Flower season notes

Non-officially flower season starts about now. Clanwilliam is pretty much in the middle of the area, the southern reach of which goes right down the West Coast towards Darling and Melkbosstrand, and northwards towards Springbok in Namaqualand.

If there has been enough rain during the earlier months of the year, a warm day will see flowers come out by mid-July, as indeed they are appearing, in Namaqualand at the moment, and in small patches around Clanwilliam, too.

By now most accommodation establishments are fairly full for the flower season. Pick the one of your choice, and if they can't help you with the dates you require, phone the Tourism Office (027 4822024, in Clanwilliam) and they will tell what's available for what date. They keep a list of flower season accommodation availability that is regularly updated.

The weather is the obvious factor that will make or ruin flower-finding. If there's no sun, the flowers won't open. I once had a frantic call from prospective guests in Japan. "We come this weekend, just for flowers! Yes? You have room? We come just for weekend! You can help?"

"No!" I was aghast. "It's too far to take such a chance for one weekend! Don't come!"

Not very adventurous advice, but then, I'm never adventurous with some-one else's time and money. It doesn't have to rain to put the flowers to sleep. Cloud will do it, too.

The next thing to watch for is to make sure that the sun is behind you if you want to see the full vista of open flowers. They look at the sun. If you're looking at the sun too, your face is pointing away from, not towards open flowers.

Pace yourself according to how far you want to travel in a day. Clanwilliam is in the middle of the extended area, but you know what distance you're comfortable with. You probably won't want to go all the way to Kammieskroon, for instance. The drive, the flower-seeking and the return will probably be too much. The Biedouw Valley is close by. Various routes into the Cederberg, taken slowly, can be magnificent.

Daily communication with other flower seekers and info offices is a good idea. I hear guests swopping notes over breakfast, and being greatly helped. The Clanwilliam Tourism Office develops flower routes as the season progresses. Daily updates are available. I would advise planning flower routes on short notice rather than long forecasts. Daily news is good to go by. The cloud-map is extremely unpredictable.

Come with a relaxed attitude. If it's "I will see flowers if it kills me" you won't die if you don't see flowers, but the fun will. And if the illustrious Law of Attraction works, flowers, sun and you will surely find synch, if your soul is filled with grace of colour and contentment, as the fields of flowers are. You find what you are. Enough esoterica.

Plan your day and route in respect of your meals. If you have nibbles and drinks with you, you won't need restaurants. If that's okay, you can be more free to change routes.

In Clanwilliam, a typical day's weather pattern for good weather works like this: it's heavily misty from early till later because of the town being between the Olifants River and the Jan Dissels River. At about ten to ten thirty the mist lifts and the clear sky opens the way for sunlight. The temperature could be about 20 - 22C. If you stay in the sun, a short-sleeved top can work.

Listen to locals, even if their directions seem odd. I once heard people being directed in entirely the wrong direction, so take care, too. But so what? You're on holiday, and life is as short as a flower season, and equally unpredictable. Wear lotion. Speak slowly. And don't pick flowers. That hurts the universe.

 

When is a good time to visit the Cederberg?

As a preamble, South Africa is a good place to visit, notwithstanding bad press. It's unfortunate that our national image looks really silly if not downright stupid from time to time, but that can nearly always be laid at the feet of our politicians, and certainly not our geography.

South Africa has many geographic, cultural and natural faces, and from the deep silence of the Karoo to the open, roaring throat of the Augrabies to the mystery of the Cango Caves to the vista of Table Bay to the baffling question of where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans begin and end, there's more than enough for a lifetime's travelling.

As usual, preferences can be applied to the Cederberg, with its inland towns of Clanwilliam, Graafwater, Citrusdal, Wuppertal and coastal towns of Lambert's Bay and Elands Bay. Not everyone enjoys the intense heat of mid-summer, peaking in February, up to 45C, and over, yet I have seen guests relishing the challenge of logging their mountain hike on some of the hottest days.

My own favourite seasons are spring and autumn, when the weather is warm, mild, with an edge of cold in the mornings and evenings. It's not always about the season, though. For me, travelling is about mood. Like a face, place has a sense of being singular and having many moods. When you feel a place's mood, it's like getting to know a person. I remember standing still one day in the middle of Southern Namibia, knowing how solitary I was in all those square miles empty of another human, yet not feeling lost or desolate. I remember waking up in the samll hours somewhere in the Karoo, and going outside to sense the surrounding air, hearing infinitesimal subtle noises that made the vast backdrop of darkness and silence even more tangible.

The Cederberg has its own many moods and if anyone were to ask me when to visit, my answer would be "Now". The appeal of the place has to experienced. I doubt if it can be explained. The mountain range is not cosy, the weather can be intimidating. The extraordinary beauty of the sping-flowers is transitory. Yet in every mood there's an ancient face to be glimpsed, and many stories to be found.

If visitors are looking for bright lights and glamour, they will look in vain for these in the Cederberg. The spirit of the place speaks more clearly from depth to depth. I have seen visitors coming back from a day's excursion, having been touched in wordless ways by what has been experienced.

"Did you have a good day?" is our usual question.

They will put down the small bag, or bottle of water. Their hands will go up in appeal for words. "Wonderful!" is often the first one. And then the search for the explanation of what is wonderful.

Which time of year does this happen? All times. Which season? All of them. What disappoints guests? To be truthful, I can think of a handful who decided that the weather was against them, either because of rain or heat, I think also of a couple who were expecting a casino.

The spring flowers are always a major attraction, yet this is only one face of the area. The other many moods are always there, to whisper, command and captivate the appreciative attention.

Hot season

Now that we're into March, we can start looking forward to some cooling down. Summer heat is intense in Clanwilliam, with maximum temperatures going over 40C in the shade, and into the 50C range in the sun. I heard someone mention something about 60C the other day, but I preferred not to listen.

It's actually not so bad. With aircon, cold drinks, and cool interiors, and of course the big tree protecting Saint du Barrys with its immense shade, summer goes by with plenty of guests enjoying the change from minus degreees of severe cold in Europe during these months. In particualr, those who suffer from arthritis and other movement-restrictive conditions may find relief offered by the heat.

The Cederberg mountain range was on fire in large spread out areas for weeks. The fire was started by lightning, and wind caused it to jump and spread. Many hectares were burnt and the threat to farmlands and farmsteads was high, yet the firefighters were dedicated and skilled, and protected farms successfully. A well-loved local man died while involved in fire-fighting, and the sadness of this will be felt for a long time. Bushmanskloof went on high alert when the fire starting moving towards the resort, but was not damaged although guests were evacuated for safety's sake.

The socio-political season was hot, too, with striking farm-workers threatening violent action, and damaging farms in the Western Cape. Clanwilliam was fortunate to have minimal disruption. A crowd gathered at a a couple of different corners for two days, but was swiftly dispersed by police when protesting became rowdy. No damage was done.

With regard to fashion, nothing happened in Clanwilliam. In these summer months, light clothing and something on your head is the order of the day.

During March temperature levels can still be high, but local folk know that the end is in sight. Soon enough, cold air with curve in from the Atlantic, bringing seasonal change. Autumn and spring months bring almost perfect weather, neither too hot nor too cold. The evenings beg for braais. I have a new system for getting a fire ready quite quickly, although most of the point of having a braai is sitting or standing around the fire having chats and drinks. It takes twenty to twenty-five minutes to have coals on one side and flames on the other; on goes the steak or the chops, and ten to fifteen minutes later you have the perfect steak or the perfect chop. Forget about wine at sophisticated temperature. I don't like putting ice in expensive wine, so I go for quaffing sauvignon blanc, chenin blanc or blanc de noir, with enough ice to keep it cold. Winter will be long enough for the reds.

Shopping in Clanwilliam

As far as I know there are two Clanwilliams in the world: one in Ireland, and the other in South Africa in the Cederberg region. It is the latter that has reference in this blog. I have never been to Clanwilliam in Ireland, but I would think that there are considerably more shops in that main street than there are in this main street. This information is written for guests at Saint du Barrys and indeed all propective visitors to Clanwilliam who want to know about shopping in Clanwilliam for practical and therapeutic purposes. Most visitors do not come to the Cederberg for the shopping experience and certainly Clanwilliam does not compete with Dubai, Zurich or New York in this respect. The most common questions we are asked are like this:

Is there a general store and when is it open?

There is a Spar, in fact a SuperSpar which means it's a bigger one with more lines and ranges, and it's open for seven days a week from seven till seven, except for Christmas Day and Good Friday. There are also other general stores, but the Spar is the best stocked.

We are not often asked about liqour stores, but here is the information: I have seldom looked for alcohol in the early morning, but I do know that Tops opens at eight in the morning and closes at seven in the evening, except for Saturday when closing at five is compulsory.Cora opens at eight as well, and closes at eight each evening, except for Saturdays when the cut-off is at five.  The law in South Africa is strict about no alcohol being sold after five on a Saturday, and no sales during Sunday.

When are petrol stations open?

There are three petrol stations: the two in town are open from seven in the morning till nine in the evening and there is another on the N7 open for 24 hours a day. All three stock petrol and diesel.

Where can I buy airtime?

Spar, Pep and possibly a few more places.

More generally, there is a good butchery, "Ramskop", the surf shop (I have no idea why it has this name) which sells clothing and footwear, a video outlet, McClans which is akin to KFC, two gift shops, one in Nancy's Tea Room and Tannie Poppie se Shoppie. Pep Stores is mainly for clothing. Visitors who have read up on the town look for rooibos tea products which are sold from the Rooibos Tea factory. Here Saint du Barrys is allowed to boast: we stock rooibos products sourced from three different manufacturers, and after using the products in the bathrooms, many guests take advantage of buying from us what they have experienced in respect of soap, shampoo, body lotion, body butter and other products.

Guests frequnetly want to visit the Strassbergers Shoe Factory. For those who like shoes, this is often a hit. Once we had a guest who had to buy an extra suitcase to take all the shoes home.

There are more service orientated shops, all located on or close to the main road.

The majority of shops accept major credit cards.

Saint du Barrys and sensations

If you separate them into details, you might not get the whole. The pebble, sunlight, cool air, leaf, small bird, red of the small bird, the flutter, the puff of dust as it lands on the feeder, the different stains of brown on the feeder, the slight angle as it takes the bird's titny weight, even the brightness of the eye. Add to this the coffee and cigar I have taken outside to watch the evening in the garden from a favourite couch, and the sensation of all these details, and of course many, many more: I asked my heart what it felt, and the answer was calm and lifted up. Sitting there, a snippet of the liturgy came to mind:

Priest: Lift up your hearts.
Congregation: We lift them up.

There must be myriads of sensations in each moment, and quite unconciously, they focus to make a moment real.

Inside, for the first time ever in October, I have lit a fire. It's not really necessary, but the winter this year has curled its tail around the months when it should have stretched out, shaken itself and moved on. The world outside is full of blossoms, buds and rich smells, and the temperature is about 17C. The Europeans will laugh at the fire. The cats and dogs are not embarrassed. They have come to join me.

I filled up the bird-feeders, all four, and sat down to watch, and paid attention to what my heart did as I observed. Three pigeons strutted over the pebbles. My heart simply saw them and stayed even. They remind me of sheep. Then two finches darted down. My heart lifted by two pebbles' worth. Pebbles held in the strong evening light. Then a red bishop came down. My heart lifted by another three pebbles' worth. And so it went until the whole garden was slightly more raised and I found myself relaxed and content.

There's a curious exchange between the outer and the inner when it comes to establishing the ruling sensation of the moment. I have watched guests sit down, open bottle of wine, turn the glass a little, pour, taste, and then sit back. I am certain I can feel what they feel in this moment. I have observed guests peer into their room for the first time, walk in, look around, walk into the bathroom, then step back and their entire posture speaks of relief and satisfaction.

Going on a journey is mostly about wanting to experience new sensations, whether the novelty, challenge or fascination. Yet sometimes the journey is because of sad occasions, sorrowful memories or poignant purpose. Once we had a couple who got engaged during a private dinner. It was supposed to be a secret for her, and it was, but the rest of the company in the dining-room on the other side of the door waited in anticipation until at last the announcement came.

When we leave Saint du Barrys one day it will be with an exceptional awareness of the enrichment of the experience of owning a guest house. After guests leave, I wonder what memory remains for them a day, week, year later.

The mark of good literature is memorability. Perhaps the mark of a good guest house is the imprint of comfortable and happy sensation that is retained over time.

Saint du Barrys and smells

We're about to be covered by a blanket of orange blossom in the air, thick enough to assume that if you put out your hand, you'll actually touch something. It's the strongest signal of spring that we get. On the cold winter days, I believe that I can smell snow, when the wind whirls from the white crags of the Cederberg, or the sea, although it's sixty kilometers away to the west, when the west wind blows. The air changes in respect of olfactory qualtiy, from season to season. You can smell what kind of a day it's going to be, as it gets lighter and the birds start earlier and earlier. The orange blossom isn't negotiable: you have no choice but to breathe it in. My favourite is jasmine: for that I have to walk over to the parking bays, and the wall against which the jasmine grows. It's like a high legato violin note above the darker volume of the orange blossom orchestra. Open the front door in the morning, and you get the full orchestral hit: spring-cool air, orange blossom heat to come, the jasmine note, and birds joining the choral spaces. I'm waiting for frangipani: Joan planted one some years ago. It suffered somewhat when the municipal meter-reader came from the back, and snapped off branches to defend himself against our guest-house friendly dogs. But it's coming on, and will in due course add it's own chord to the sharps and flats in Saint du Barrys octave of smells.

Step beyond the gate, and you'll pick up one of two friendly fire smells: either the warm neighbourly hearth-fire from ourselves or Uncle Phil next door, when it's winter, or the slightly more smoky smell from the pizza oven at Olifanthuis restaurant, which the locals still call the pizza huis, although the menu is a la carte as well as pizza. That's more of a summer smell.

If it's one of our quieter days, and we've had a walk in the car, and have checked the town's perimeter, I usually respond to braai smells by going into competition. If that's peri-peri chicken, I'll reply with Spur wings. Some over-drenched, overdone hunk of mutton chop? The clear answer is fillet, no basting, on an open fire at just the right heat, and no flames yet, sending out a pure aroma guarranteed to produce salivation up to four hundred meters, six if the breeze helps to carry the message.

This is no competition for what strolls out of the kitchen when Joan prepares dinner for guests: fresh bread, oxtail, chilli con carne, lasagne, oven-baked aubergine, accompanied by garlic, olive oil and followed by brandy tart, all of this creating an exciting smudge that excites the palate and reduces the mind to nothing but anticipation.

The home-smells of thatch. Guest rooms and our own upstairs rooms have rafters that are open to thatch. Each room has a different smell of thatch, emphasized when the wind blows. Lead me into each room with my eyes closed: here's a dry touch of sunlight combined with tall grass on a slope: room five. This one has a rich yet soft touch and I have to think of mountains on the horizon and a river close by: must be room three. These identities of thatch become invitingly strong as the wind picks up. What goes into the nose settles in the chest, and the feeling is one of nostalgia, almost too much, at times.

And of course, depending on the time of year, varying intensities of drying rooibos. Sometimes just on the edge of the breeze, sometimes standing squarely over the town, this presence is ubiquitous. After eleven years of living here, I think my body has accepted rooibos at a cellular level. I think I I have extra rooibos mitochondria helping my identity to progress beyond known things. They say animals use the sense of smell far more acutely than humans.

I believe that I sniff the air much more than I did earlier on in life, and that I am even excited at the messages I receive. That's the equinox passed; that's four o' clock in the afternoon; it will rain in less than an hour; we're more than halfway through Spring; today we have to light a fire; the snow has defintiely melted; the wind has at this very instant changed. This week we should go to find crayfish, a sauvignon blanc and a sandy beach.

And when we get home the thatch might say that a quiet couch and a book are called for, or, the pizza house may offer another invitation, as the evening progresses, just a small one, maybe the Adriatic with fresh avo as it comes out of the oven. And just because life is a celebration, I should be indulgent enough to at least breathe in over a wee bite of the Glenlivet before tasting it.

And the last one, that many may not ever experience: burying your nose in the back feathers of an African Grey. I won't attempt a description. It's another curious recognition that happens not in the head but in the chest. Perhaps that's what the animals try to tell us.

Hand-crafted hospitality

This is an ideal to which guest-house owners who enjoy their work aspire. I think it also explains why people who prefer guest-houses to hotels do so.

Hand-crafted furniture, clocks, glassware, violins and cloth. Custom-made fountain pens, embossed paper, wax-sealed envelopes. Fine coffee. Signals of carefulness, time and craftsmanship. Ancient or contemporary, one senses the value of skilled workmanship, wherever it's presence is invested.

It was once pointed out to us that guests choose which guest-house to visit on the basis of what they are used to at home. If the experience is equal to or better than their home comforts, they're happy. At home, personal taste and choice are supreme, and furnishings, furniture and decor reflect the family narrative.
Being more personal than a hotel, a guest-house also reflects a narrative, and this is part of the appeal of living the guest-house life-style.

In room two, there is a set of four pictures called The Road to Bisho. This was given to me by my Irish friend. He wanted to be right in front of the crowd that marched to Bisho, to go up that long, dangerous hill with them, and fortunately for him, his wife locked him into their bedroom and didn't let him out until it was over. The march started virtually outside my house, and I remember calling the children inside when I heard the gunfire. Then I watched the crowd run down the hill. The etchings are large, and were done as a project combining poerty and art, recording and recognising the event. Twenty-five sets were made, and I was given one.

Over eleven years, a vivid red splash has washed through Saint du Barrys. When we started off we were green and white. Daringly, I painted the gate and the garden lamp-pole blue. The shutters turned blue, too. One day, we had to change our email address. We pondered the new name, and came up with redbird@saintdubarrys. Dot com. The origins of this are still obscure. Maybe it had to do with the red tail feathers of Ramius, the African Grey. Maybe it was the emergence of the cheeky yet warm streak that we enjoy when human nature presents it. Our logo became a red bird in a green tree. Then came the red cushions for the outside chairs. Cups, saucers, plates with red lines. Just for the fun of it, a red Le Crueset kettle for the gas stove. More red plates and side plates, with bolder designs. Red Le Crueset cups and saucers, sourced after turning a few shops upside down. Along came our chair man, Mr Thomas, who turns couches, sofas and chairs into brand new items: "red", we said, a nice, comfortable not in your face but very sittable red for our dining room. He brought them back, chairs like new, and with a warm, red-like seat. I heard some German guests, the other morning, commenting on the wonderful, warm feeling of the dining-room, and was gratified that what pleases us, pleased them, too.

This is what makes the details of Saint du Barrys important: as far as we can, we invest in the details. One good thing that has come out of the global financial melt-down is that even the richest of the rich are no longer embarrassed to mention money. Budgets and limits. We would be delighted to throw caution to the Cape Doctor, but that would soon invite the wind to blow through empty rooms. Bed linen, and bathroom towels? Non-negotiable. I roll my eyes when Joan gets into hunting mode and marches straight past the "guest house quality" shelves to look for better things. Polo. I don't even know the labels. Two hundred percale, four hundred. Egyptian cotton. "Must we really spend this money on sheets and stuff?" I ask, looking forlornly for the single malt whisky that Saint du Barrys ought to stock. She is stern. The budget and no budging are the same thing. New linen. New towels. I reckon it happens every season of the year.

The Snow Goose. This is a favourite story of mine. Philip Rhayader and Fritha. They'd be personal friends if I met them, but alas, they can only meet me through Paul Gallico, who is in heaven, now. I lovingly framed pictures that spoke to me so strongly and vividly in childhood and hung them in room one. I believe some guests found them bleak. Well yes, of course they're bleak, the whole landscape of the story is bleak, but what a message of hope came out of it!

Just yesterday we moved them around.

Again, in connection with the theme of red. We have managed to entice red bishops to join the garden birds. This is the first year ever that they have done so. They eat from the bird-feeders.

A Nigerian (I think) gentleman made the red birds on the dining room tables to order. His voice has such a song-like quality he could almost be Welsh.

A guest-house is an invitation. Whatever you experience, it's hand-crafted hospitality, and therein lie all the advantages and fallibilities. All the financial investment in the world won't necessarily offer this guest what will satisfy him, while that guest will notice something that affects the visit profoundly, and will make it memorable, which, as my colleague once said in respect of reading a book, is the actual value. You remember because it struck you.

We live here. We will remember much, and there is much that we treasure, from the first bird-calls in the morning (just after five, this morning) to the smells that come with different breezes. We've put our hearts into Saint du Barrys, and that's no tear-jerker, that's just so. Those words on our front door say when the heart speaks take good note.

Today is the first day after flower season, an in-between day, with dull weather, yet the air is not cold. The birds outside are discussing the matter. In respect of detail, I'm thinking of the bright colours of our key-holders, the strips of tiling that bring red to the bathrooms, the quietness of the grass in front of our own bedroom and patio, and the single malt whisky I don't have. That could be serious, but it won't change the love I have for this place.