Wheildon

our little cottage in mark street had to undergo a serious upgrade.

made of mud brick, the cottage had six rooms.  in one of the rooms at the back, there was a raised fireplace.  as long as there was daylight, a small window in the chimney enabled anyone cooking to see what was potting.  there was no electricity and no running water.  behind the house stood a grand old barn with massive beams supporting a reed and mud 'solder'.  attached to the barn was a tiny extension, which was the throne room.  the seat was a wooden shelf with a large hole cut out of it, strategically placed over an ancient enamel bucket.  when using the facilities one had the choice of an open door with a view, or a closed door and pitch darkness.  an open door offered the opportunity of greeting passers-by on vlei street, some distance away.

the day we bought it, old united party calendars decorated broken window panes to keep the rain out.  full-length shutters were making a last-ditch stand to hang onto their hinges.  these framed three sets of “happy doors” facing the market square.  they had survived 150 years of weather extremes and constant abuse.  the original glass was still intact.  according to my archive printout, our cottage had seen several families live there.  some of the villagers we got to know had been born in our cottage and still lived in greyton.  it had no bathroom, and no inside loo.  we take for granted all the modern amenities of today.  over the years, we had visits from humble people who had lived in our cottage and wanted to walk quietly through, remembering their childhood.

my parents, on hearing of our purchase, made all speed from st francis bay to see whether the sale could be cancelled.  my dear old mum was horrified to see what we had bought, and could not believe that we were thrilled with our purchase!  she was convinced that i needed psychiatric help, and offered to pay for it.  she was not at all amused when asked whether we should keep the loo “as is” because it was “quaint”.

we found a builder who understood old cape cottages, and within weeks we were able to move in.  the cottage was marvellous.  it breathed history and was warm and inviting.  it had soul — ‘houding’, as they said in the cape.

one old toppie was a little put out by our arrival from the city.  we ended up painting the cottage white with dirty pink shutters.  one evening while we stood admiring our little cottage, the old chap pulled up in his very ancient datsun bakkie, hunched over the wheel.  it was way too small for him.  from his vehicle, he stared at the cottage for some time and in his very best english asked:

“wen are yous gona verf those blerry hortjies white?” which more or less told us that he was not that happy with our dirty pink.

“dis mos an undercoat,” he declared, and drove off in a huff.  until he left greyton years later, he asked the same question every time he saw us.

it was not long after that, however, that we needed his services.

a huge swarm of bees discovered to their great delight that there was a large hollow oak right outside our front door.  the bees laid claim to the tree and set up home.  they became pretty defensive and patrolled the entire front of the cottage.  our neighbour, who knew everyone in the village, called in the bee man to help.  we watched through the front window and recognised the ancient datsun bakkie and its occupant as it stopped under the tree.  out climbed the “oom” and slowly began to sort out his equipment.

he made some smoke in a puffer thing, propped a ladder against the tree, put on a hat with some gauze hanging from the brim and braced himself like a general about to do battle.  not quite the expectation we had of beekeepers in full regalia.  his regalia was a safari suit, and yes, there was a black comb stuck in his blue stocking.

what he actually wanted to achieve was not too clear.  the bees were furious and very unhappy with the puff-puff clouds of smoke directed into their hive.  they let him know their feelings — many “einas!” filtered through the front window — but eventually he won the day.  the bees, fed up with smoke in their lungs and runny eyes, begged their queen to find a more pleasant place from which to reign and make honey.

they left as they had come.  suddenly.

the old boy took longer.  he was covered in bees.  the swarm left without leaving a forwarding address.  the stragglers with nothing better to do did their best to sting him.  the “einas!” could still be herd as the old datsun was fired up and, with a slipping clutch, lurched off in a cloud of dust.