss the social interaction that was once a regular part of life. I have come to understand why some people return “home” to the city.
Despite crime – and costs – many couples who have moved to the coast or the countryside find they miss the city lifestyle. This is particularly true of lone women of advancing age who haven’t the resources or energy to make a new start in a different environment.
Perhaps the biggest problem is medically related. As folk grow older, we invariably need specialist facilities and these are not always readily available in small places.
I miss my GP, my hairdresser and freshly baked chocolate croissants from the local bakery – small issues that take on special significance.
Much as I love country walks, I hanker for an occasional concert, good movies and even an art exhibition. Worst of all, I miss my friends. So, yes, life is good in the country, but city life has its attractions. - The Star