Onrus River - Setting Up, Settling Down And Everything In Between - Summer Part 4

If you do not have a summer holiday reservation, you are buggered and doomed to stay at home. “At least have a plan”, we heard a man tell his friend in the coffee shop this morning. He shrugged, picked up his latte, and said his wife would have it all sorted; all he had to do was hook his Bush Lapa trailer, pack his golf clubs and check his fishing gear.

The guy looked exhausted, stressed and on the brink of a stroke if you ask me. 

At the adjacent table, four ladies were laughing conspiratorially. They eagerly opened shopping bags to show their purchases: a gorgeous blouse, a super new bikini and a pair of sandals I could live with.

The fourth gal in a pair of Armani sunnies and unpuckered lips said, “I’ll have to sneak my bags into the house, stash them, and when we’re on holiday, I’ll tell Jack I bought the outfits ages ago”, stretching the A for at least five seconds for maximum effect. I wonder when the Jacks of the world are going to wake up to the con. Too late, I shoot myself in the foot.

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Onrus River

One of our favourite places to be and where we would like to spend our official return to normal-living-like-everyone-else is Onrus.

What we didn’t expect was the growth and development that had taken place while we were gallivanting all over East Africa.

It’s a semi-gration, everyone says. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry north of the Jukskei is moving south. What’s more, they’re buying up all the land, and because they don’t give a damn, property prices have skyrocketed, our friends tell us.

What was once an escape now feels like a prison, one retiree says. The traffic is a nightmare. Butch and I have noticed the influx of white 4x4s parked at the Whale Coast Mall, and the buzz of turquoise motorbikes dashing to and fro to deliver goods within 60 minutes is astounding. Joh!

Our mission is to get to the Onrus Municipal Caravan Park. Pieter, according to Sue, is our man and will, without doubt, make a plan if the park is full.

We name-drop. Percy and Sue come up in every sentence. Pieter shakes his head, flicks through the reservations book, checks the calendar, goes back onto the computer, runs his hands through his hair, but assures us he will have something to offer us. When we tell him the truck’s clearance height is 3.2 m, he wheezes. But he’s a man with a plan.

Eventually, with his finger on the map, he points out a small stand with enough space for the Honey Badger. The price is right, and we qualify for the pensioners’ discount. We all high-five before Pieter goes out for a well-deserved smoke, and we set off to set up our campsite and put up the gazebo. Pieter’s colleague shakes her head. I bet she’s been through this before.

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In this neck of the woods, there’s a significant difference between being a homeowner and a camper. The one belongs, and the other is a fleeting visitor. I feel the difference immediately, and it brings me down a peg or two.

I like to belong. While on our journey, I belonged to a group of roadies in Overlander trucks exploring the world, we were adventurers living our best lives, and now, back in my familiar space, I felt like a “bywoner”. I didn’t quite belong, and it was unsettling to me.

Butch would constantly remind me that “this is your life now, Maricha, it’s not a holiday.” Translated, that means I was not “on holiday” in Onrus either. In my mind, I could not be frivolous, free, or take a deep breath and relax like other holidaymakers. I had to think of this impermanence, wandering state as “my life” constantly, and it sucked the life out of me, slowly, but surely. I slumped into despair.

Cancerians are adaptable, and I am a survivor. I’ll crab my way out of this mindset, with my hard shell protecting me, I'll survive cupcake and come hell or high water, I’ll make the best of it.

Our priority was to see my Dad, so much had changed while we were away. The reality of my Mom’s death hit me in the solar plexus as we walked into their home. The atmosphere had changed; it was now my Dad’s home. After a lifetime and an exquisitely happy marriage, he was a widower and struggling to come to terms with it. His eyes often misted over, and his grief at the loss of his beloved wife was profoundly palpable.

Every day’s challenges were new and overwhelming to him, and we were all giving him advice, reminding me of being a new mother when things were meant to be instinctive; everyone thought they had carte blanche to teach me, show me, and advise me.

At 92, he was remarkably fit, handsome, bright-eyed, with a full head of thick silver hair and a dapper appearance. Seeing him and being with him grounded me as well. I felt at home, and the gnarled fist gripping my heart loosened a little.

I look forward to his morning visits and listen out for the staccato tap-tap of his walking stick on our window at 7:30, when we’d have coffee and rusks under the Milkwood trees.

Sometimes he pops in for lunch, even a boerie roll and tomato salsa (smoor) will do, he says while drowning his sauce in chilli from Tanzania. It would make my eyes water.

On one of our walks, we found this beautiful pink Gladiolus Carmineus or Hermanus Cliff path lily. 

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The weather is superb—Windless, sunny days dotted with a few puffy clouds in the blue sky. The tides did what they do, high and low, full and calm and steady. Sunsets were blood red, the sky saturated with smoke from veld fires that rage at this time of year. It's ghastly to the environment but fantastic for the fynbos.

We needed to see as much as possible on our first morning, so we decided to unhitch the bikes and go for a long ride all along the coast.

New builds were shooting up everywhere, and most astonishingly, homes that I would’ve renovated and some only needed a lick of paint to be pretty again were gone, bulldozed to dust, and now arising from the dirt rose new, modern, magnificent buildings.

The familiar beach road had changed, and with it, some of the seaside village charm of Onrus. My favourite house was the one on the bend. It has character, and the old furniture got a lick of white paint and new cushions before the holidays to zhoosh things up. That’s all it takes.

Butch calls it progress. There were only a handful of “for sale” signs, “everything gets snapped up immediately”, one agent told us. “It’s a seller’s market, top dollar is being paid.”

The cliff path was the way to go, we decided, so the next day, and the next, and the next, we did just that. We walked.

Every day was a surprise, depending on the tides, the sun, the wind, and who we saw.

It is impossible to ignore the path itself, the pavestones with messages from loved ones to honour the departed. I always look out for George’s message to his black Labrador Major. Yes, it’s true, “Om te swem is hemels” (to swim is heavenly), a tribute to Jacorina Amanda Rossouw.

The beautiful pink blossoms of the lagunaria-patersonii casts a deep shade over Frans and Leigh-Anne's bench now, and we sit to chat and tell them we’re back. Still, we disturb the resident African Sacred Ibises, who croak their disapproval and a flock of Hadeda Ibises who ‘ha-ha da-da’ as they’re flushed from the nearby rocks where they gather easy pickings of limpids.

I take the plaque commemorating Jake Bailey-Sloan, “In a world of grey be a yellow bubble,” to heart. I must.

Construction was not only happening in Onrus but also in the caravan park. Semi-permanent structures are shooting up, and it was fascinating to watch this tent maker working on his industrial machine, making a canvas covering for a structure. His expertise was phenomenal, and he never looked up or got distracted by the noise and shenanigans around him. Two days later, he packed up his machine, boxed his threads and folded the remnants into neat little piles before setting off to his next assignment. A few days later I spotted a new tree house.

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News has spread that we are back. There’s nothing more delightful or inviting than sundowners and dinner with our friends. Each gathering feels like a celebration; we catch up on all the news, share plenty of laughter, some tears, hints of disappointment or regret, but most importantly, masses of joy. Everyone looks terrific, and none of us has aged a day. We make plans to meet again and promise we won’t be moving for a while.

On Fridays, the campsite starts filling up, and we notice the arrival of big rigs pulling in with registrations from Switzerland and Germany, and, to our surprise, the Knights in their Dora the Explorer from Somerset West.

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Butch’s children call, and we’re excited when Liam, grandson extraordinaire, arrives for an impromptu camping weekend with his Grandpa.

The Honey Badger is where he’ll sleep, he informs us. Oupa is nonplussed and moves onto his makeshift bed for two nights. We’ll deal with the stiff knees and backache later—Voltaren gel to the rescue.

This feels like a holiday, I announce, feeling energised and happy at the thought of a few carefree days.

The campsite transforms into a giant fun park as children of all ages ride their bikes, scooters, roller blades and skateboards. Children climb trees, and Liam is ecstatic when he figures out the well-spaced footholds carved into the bark of an ancient tree, which he darts up and sits aloft, the highest he’s ever been, he tells me.

We pack a picnic basket, fill our beach bags with towels and sunscreen, don our hats and set off to the beach every day, making the most of the glorious days.

When Oupa and Liam’s dad are exhausted, Liam builds sandcastles alone. I believe he enjoys the freedom to be as he hums, digs, and pats the wet sand into his castle.

One needs to be rewarded after a day in the sun, we said as we trekked up the little hill back to the caravan park, and there’s nothing quite as good as an ice cream from the Oomie (from Oranje) in the Pink Kombi, who makes the best twirly ice cream cones around here. We splurge out and have a Flake inserted into ours.

Sunday afternoon comes all too soon, and it’s time to pack up the tent, buckle Liam up, and be ready to return home before the traffic backs up on Sir Lowry’s Pass.

Shortly afterwards, I slink off to lie and brood in my hammock under the tree.

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There are days when I bake bread and grill delicious seasonal peaches for dessert, and on quiet evenings, we walk up to Riposo, the Italian restaurant, for calamari and a pizza to share, or we order coffee and overpriced cupcakes from the new bakery,  or have our Friday fish and chips with friends at The Marine. The fish and chips are superb, but the Apple Tart Tatin steals the show. I could go back any day of the week for that treat.

Lynda posted an invitation to Pretoria Girls’ High girls from the class of ’74 who were available to join her for lunch at the Vineyard Hotel in Newlands. I had missed our reunion, so this surprise invitation came at the perfect moment, and I jumped at the chance to join the girls for lunch at this iconic old lady.

The gardens were a magnificent display of colour, with arched bougainvillaea in bright pink, lush lawns, trees, and ferns cooling the veranda where our table was reserved.

The girls were all in good spirits, and we enjoyed a delightful afternoon with lovely company, tasty summery salads, lots of laughter and reminiscing. Michelle will always be missed. We all swallowed a lump in our throats.

We agreed this was a fitting end to the year, and we all hoped to do so again.

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When we arrive at a new campsite, we try to use the Honey Badger as little as possible, instead cycling or walking whenever possible. This time, we were here for the long haul, and it would not be possible to commute by bike all the time. Some of our shopping could be done online and delivered, which would take shopping out of the equation, but there would still be driving.

Before we could even come up with an alternative, one of Butch’s University friends, Blom, offered his Mom’s Jetta for us to use. We were overwhelmed by his generosity and accepted immediately. We had wheels.

Every time I got behind the steering wheel, I could envision the 96-year-old lady, gripping the choke between thumb and forefinger and giving it a good tug, setting off in her cute manual, white Jetta without power steering. The little car went like a bomb, (don't forget the choke!) and we were thrilled to leave the Honey Badger to rest.

The car allowed us to venture further afield, and next off we went for lunch to see Butch’s best friend, Steve, and Peggy in Betty’s Bay, where we took possession of our runabout.

Did you know Kleinmond, Betty’s Bay, Pringle Bay and Rooiels are all located within the UNESCO Kogelberg Biosphere Reserve? The landscape was breathtaking, and the drive there was perfect on a cloudy day.

Some days we cycled. We set our sights on Hermanus and would ride all the way to Voëlklip beach. We’d stop for water along the way at East Cliff. Early holiday makers were already setting up their umbrellas and chairs, and the early morning swimmers were ready to leave the beach after their daily cold water swim.

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A few days later, we would travel to Stellenbosch, where Butch would undergo a second knee replacement at the Orthopaedic Clinic. The operation went well, and after four nights away from home, he was back, bright and cheerful, ready to recuperate. He was pain-free, he said. All he had to do was remember this mantra: “up to heaven with the old knee and down to hell with the new knee.”

I thought he was looking forward to a few days R&R, with me fawning all over him doing nursing duties, but no sooner had he settled than he announced that he was ready to go for a short walk. He realises I am a very poor nurse.

Butch’s birthday was coming up, and Billy, his son, a nature guide in the area, invited friends and us for an early birthday surprise and a Pizza at Sondagskloof.

​According to his friends Cathy and Baz, they are part of “a growing tribe of ‘new rurals’  who left their busy city lives of doing  to embrace a local rural way of being.”

On their small lifestyle farm, they enjoy a slower pace and grow their own food, focusing on reconnecting with nature. In doing so, they have created a sanctuary they’d love to share with friends, clients and guests.

At her outdoor kitchen, Cathy’s daughter makes the most delicious pizzas (that’s the menu offering) at a set price per person. Pizzas are served as they’re made. Our three-year hunger for a thin-crust, beautiful pizza was finally satisfied here!

After supper, we explored the property, perused the cabins and the magnificent vegetable and herb gardens.

Butch knows if he would like to spoil me, a few nights at Sondagskloof would tick all my boxes.

Cathy and Baz have succeeded in creating a resplendent refuge protected by the ancient Poplar Trees.

Days like these were a balm to my soul, and slowly but surely, I regained my mojo, and I could see myself balter. (Balter – To dance gracelessly, without particular art or skill, but perhaps with some enjoyment. Middle English)

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Hermanus - Recovery

To make Butch’s recovery easier, we were invited to spend a few days in Hermanus. Our hosts spoiled us and indulged our every whim. The Queen of Tarts served scrumptious meals and yummy desserts to sweeten the deal.

This was our opportunity to take meandering walks in the village after supper, where we enjoyed the art on display and did a little people-watching from a bench while sipping coffee.

Hermanus is fabulous and provides visitors with everything they need for a fantastic time. It’s easy to see why it’s a refuge for retirees. With all the expertise available for every interest, hobby, sport, outdoor club, and artistic enthusiast, here one can pursue any craft, hobby, or interest. Galleries and artists are practising every medium. In Hermanus, people’s talents are celebrated.

Most mornings, we’d hike sections of the well-known cliff path, or if we needed something a little shorter but strenuous, we’d do Hoy’s Koppie. Ian, at 83, is still a mountain goat as he gallops up the path.

From the top of Hoy’s koppie, hikers can enjoy a 360-degree view of Hermanus.

Even a brilliant chef needs a day off, and so off we went for brunch to a restaurant adjacent to Auberge Burgundy. (Can’t remember the name).

Here’s the thing about Hermanus. It has evolved; no longer is it a small fishing village; it is a bustling urban town with many hotels, guesthouses, restaurants, malls, shops, bars, and sports facilities, as well as outdoor activities. But it has retained its small village soul, which endears it to all visitors. For that reason, we all return again and again.

The beaches are pristine, and the whale watching is superb. One of two places where whale watching is encouraged. The other is De Kelders.

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Liam popped in to say Happy Birthday to his Oupa Butch, who had a low-key birthday celebration with family. His birthday card said, “At my last party, I had 99 people stand up and sing ‘Africa’ by Toto… because it’s not something that 100 men or more could ever do.” Vinylcrazyofficial.

As the days grew longer and warmer, and more people arrived, we relaxed and even enjoyed ourselves. We slept in late, walked, talked, and spent time at Davey’s Pool after our morning walks, and again at sunset. Sometimes we had coffee from the pop-up coffee shop; on other days, we’d take a snack down to enjoy with our sundowners.

A few friends had asked me whether I’d seen the changes to our home in Onrus, but no, I said quite vehemently. That would be asking too much of me. But a chance encounter with Sheryl and her pooch put my mind at rest. Our short chat once again confirmed that they were the right owners of our beautiful home. She loved the bricks and mortar, the light, and the tone as much as I did, and that made me happy. Yes, they had made changes, but the house’s character was intact.

One of the highlights of our stay was a visit to De Kelders, where we spent a few hours with old friends Bok and Anne from Worcester, who now live there. They have exquisite views, and told us the whales often come down their way. Anne loves the cumulus cloud formations and enjoys her walk to Stanford’s cove on a still day. Bok says he’s quite happy to pack and unpack the dishwasher!

I did ride past our house on Viljoen Street. It is beautiful now, and I love the improvements.

The Knights phoned one evening and said enough was enough, and invited us on a road trip—destination on the fly. We accepted.

 

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The Honey Badger is my anchor, yet I still struggle at times and find I have to make a conscious effort to be positive.

One day, this quote popped up on my screen:

“You’ll always be brave in someone’s mind and a coward in another’s, strong to one and fragile to another, good to one and terrible to another.

You will be seen as annoying to one and comforting to another. Some will feel anxious around you, and some will find peace in your company. Some will see you as “too much”, while others will see you as a gift.

The world will look at you from its subjective point of view. The world is never going to agree on a definition of who you are.

So you might as well live the way that feels true to your heart.” Anonymous.

Sometimes it’s not the world we need to be concerned with, but our own selves. Life is a merry-go-round.

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I dedicate this blog to our dear friend Sandy du Toit, who adored Butch and "got" his sense of humour. They spent many holidays together in Botswana, and now she would've had sound advice for us. Kleinmond was where she recharged and knew the value and rhythm of the ocean. Sandy taught her learners to have a fondness for poetry, books and music. She was a teacher. Rest gently, dear Sandy.