Chapter 1

The Hottentots-Holland Mountain range was enveloped in fog, which reached nearly halfway down the slopes. The fog’s tendrils spread out with chilly wet fingers, and with no wind blowing in from the sea, the Cape Flats would soon be covered in this pea-soup of moisture.

Summer — the dry season — is supposed to be here, yet those who know the Cape know that rain can fall at any time, on any day, depending on what happens in the South Atlantic. Four seasons in one day. Therefore, the saying: “The Cape is like a baby, if it’s not wet, it’s got winds!”

Cotton clouds floated lazily above on the little air currents that existed. Table Mountain, Constantia Mountain, and the Steenberg range towards Muizenberg were all obscured by fog to the west and north-west.

The stillness of the air predicted a foggy day until the Southeaster begins to blow at 11:00 a.m., pushing the fog away and allowing the sun to shine through. I believe it will be open behind the Hottentots-Holland Mountain. There will be no fog or cloud cover. The Overberg will be in full bloom, stunning the eyes with bright yellow canola blooms on the countless fields that border the Caledon region’s undulating hills.

As I cruised along the N2 highway, the gleaming multicoloured tin huts of “Blikies Dorp” (Tin-hut Town) receded in my rearview mirror. I considered the tragedy that would ensue if a Boeing 747-800 missed the runway at Cape Town International and collided with the hundreds of shacks built up to the N2 highway, not barely 650 metres away from the enormous white number 01 emblazoned on the runway.

Those shacks were built right beneath the runway approach lighting system, and I’m guessing the “poor formerly disadvantaged” sods are siphoning electricity from the lights’ power source; stealing from the taxpaying public.

They must have an abundant to limitless source of electricity. Every shanty has a DStv dish installed on the roof. A tangle of power lines connects each of the shacks. Decoders are required to decode the DStv stream.

They also require power to see the decoded signal on a television. And what better location to get it? The lighting system for the runway approach lights. Yeah. You don’t have to be Einstein to figure out the solution.

But that didn’t matter just now. My first goal, with the cities of Somerset West, Strand, and Macassar ahead of me, was to get beyond the 1486-foot crest of Sir Lowry’s Pass.

I was on my way to the country for some well-deserved rest. I’m thinking about going horseback riding and doing long excursions in the mountains and forests, and there’s no better spot to do it than in and around Greyton.

Greyton is a small village set in a valley about 145 kilometres from Cape Town’s city centre, with a population of 2780 people. Seventy-four percent are Afrikaans speakers, while twenty-two percent are English speakers.

Greyton, rich in history and with many of the old buildings still standing, became the R406 road’s final stop.

The R406 exits the N2 motorway immediately after the “Boontjieskraal” farm and before the right-hand curve up the hill into Caledon. The R406 road reaches Greyton and becomes the main road of the town. After thirty-two kilometres from the N2 turn-off and three kilometres of Greyton Main Road, it comes to an abrupt halt at the stream that joins the Gobosriver, under the Noupoort bastion at the foot of the Riviersonderend Mountain range.

At the end of the path, however, you don’t have to return following your tracks, as you can follow foot trails along the river right into Greyton. But this is where the tar road ends. Full stop.

Greyton is a contemporary community with telephones, cell phones, Wi-Fi, power, and a variety of other amenities. The old and the new cohabit peacefully. The ancient refurbished buildings that date back to the 1800s stand proudly next to the newly build homes, done in the same old Cape Dutch style. The ancient rural town vibe remains, preserved in a time capsule of a bygone period, calming the spirit.

Horses still walk down the streets on their own, and the old “leivoor” (Water trench irrigation system) still criss-crosses the town along its roads. The “leivoor” system can be found on all the main roads and side roads of the village. These were originally just earth ditches that in the 1800s brought irrigation water to people’s gardens and small holdings.

The water came from a big hand-dug reservoir at the top of the village. Who got what water when, was controlled by small sluice gates in the “sloots,” or “leivore.” These were at various times both a source of co-operation, and of conflict! They’re still in use today, except in times of drought.

Don’t try to Google the word “leivoor,” as Google translates it incorrectly to “Culvert.” In South Africa there’s no English word for a “leivoor.” It is referred to in both languages as; “leivoor.”

The music from my SUV’s six speakers comforted me while I drove for approximately an hour and a half. At the moment, “Take Me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver is playing, but there’s also Meat Loaf, Def Leppard, and Kiss in the mix. Yes, I like all of them; Bach all the way to Kiss, Pink Floyd to Beethoven.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder ... Music, on the other hand, calms the spirit. Sometimes the quiet sound of a lonely acoustic guitar, softly sounding in late evening with the sun touching the blue mountains in the distance. The shredding of an electric guitar as drum rolls echo like cannon shots across battlefields at times. It all depends on your mood ... and the flavour of the red wine in your glass.

I guessed it, and as I crested the summit of Sir Lowry’s Pass, the fog cleared, revealing the village of Grabouw in brilliant sunlight.

A few kilometres on, as I descended down the Houwhoek Pass, the flora transformed from the lofty pine tree forest of “Krom River” and Grabouw, to undulating fields covered with grain crops, a few spare willow trees along the few rivers, and millions of sheep grazing along the hillsides. This was sheep and grain growing land. Some of the fields would be lush green in early spring, with a covering of bright yellow canola blossoms stretching as far as the eye could see.

The “Food Basket of the Cape,” deep in the Western Cape’s Overberg region, and part of the “Teewaterskloof” Municipality, Caledon, appeared shortly after the farm “Boontjieskraal,” but I had no intention of visiting Caledon. No, the exit for Greyton was on the left.

I took the exit and breathed a sigh of relief. My destination, “The Posthouse Hotel” on Greyton Main Street, was just 32 kilometres away. I used to know it as an old, dilapidated and uninhabited thatched-roof structure. The historic “De Post Huizen,” or Post Office, has since been refurbished and converted into a cosy hotel that can sleep 35 people when fully booked. Now, I suppose I was to be the lone visitor during this slow season.

But first, let’s become acquainted. My name is Arno Bernardt De Lange. My pals call me “Dusty” or “AB.” I’m thirty-five years old and have never married. One or three girlfriends came and went. Nothing substantial happened, and they drifted away to brighter pastures with white picket fences and a slew of children.

I stand six feet six inches tall in my socks, or 1,98 metres tall for those of you who use the metric system, and I dip my head to enter older doorways. My shoulder-length light brown hair was now tied in a loose ponytail with a leather cord.

There isn’t a gram of fat on my body, but I tip the scale at a hundred and ten kilograms; lanky, you would say. I sport light brown, almost amber, eyes, one on each side of my nose. My brown coloured moustache was not up to the standard of “handlebar,” but was trimmed to my liking, and to fit the tools of my trade.

As I approached Greyton, the song “I Was Made for Lovin’ You” by Kiss blared from the speakers. I turned down the volume on Kiss so as not to annoy the residents of this tranquil village.

Adhering to the enormous white circular board with red edge portraying a big black “40,” I slowed down to a reasonable thirty-five kilometres an hour, keeping an eye out for pedestrians, bicycles, and a variety of other cars on the streets “The Posthouse” was on the left, near the town centre.

Some onlookers noticed a blue BMW X6 SUV with Cape Town registration plates. Some waved cordially, while others just stood there, unsure whether this was a new “incomer” or a tourist. “Out-of-towners” who came to live in town were referred to as “incomers” Or in the Afrikaans language as; “Inkommers.” Some of them would be welcomed into the community after some time, most other will never be part of the community, even after forty of fifty years.

This town has only five stop signs, all of which are located around the five junctions that spider-web off the main road at one point. There are no traffic lights, and there’s no KFC. That indicates that this is a village. It is not a town or a city.

To qualify as a city, you must have at least two sets of traffic lights as well as a KFC. (McD’s is optional and does not count!)

I walked out into the hotel’s garden after settling into my room. The proprietor prepared me an early lunch.

As in many tiny villages around South Africa, the owner, Amanda Smith joined me for lunch. Maybe because I was the only client, or maybe out of curiosity for my being here alone.

“So, you here for the scenery and the mountain trails?” The forty-four-year-old redhead asked, forking some fried potatoes into her mouth. She had a fair complexion with dark-brown eyes that told me that her hair could be dyed that shade of red.

“You can say so. This is in fact a trip down memory lane for me. My grandfather, on mother’s side, used to stay around here,” I answered her curiosity.

“Oh, I might have known him...”

“It could be, but he died around August 1972.”

“No, then I won’t. We only came here in 2001, some twenty-nine years later,” She chuckled.

“Are you from Cape Town?” I asked.

“No, the UK, in fact. I came out here with my hubby and started this place.”

I did not want to let on, but I caught the slight accent. “Scottish, by any chance?”

“Aberdeen. We came here for the fine weather, but it was to no avail. Bruce now resides on the hill up the road here on the side. His lungs were too far gone...”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be. It is okay. We expected it and he made his peace. He went quietly in his sleep; left me many fond memories, and this hotel.”

“I used to know this place as an old ruin. I must say you fixed it up well.”

“Thank you. So, what kind of work do you do, Mister Dee Lang?”

“I’m a bus driver.”

“You do drive a spiffy car for a bus driver...”

“Oh, I drive big busses. Those that have wings and tail feathers and can go to the UK on one tank of fuel.”

“You’re funny! Do all pilots have such a sense of humour?”

“I can’t vouch for the rest of the clan, but some of us can be entertaining.”

“Where about did your grandfather live?”

“He farmed a patch of land out on the Riviersonderend road. I came to know him after he gave up farming and moved into town. He had a patch of about eight acres just as you come into town, but that was bought out by the government of the time due to the Group Areas Act; making provision for the non-white township. Later, he moved to a place near the botanical gardens.”

“So, he’s been a Greytonian for his whole life. One of the original settlers?”

“Sort of,” I replied, finishing my lunch. “He was born here in the district in 1895. A little younger than this fine hotel of yours that was build in 1860.”

“You know your history, Mister Dee Lang. Say, how far out on the road did he farm?”

“In the old language, about seven miles out. Near Morningside Meadows. After he gave up farming he sold his land to the owners of Morningside Meadows.”

“Now that is interesting!”

“Why? Do you know Morningside Meadows?”

“I know of it. I’ve never been out there. There’s a sad story about the farm. The Louws, died two or three months ago in a car crash, leaving their only child, a girl of twenty or twenty-one. No other living relatives, only the daughter.”

“That’s bad!”

“Yeah, and the child has nowhere to go. The bank foreclosed on the farm, and it is up on auction in a week from now.”

“Damn! Sorry, I did not mean to curse,” I apologised. “Where is the girl now?”

“Apparently at varsity in Stellenbosch up to the end of this year. Then I don’t know what will happen. Seems like her funds for further study would not be available, but that is the gossip around these parts,” She chuckled, and I instantly knew that she was part of the news-flash broadcast centre here around town. The “have-you-heard-clan.”

“I think I will take a drive out there tomorrow. Maybe I could get to see my grandfather’s old homestead, before that becomes unavailable to visit...”

“Well, do so, Mister Dee Lang. Take some pictures. One must hold on to one’s memories...”

“Yes, you are right, Missus Smith. You are so right,” I sighed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I will take a stroll up the main street,” I said getting up.

“Please do so, Mister Dee Lang. You might see some of the old, and much of the new.”

“I did notice it coming into town. Then I might see you later, Missus Smith.”

“Oh, you can call me Mandy, everyone does. On the keys I gave you, there’s a key to the car gate, and the side entrance to your room.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. And by the way, you can call me Dusty. It’s my nickname.”

“Thanks, Dusty. The keys are part of the service. Sometime guests stay out till the crack of dawn, and I prefer my beauty sleep rather than getting up to open gates and doors all the time.”

“I will remember not to make a noise when I come in late. Not that I anticipate that I will be coming in late anyway.” Chuckle.

“Enjoy your stay, Dusty,” Mandy said and beckoned a waiter to come and clear the table.

I explored around the side streets of Greyton. There was once a café on Oak Street: “The Run-In Café,” as I recall. But now it seems to be converted into a modern two-story house. Much has changed since I’ve been here the last time.

The old post office on Botha Street was still there, but serving another function now. It was now the offices of the Teewaterskloof municipality. Next to it was a new open-air restaurant, serving the most delicious cakes and real coffee. I stopped there for a while.

The place was crowded, as can be expected from such a fine place. Nevertheless, I found a spot under the big oak tree next to a battered old ox-wagon. Someone did try to patch it up, but it will be more of a decoration now, and will never roll on the streets again.

The service was great and soon I had a chunk of cheesecake and good tasting pure freshly brewed Arabic coffee. I say a chunk of cheesecake, because I found that in this old rural village everything is done to satisfy the customer. If this was a slice of the cheesecake, I did not want to see the cake it came from. It must have had the circumference of an extra-large pizza!

A blond girl of about nineteen, looking lost and with a plate of something and a mug of coffee, stood looking over the crowd, apparently looking for a place to sit. As there was a space open by my table, I motioned her over.

“You can share my table, I don’t mind,” I invited as she came over.

“Thank you, Sir. I just got into town, and I’m famished,” she said and placed her plate and mug on the table. Then she swept her long blond hair over her shoulders with both hands, sat down, then reached for the ketchup bottle on the table.

I looked at the girl: not too shabby, slender with blue eyes and a 1000-watt smile. There was a slight indication of breasts under the t-shirt she had on, but nothing that would grace the pages of any male magazine.

“Well, I got here just this morning too,” I said, looking down at my cheesecake.

“From where are you?” She asked and got stuck into her plate of “garage pie and gravy.” Obviously, drenched with ketchup. She looked like a student, so money was tight, therefore I suppose she got the “garage pie and gravy” but drenching it with ketchup. Boy!

“Cape Town,” I replied and started to demolish the cheesecake.

“Oh! I’m from Stellenbosch. Andrea is my name. Andrea Louw,” She said, and I vaguely thought the surname sounded familiar.

“Dusty,” I replied.

“Yes, I’m dusty from the long trek from Stellenbosch, and desperately need a shower!” She smiled and forked a piece of pie into her mouth. No make-up, just a natural-looking, pretty young teen girl.

“No, I meant my name. I’m called, Dusty...”

“Oh, sorry! I...” She stumbled, a piece of pie in her mouth, her hand in front of her mouth.

“It’s quite alright,” I chuckled.

“No, I’m rude. My mom would have had my hide for being rude,” She professed, and a cloud passed in front of those sparkling ice-blue eyes.

“Well, your mom’s not here and I forgive you.”

“Yes ... My mom’s not here ... and will never be again...” She mumbled softly, moistness forming in her eyes. Then she straightened up, wiped her eyes with a paper napkin, and looked at me.

It suddenly dawned on me who this girl was. Morningside Meadows’ owner and the daughter of the late Louw couple. Damn! I couldn’t think of anything to say. What do you say to a young girl who has recently lost both of her parents and is about to lose her inheritance?

She had finished her pie and was looking at my cheesecake.

“You want some cheesecake?” I asked.

“Yeah ... No ... I’ll pass...”

“Come on, let me get you a slice.”

“I ... can’t...”

“Why? Are you diabetic?”

“NO!” She exclaimed and then softer, “I would be rude...”

I called the waitress. She arrived fast and looked at me: “Yes, Sir? Can I get you something else?”

“Yeah. How about a slice of that magnificent cheesecake for the lady, and a refill of both our coffee mugs, please?”

“Coming right up!” And she collected our mugs and Andrea’s empty plate, then went off. This always fascinated me. Here in South Africa, when you order a refill, they will serve it in a clean cup or mug.

“I ... I ... can’t pay for it. I still need to get a room for the night.”

“Who said you must pay for it? You’re my guest, so enjoy it. And if you want a room, the Posthouse is empty. I stay there and am the only guest.”

“The Posthouse is expensive!” she blurted.

“Andrea, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Yeah...”

“Are you the Andrea Louw from Morningside Meadows?” I asked.

She looked at me for a long time before she answered. “Yes, I am Andrea Louw from Morningside Meadows ... The bankrupt Louws of Morningside Meadows...”