And there we were, barrelling along 'tween Grahamstown and Bedford in Henry the Campervan while magical golden evening light enticed hidden tones of sparkling colour from farmland, mountain and trees. Truly, this is an enchanted time of day in magnificent countryside and all's well with the world.
With a singular lack of planning and prearrangement, sometimes our vague accommodation plans are thwarted and today's were placed into that category by the unexpected closure of Bedford's one and only campsite. However, the helpful owner pointed us towards Alicedale in search of The Old Mill 'opposite the cricket ground'. Nine kilometres of rumbly gravel road ended at a gateway charmingly over-arched with tangled creeper.
There is something both olde world and other worldly about this part of the country. The vast landscape bathed in crystal light, little towns with architecture from another age, slumbering farmhouses snugly settled into the land and glowing like semi-precious stones on a backdrop of green velvet. Strikingly marked and hued cattle contentedly seek out nibbles in fields of grazing sheep and horse-filled paddocks lie alongside wide expanses of bush dotted with springbok and hartebeest. This land oozes a soul-soothing unguent.
The friendly farmer recovered well from the shock of a large campervan parked in his garden and our perky enquiry about camping and offered us a spot next to his cricket ground complete with access to the players' dressing room. Honestly, we'd landed in heaven - cows placidly levelled the outfield and the loudest noise was a gentle breeze sighing in the treetops.
The Old Mill Cricket Ground lies at the foot of blue-tinged mountains, encircled by oaks surely planted by an 1820 settler family and quirky touches like the school desk and benches spectator seating while the mill itself houses a pub heaving with cricket memorabilia. More English village than African farmland, peace and tranquility descended faster than the setting sun and life was several galaxies beyond heavenly.
Needless to say, we slept the sleep of angels, even the munching cows couldn't delay our fall into lala-land. And the noises which sounded like people moving about were obviously mischievous oak branches on tin roofs. No second thoughts about that. Zzzzzzz.
Bright, sparkly sunlit drew us up and about but surely it was too early for the farmers adorable toddler to be up and giggling? "I also heard children," Him Outdoors confirmed. "Early risers." Perhaps, but they sounded as if they were right next to us yet not a sign of them.
Grabbing my camera, I began a leisurely meander around the buildings and found a plaque dedicated to a young man killed at the mill years before. Oh, yes, I forgot to mention that nugget dug out of Google. Apparently, he was dragged in by the wheel and drowned, and the farmer closed the mill forever. A sad story but not one that worried us last night and yet as I stared at the plaque, a strong thought erupted and pounded at my consciousness. There is a spirit here and he wants us to leave.
Flying over the bridge back to the van, Him Outdoors struggled to understand my gabble. "What plaque? What ghost? What are you on about?" Dragging him back to the memorial, I pointed at the pair of men's sandals neatly placed alongside. "Those were NOT there when I was photographing 5 minutes ago!"
"Oh, come off it. The guy who switched the water on for us last night left his shoes here."
"Really? Those shoes are dry, and it rained last night. And where is he? We're alone and have been since we woke up."
"Do you want to shower and leave then?"
"Yes please. We have to go as soon as possible, he really wants us gone." I felt this pumping through my veins - no harm, but we must leave.
Mysteriously enough, the state of the art gas geyser, while appearing to work (LED thermostat glowed reassuringly, the thing made all the right working noises) but the water ran stubbornly cold. Refusing a cold shower, I bustled about and packed up at record speed. We needed to hurry.
Popping the last things into Henry, I glanced up to see the farmer rubbing his arms and looking perturbed at whatever Him Outdoors was relating. "You husband told me about hearing children," he said. "That makes me shiver. No children have died here at the mill but if you go through that gate and across two paddocks you'll find a graveyard filled with children's graves."
No need, thank you. And as we drove away on a glorious morning filled with promise, three shepherds herded a small flock of recalcitrant sheep past us onto the cricket oval.
I checked - they were all wearing shoes.
Thanks to literature, we have names for Christmas spoilsports - Scrooge and Grinch. But New Year? None that I know of but if you have something, let me know. Because I'm one of those people terminally bored by the New Year thing.
I'm the person at the party incredulously knee deep in the desperation of people to Have a Good Time, determinedly celebrating the movement of a clock. The same people who bemoan the frantic passing of time and are markedly less enthusiastic about a birthday.
I'm the woman wearing a sardonic twist to her eyebrow as folk eagerly exclaim about how brilliant this year is going to be, much better than last.
Why? How? We turned a calendar page, got a day older, amended the final digit in a date. But changed fortunes? Nah.
Him Outdoors and I spent the 31st December 2016 in Cintsa, a darling little seaside village on South Africa's east coast and saw in the New Year with neighbours who a few hours before were strangers. Pieter and Marlize were funny, interesting sharers of anecdotes and adventures, and respectfully roared with laughter at ours too. Our New Year good fortune began when Pieter slunk off then reappeared bearing a bottle of the most delicious Glen Carlou 'The Welder' dessert wine - he's a regional manager for the wine estate. Now that's a useful friendship to cultivate!
We awoke a few hours later somewhat thirsty and hoarse, eager for a fry up breakfast. Our new friends popped in and we looked around, mutually agreeing that nope, nothing had changed. Same blue sky, dazzling sunlight, tight belt (it's been a long, indulgent road trip!) and expectations that today, tomorrow and next week will follow the same routine and challenges as yesterday and last week.
And life went straight back to normal (whatever that means, I suspect our life is material for a horror/drama novel rather than a romance filmed through golden light). Within hours we were fielding calls about various issues, answering emails, online banking and agreeing that one of us needed to do some laundry, with the usual debate as to who's turn it was.
At one point I stopped walking, causing Him Outdoors to wrench my arm almost from it's socket with the unscheduled pause. (OK, we were holding hands on a beach walk.)
"I have this overwhelming feeling of déjà vu," I burst out. "It feels like ground hog day. Not this romantic walk, but just plodding along with the same old, same old routine guide rails. My head is turning around things I have to do, making mental notes and it's all the usual stuff I was doing daily last year. Finishing off a story, making a dental appointment, thinking about a car service, vowing to kick procrastination in the butt and finally settle down to some serious writing."
"That's what you say every day," his response. "When ARE you going to write that book?" Indeed. No New Year resolution behind that thought at all, merely repetitive contemplation.
And there, gentle reader, you have it. A road trip adventure, mind blown away by so many interesting sights and experiences yet the dull routine waiting just below the surface. We just can't leave it behind. An annual frenzy of overindulgence on every front, organisation stress and labour, a few days downtime and then whoopsie, the brain fires up like a rusty generator and we're back into the rut.
Frankly, no amount of eagerness takes this stuff away and hopeful expectations of a different life beginning on a particular day is lunacy. Challenges, disappointments, accidents, happy moments, health issues and exciting news will occur as the year unfolds. Like they did last year. No special magic because we put the word New in front of Year.
So flip the calendar and diary over (really? You still use paper?!) teach your brain to write the different digit and get up every morning with cheer. This is your life and as long as you have shelter, food, are able to earn some income and have good friends and a loving family, you are cracking 2017 already.
Just don't call it New.
