Seller's Sadness

So much has been happening in our lives during the last three months that it's been difficult to know how to describe it.

We've lived in our big old house on the slopes of Table Mountain for sixteen years.  It's been fun living near a large city in an area buzzing with life; restaurants, coffee shops and book shops and beautiful parks all around, but the time has come to make the move to a quieter and less stressful way of life.  We've always dreamed of a seaside cottage out in the country and for many years Betty's Bay seemed to be a good choice.

So the house went on the market and a few stress-filled months ensued.  Keeping a home in immaculate order, ready for viewing at extremely short notice, at all times of the day is exhausting.  Then there were the show house days with prospective buyers trooping through your beloved rooms and describing how they would decorate, leaving you feeling as if you've been discovered in your underwear.  Anyway the right people came along at last, a nice couple with young children, and the deal was done.

In the meantime we found an interesting house in Betty's Bay, a row back from the sea, so we can still hear the waves and see the ocean from the first floor balconies, but not have to contend with seaspray covered windows.  It's set in a beautiful fynbos garden with magnificent mountain views from every window.  I'm going to have to learn a completely new type of gardening but it'll be a lot less labour intensive.

During all this upheaval, a flat had to be found for the youngest daughter who has been living back at home during her Masters year at Stellenbosch University.  After several nail biting weeks we found a neat little place in Greenpoint, a vibey area (a term beloved by estate agents) close to the Waterfront and the beach, so she'll be able to move in just before we move out.  Moving day for us is mid-November and we're now in the throes of packing up all our possessions.

Do we feel said about leaving?  Yes, this has been a happy house for us.  My first daughter was married from here and I remember occasions like my fiftieth when I made a birthday speech with a tiny new grandson cardled in my arms.  Then there were wedding anniversaries and birthdays, parties and friends to stay.  Sad times when the daughter and her family emigrated to Australia and both sets of grandparents passed away.  The consolation of the younger daughter returning home after ten years in London to stay at home while retraining for a second career, from opera singing to philosophy!

I will miss the days when the city bowl baked in the heat of summer; the times when the wind blasted around the house tumbling potplants and garden chairs; the rains of winter when the garden transformed into improbable shades of green; the soft balmy nights sitting outside in the dark, watching the chain of twinkling lights as crazy people made the new moon ascent of Lion's Head.

In the early mornings when I take my coffee out to the verandah I listen to the sounds of the city waking up while wild ducks and hadedas fly overhead and I hear a rooster crowing in the tiny farm on the slopes of Signal Hill.  The salty fresh air drifts up from the harbour, the fog horn booms its mournful cry and my heart is sad.  I know I will miss this place very much.

Blogger's Block

I've been suffering through a long period of complete inability to post anything at all on my blog.  I could blame the heat, lack of inspiration, the pressure of beginning of the year workload, or I could be honest and just admit that I've been feeling down and dull and unable to see anything interesting around me.

I subscribe to several newsletters which have recently commented on this subject, so it seems I'm not the only sufferer.  The main piece of advice they advocate is just to start writing something / anything about any subject, no matter how small and to refrain from too much analysis or judgment.  I thought long and hard about this and realised that the one activity I've kept up with is watering the garden and picking my roses.  The reason for this is that we've been experiencing incredibly hot, humid weather, particularly in the City Bowl where I live and you either water or your plants die.  Gardening in this winter rainfall area is particularly demanding in summer - the mountains seems to radiate heat out over the city and the temperature doesn't always drop much at night.  When the sun isn't burning the roses, the wind denudes them of petals and after that the bugs complete the destruction.

Despite all these problems I realised anew how rewarding roses are and how there's nothing more enjoyable than picking a fragrant bunch for the house.

The Just Joey rose in the picture was my darling father's favourite rose and everytime I bury my nose in its petals I'm reminded of the joy he experienced from his and my mother's fairly large collection of potted roses.  He didn't have as much time as he deserved to enjoy his roses (and his dahlias) in his golden retirement years but I think of both my parents when I potter around the rose shrubs.

The other rose is my favourite Abraham Darby which I thinks rivals any other variety for its sublime fragrance.  It's the only one of my English Roses which has flourished in the city bowl area, although I believe that new hardier varieties of the English Roses have been grown specifically for the harsher South African climate.  Maybe it's time to try some others again. I find the closely packed cup of petals and the delicate colour changes during the maturing process, just too beguiling to resist.

I'm drawn mostly to the  peachy-pink and yellow colours but it has to be said that the yellow roses attract the most stubborn and  annoying black and white spotted beetles which can devour and destroy a bud in short order.  I don't like to use non-organic sprays and unfortunately the organic ones are ineffective so I'm reduced to picking these little wretches off by hand.  I've always been squeamish about doing this but a little bit of healthy annoyance at the insect destruction has hardened my resolve.

And there we have it - at last a new post to break the dry spell, perhaps more personal that I'm using to sharing, but I'm glad to be on the return trail at last!

You must have been a beautiful baby ...

Tomorrow morning my sister and I are going to a baby shower for her daughter in law.  Each guest has been asked to bring along a photograph of themselves as a baby.  With the building work still in progress and our lives now restricted to the kitchen and bedroom and office work taking up to ten hours a day, I had a moan about having to dig deep into dusty cupboards and boxes to find a baby picture of myself.

 My parents owned a Brownie Box camera and I've seen beautiful photographs taken with these cameras but, unfortunately, they weren't taken by my folks.  To find a picture where a third of the baby wasn't cut off or photographed from a distance was a fairly difficult exercise.  After paging through three albums full of photos of people I couldn't identify I found  this picture which I rather like, mainly because of its simplicity - just a smiling baby dressed in vest and nappy lying in a deckchair.  

I know from seeing the clothing I was dressed in that it must have been an exceptionally hot and humid day and from the old-fashioned beachchair I know that we must have been visiting my grandparents.  In an instant memories of childhood holidays spent at my grandparents' home flooded back.  My sisters and I waking each morning to the smell of freshly baked bread, grandpa having risen early each morning to bake; watching the cows being milked and marvelling at the little calves with their beautiful, gentle faces; hiding under the large wooden table on the back verandah eating stolen oranges; delving into a brown paper packet filled with a tempting variety of old-fashioned sweets (candy?) which grandpa always kept for us in his office drawer; lying in bed at night and drowsing off while the flickering little flames of the dying fire lit the room enough to allay our dark night fears.

I guess you could say that my rather ungracious agreement to find a baby picture actually turned into a happy  trip back into childhood memories and, with any luck, the start of a project to digitize the best family photos if only I can find them.  My sisters are going to be getting some phonecalls this weekend!

Free Kittens

Over to Kleinmond Harbour to book for lunch the following day for my daughter's birthday.  We always go to the small blue and white fishing restaurant that overlooks the harbour.  The road to the small fishing harbour has undergone quite a transformation in the last couple of years and is now lined with interesting antique, craft and bygones shops.  This was the first sign to catch my eye.  Moms, don't say you weren't warned!

This sign was outside my favourite shop which promises and really does deliver on its name.  Wandering around in here brought back memories of my gran's collection of cutglass scent bottles, delicate embroidered handkerchiefs and silk scarves folded between sheets of  tissue paper;   my aunt's glamorous jewel coloured satin evening dresses and high heeled dancing shoes which she allowed my sisters and I to try on; my mom's precious Blue Grass perfumes, soaps and creams given to her by my dad and kept tucked away in her cupboard thereafter; her small collection of jewellery in satin-lined boxes.

I remember using a basin and ewer just like this to wash in as a child when we arrived in the starry darkness of a Karoo night at the farm of an old family friend years and years ago.  No electricity, no piped water, just a wash and change into pyjamas in front of the fire, hot cocoa and into bed, under a handmade quilt.  Freezing cold, utter peace, the knowledge that our parents were right in the living room next door, the gentle murmer of conversation lulling us off to sleep.

When I got married in the in the late sixties I couldn't wait to furnish my home with "modern" furniture quite unlike the beautiful and functional tables and dressers in my gran's home.  Now I have two of these lovely old pieces, painted with my own fair hands, and filled with my collection of twenties and thirties teacups and milk jugs.  And the seventies furntiure?  None of it lasted, but strangely enough, I read in magazines that it's highly collectible now.  Go figure.

Can't seem to keep myself out of the picture.

I so appreciate hardworking people who take such care to make small gardens where ever they can and I always feel obliged to go into their shops, so I guess it works both ways.

And so to tea at the Potter's Garden, a delightful courtyard area, filled with potted flowering and foliage plants, a splashing water feature and a small but perfect plant nursery.  Also, as the name suggests, a pottery shop with the most incredible dishes and platters.  Tea and cake in this peaceful place, cut off completely from the hustle and bustle outside, is a soothing and refreshing experience.