Winter warmer, Limpopo style

I return to Limpopo in winter. To Magoebaskloof and to Agatha, my ancestral home. I am struck by the sheer beauty of it all. Ancient trees, autumn colours and golden light. And I am struck by the loving spirit of the funky new eateries and fabulous farm cafes in the area. Here are my highlights:

This gorgeous red head I am enchanted by this tree on the edge of the dam at Sequoia Garden Retreat. This once regal garden was started yonks ago by the Holloway family who planted the first sequoia trees in Magoebaskloof. Now, under new owners, Guy and Nina van Heerden, the garden has been restored, redefined and gotten all sexy again. Go in autumn for a spectacle of red and gold; go in spring for the pink and purple number. Just go. It’s beautiful.  www.sequoiastay.com

Dreamy cottage Oh Meadow Cottage you stole my heart. One of the cottages at Sequoia Garden Retreat is this soul space called Meadow Cottage. Stone and wood, it looks out over a dam and is tickled by the winter grass. In the late afternoon I walk over the dam wall and savour this reflection. Meadow Cottage is a fabulous spot for a romantic weekend, writing retreat or a frisky honeymoon.  www.sequoiastay.com

A fresh new take I spend the night at the stylish new Viewpoint Eatery and Guesthouse. The rooms are calm and spacious; the decor is funky and the food is slow, gourmet, fresh, wholesome, yummy. Ninia Knott is chief cook and bottle washer here, and she's raised the style levels of the mountain with this little charmer. Stay over or go for a meal with gracious views; the restaurant is open Wednesday to Sunday. www.facebook.com/Viewpoint-Guesthouse-and-Eatery-1801176226875735/

That Tree I haven't been back to Kingwalden for months. It was once our family home and is now a hotel. I take a long slow G&T on the veranda and gaze upon the mountains and the famous lightning tree. It's an old silver blue gum which was brought out here in 1908 by my grandfather's first wife Muriel. It was struck by lightning the night his second wife, my grandmother Elsie died. It's a very long story but I have time to talk to both of them and other spirits of the tree. www.kingswalden.co.za

Garden of my Ancestors  There is still wild poetry to be had in the Kingswalden gardens even though they are forlorn and neglected due to Circumstances. The garden keeps growing and changing and I catch the magic of my mother's hand here at the Bibigar, the dam at the edge of the garden, created for the female spirits and the cats. www.kingswalden.co.za

Sarah’s Garden Sarah steps into the sunshine to say hello. This garden was designed by my mother for Sarah Cullinan, who was my brother Brett's girlfriend and who died in 1988 at the age of 28 in a car crash. I love Sarah and I love that she always comes to say hello. www.kingswalden.co.za

The Bibigar I take this photograph on the winter solstice. Yes, this is the middle of winter in the subtropics at Kingswalden gardens. I love the pink plectranthus and the acid green sword ferns all tangled together. Frenzied calm. www.kingswalden.co.za

Golden delicious I love Mina's Art Cafe and Farm Venue in the heart of Magoebaskloof. Everyone loves Mina's. Denise and Rob Tooley have made an old farmhouse into a charming venue and playground and Mina's is an icon of the soul spirit of Magoebaskloof. Mina's does weddings, parties, neighbourhood food markets, music evenings, happy gatherings. There are three self catering cottages and a campsite,. Think simple and earthy, candle light and long rivers walks. Next door is the fabulous Zwakala Brewery. www.minas.co.za

 This is my favourite bridge, at the bottom of the Magoebaskloof, as you head towards Modjadjiskloof. Goodbye for now my ancestral province, I shan't be too long.  

Sex, spring, mountain gardens

Hopeful shoot, bursting bud. Wicked, wicked anthurium (yes that’s the rude pink one in the photo). It’s impossible to ignore the arousal of spring out here in the mountains of the Magoebaskloof, Limpopo. Everywhere I look there’s a flirtatious azalea, a blossoming cherry, the sweet smelling jasmine. I cannot stay at my desk, I have to get out and explore.

Marloe’s Garden I head for the jardim of the fabulous Marloe Scott Wilson. Soft view, tall trees, horses, dogs, cats, delight. We sit on the porch and drink wine and talk gardens and life. Marloe got into urban gardening in London in the 70s and is passionate about edible gardens, companion planting, making compost, planting at the new moon, talking to your seedlings and using available resources. All the things that make me go zing. I leave with bunches of greens and packets of heirloom seeds.

Oh me oh my, the clivias I go completely weak kneed at the sight of a flowering clivia which is making morning walks a wobbly affair. Every shady garden pocket in Haenertsburg village is lit with the clivias flowering in peach, apricot, orange, yellow-orange, vermillion, tangerine. I grow them from seed for pleasure, and think of my mother and the fabulous Lisa Atherstone who has a clivia nursery in the dreaming heights of George’s Valley near here. www.wholsesale-nursery.co.za

Hello Cheerio We walk gently as friends in the afternoon under the pin oaks and crab apples; gaze greedily at the outrageous spectacle of azaleas, cherry blossoms and water. Cheerio Gardens are the mountain’s most famous English exotic gardens and were started by the pioneering Box Thompson after the First World War.  

www.cheeriogardens.co.za

Sequoia Another treasure of Magoebaskloof is the gentle, gracious Sequoia Gardens, lovingly tended over the years by the delightful Jack Holloway. I do slow pans across calming dam views, close ups into the erotic blue iris. I may never be the same again. See Jack’s blog on https://sequoiagardens.wordpress.com

Albie’s Orchid I drink a whisky with Albie Leiding, pharmacist, philosopher, gardener and gentleman. He lives in Agatha in Tzaneen and the orchids in his house and on his veranda delight us every spring and summer. He tends them carefully. He knows their Latin names, their daily mood swings, their favourite songs. Pure plant porn.

My grandmother’s tibouchinas Like ballerinas in pink tutus these trees prance across the garden stage, frilly and delightful. They were my grandmother Elsie Tooley’s favourite trees and they’re flowering early this year. Wander with a G&T www.kingswalden.co.za

Horse shit I head for the fabulous Denise Tooley at Minas and load up 100kg of compost and horse and sheep manure. The horses, Tigger, Amber and Naledi are very beautiful, especially when sun kissed, but they can be unruly if not downright anarchic. Denise shouts at them when they get into the veggie garden but we are still grateful for their help in enriching the Minas gardens and my very own. www.minas.co.za

Ten reasons to visit Magoebaskloof now

The spring show is about to begin “In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when the birds do sing, hey-ding-a-ding ding, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wee, ta-witta-woo!”  Come and see the astonishing spring spectacle on our mountain here in Limpopo province as the azaleas and cherry blossoms do their wild pink, purple, peach thang and everything is reflected in silver dams. It’s completely outrageous. OMG, sweetmotherofmary, hawu, yona yo, faints with delight. The annual Spring Fair is on from the 24^th of September to the 2^nd of October.  www.mountaingetaways.co.za

There’s fabulous soul food Mina’s Neighbourhood Food Market is happening on the 4^th of September and it’s the best food jol on the mountain featuring gourmet burgers, trout platters, sushi, curry, bliss bowls and more. All in a glorious farm setting with cool people and hot music. www.minas.co.za

The cemetery has views to die for Set amongst old gardens and ancient trees at the top of the hill with far reaching views, Haenertsburg has a fabulous cemetery and everyone visits it all the time: happy hikers, sentimental relatives, cooing lovers, groping teenagers, day trippers, weekenders, the whole lot. Pack a picnic or sundowners and head up the hill www.magoebasklooftourism.co.za

The beer is flowing There’s a new brew rising here on the mountain. Zwakala Brewery, Limpopo’s first organic craft brewery has opened its doors and its taps. The name Zwakala means ‘come closer’ and people from all over the world are pulling in, including a couple in a small car who drove all the way from Germany. Seriously. www.zwakalabrewery.co.za

There’s a brilliant bookshop Go for a long slow book browse followed by breakfast and a moerkoffie or a lazy lunch at the Pennefather bookshop in the main road. They’ve got a great selection of second hand books, Africana and collectibles. www.pennefather.co.za

The cheese is organic Blessed are the cheesemakers as Monty Python said. Wegraakbosch Farm produces a delicious range of totally, like totally, organic cheeses. And milk and veggies and chourico sausages. Take a tour of the farm and cheese factory and end it all with a lunch platter overlooking the blue mountains. wegraakbosch.wixsite.com/wegraakbosch/organic-dairy

The people are crazy Nice crazy. Friendly and eccentric and upbeat now that the spring is springing. Take a stroll down the main street – yes there’s only one – and meet assorted locals who are more than happy to ply you with food, hooch, craft, trinkets, plants and good conversation. And you can put unruly children in the village stocks! www.magoebasklooftourism.co.za

The scenery is incredible The Magoebaskloof area is Scenery Central. I’m talking wild mountains, thick indigenous forests, rolling endemic grasslands, happy waterfalls, chortling rivers, silver dams…

There are amazing places to stay Take your pick from farm cottages, village B&Bs, mountain hideaways and country hotels. www.limpopobookings.co.za

The pub is feckin fabulous Named after the highest peak in the area, the local pub the Iron Crown is the place for good food and cheer - try their delicious Haenertsburger. If you ring the bell inside you have to buy the whole pub a round – you have been warned!

My beautiful crazy cage

In some Freudian, Pink Floyd-ian way, I guess I did exchange a walk on part in a war for a lead role in a cage. Last year I fell in love, took eighteen aeroplanes, travelled nearly 80 000km, went to New York, Hawaii, Malawi, Ilha de Mocambique, Thailand, Maputo twice and Jozi about ten times. I moved house, packed up the family home, wrote another book (watch this space September!), suffered heartbreak and ego’s sorry defeat, moved house again and now here I am, completely exhausted and living in this beautiful crazy cage.

A sun flooded porch enclosed by metal and roses. Burglar bar baroque, art in the face of adversity. It’s at the front of my house on village edge, Haenertsburg heart of the Magoebaskloof in Limpopo, and it overlooks distant mountains and soft green hills and a little school with a very loud bell. I don’t have a fence just a tumble of lawn and shrubbery, nor do I have an actual house number so I am considering making a sign outside: 69 Mandela Corner. 

Being South Africa, fucked-up-cowboy- country, even in this mountain paradise we must live in cages these days, not realising the worst are in our minds, but at least my cage is pretty. My ex-neighbour doesn’t like it. He’s more of a Trellidor kinda guy, and he also has a home security system. At least he doesn’t have a white picket fence.

“These things are bloody horrible”, he said furling his lip at the metal roses. But I think they’re fabulous. Okay they do tend to snag tights, tear jeans and shred shins if you approach the cage too fast under the influence of tequila but hey, at least I’m allowed out. 
And there is astonishing eccentricity beyond my cage. 

I’m new to village life. In between gallivanting, I’ve been based on a remote farm for the past decade or so. Now I can walk to the bookshop and coffee shop, chat to the locals, pop in at the watering holes, you know, generally, stroll around the grounds like Mrs Robinson until I feel at home. 

Love this bookshop

Me being a thrower of pots and this being a village, everyone knew of my sorry heartbreak within about five seconds of it happening and since I moved to the crazy cage I have been showered with typical village loving. You look so sad, said a man in the trading store the other day, let me give you a big hug. You look cold said my new neighbour, here’s a hot water bottle. You look like you need a tequila said a new best friend, here’s a tequila. I may have overplayed the pity card a bit, but this little village has given me so many kind things, from hangovers and takeaways to heaters, hot gossip and colourful tales of their own lives. I am deeply grateful. 

Tired Rasta mop

And since I’m still so tired and yet starting to have fun again, I'm in no real rush to, you know, actually sort out my cage. It's currently a nest of blankets, unpacked boxes and badly stacked books. Only today did I stop using my ice bucket as a fridge and borrowed a real one. I’m not particularly known to be a domestic goddess – I only have one very tired mop that looks like an emaciated Rasta – but I don't care. It's my cage.  

The best of times, the worst of times

Tintin my man! 

If I hadn’t have fallen in love I wouldn’t have had my heart broken. But if I hadn’t had my heart broken I would never have found out that I am related to Tintin! 

OMG can you believe it?! 
It’s almost worth the pain.

Mysteriously, there is no Belgian blood in my veins. I am thoroughly South African, but ancestrally English, Scottish and Irish, and I had a bit of Welsh in me recently until the fucker betrayed me and went back to the environs of Cardiff.  But Tintin himself actually wrote to me in person the other day, and the fact that I had a cat called Snowy once is now extraordinarily auspicious.

“Dear Bridget”, wrote Tintin – after my last blog about meandering morosely and miserably about the local cemetery - “What a wonderful blog. You are my 1st cousin of the husband of my 6th cousin Eleonore Dorothy Melck. My Mum’s ashes are in the Haenertsburg cemetery and so will mine and my partners be one day. Also buried there is the wife of my 2nd great-uncle. Eliza Devenish nee Short. She knew General Piet Joubert and her father was a friend of Charles Dickens.”

Tintin Joubert 

At this point I feel I must mention that this Tintin’s surname is Joubert. Not that that changes anything of course. If anything, it adds a certain frisson to the overall mystery. I am obviously delighted to be connected to Tintin, who according to both popular mythology and Wikipedia, “had a sharp intellect, could defend himself, and was honest, decent, compassionate, and kind. Through his quick thinking, and all-round good nature, was always able to solve the mystery and complete the adventure.” That’s pretty much me, isn’t it?  Apart from the completing the adventure part, perhaps, and er, maybe solving the mystery. Mmmmm, decent, compassionate, kind, ok well whatever…

But to be entirely honest, I am not that happy about the Joubert connection, since Commandant General Piet Joubert was the man who ordered the beheading of Chief Makgoba, a local chief here in Magoebaskloof in the 1800s. During what they call the Boer-Makgoba Wars, Joubert ordered a team of Swazi bounty hunters to flush Chief Magkoba out of the deep forests, and return with his head, which they did. There is a great deal of local lore and legend about Makgoba, and the whereabouts of his head remains a mystery although I have it on pretty good authority that it’s somewhere in Germany in the household of the family Altenroxel.

Deep in the Magoebaskloof forests 

Never mind. The fact that my Tintin’s relatives – and therefore mine – knew Charles Dickens is of course a huge upside. So let’s skip the heartbreak and the beheadings and the torrid stuff – and let me leave you with this Dickensian profundity, which could apply to anything from politics to heartbreak. It’s from A Tale of Two Cities, and it reads thus: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…”

Love, loss and the leather jacket

It is a great relief to move from the Visitor of the Week at the local bottle store stage of heartbreak, to the Visiting the Local Cemetery phase. It may seem odd to want to visit a cemetery whilst under emotional duress, but it’s like less Chateau de Nervous System, for goodnessakes and more gentle philosophising. At least you’re still alive.

And Haenertsburg has the most beautiful cemetery among ancient trees at the top of a hill with astonishing views. Views to die for, that’s what the locals say, and everyone visits it all the time: happy hikers, grieving relatives, drunken lovers, curious historians, late night teenagers toking and groping, daytrippers, the heartbroken.

You can sit upon a memorial bench and gaze upon the Iron Crown, highest peak in the district, and the Ebenezer Dam beyond the grasslands. Or you can browse the graves. There lies he who started the first sawmill, she who made the most beautiful garden and once walked all the way to Louis Trichardt when it was still bushveld. Pioneers, adventurers, traders. That one was the last Duke of Atholl, that one over there was once married to that one back there, and that one there. Ja, that caused some kak. Aah that one, head on collision with a kudu; that one, drank herself to an early grave. 

There are beautiful groves of ancient hardwood and exotic pin oaks. Some lavish headstones and moving inscriptions. Around a hedge, remnants of the apartheid days, is the black part of the cemetery; fewer graves, more humble, one just a mound of earth with a chipped blue enamel cup on it.

The cemetery is cared for by a cemetery keeper who lives here; there were reassuring puffs of smoke from his little cottage in the wild flowers. But since I didn’t think he was up for the heartbreak chat, I sat a while with young John Allen, who was taken too young in a car crash. His mom Minki, who owns a coffee shop in the village, gave her late son’s full length black leather Uzzi jacket to his friend Alex. Alex’s mom Nina, my friend, lent it to me last year when I went in search of love in Hawaii.

How fucked up is that? I said to young John. Not that I needed your jacket in Hawaii of course, it being in the middle of the Pacific you know, like surfing and six pack stomachs and lank military okes. I needed it to get through New York en route. It was seriously cold bru, so thanks for your jacket which kept me warm and strong. I had to have the hem taken up by the way, since you were a tall lad. I took it to an upholsterer in Tzaneen.

Anyway, me and your jacket - and you in the pocket of course - hit the coldest winter like evah, but we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and walked the entire length of Central Park, checked out Manhattan and MOMA and the graffiti in Williamsburg. Got lost in damn Bedford Stuyvesant, Bed Stuy, a rough hood. Nighttime, wrong station, no more travel pass or cash. Jeez, blonde hey? Had to walk seventeen blocks and got home with the helpful directions of a Jamaican, a Congolese and a real New Yorker. Even bummed a smoke in a Hispanic spaza shop. I told the oke I was from Jozi, he didn’t argue. Anyway John it’s been lekker talking to you about life, death, heartbreak, damn lies and statistics. Your jacket is back with Alex now.