Ghost in the Machine

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.