Wheildon

i have already mentioned my great pal alistair walker, greyton’s plumber and minister of water affairs.  well, he was a good ten years older than me and an ex-marathon runner.  he and i set off at 6am each day and jogged between five and seven kilometres, rain or shine.  this was a wonderful way to start the day in the village.  one minute in any direction and we were in fynbos country.  alistair had a mad staffy called meggy, and i had a magnificent golden labrador called gus.  they were great mates and loved our early morning routine.  gus was obedient and circumspect.  he was a scholar and a gentleman, while meggy (as i mentioned once) was a first-class nutter.

as i write, memories of those days tumble through my mind.  at some stage or another during the rainy season the riviersonderend, swollen by all the streams and runoff water from the gullies and kloofs behind the village, would overflow its banks.  it was always a marvellous sight to behold: waterfalls everywhere, and the mountains pristine and majestic in the early sunshine.

alistair and i would decide on the day which route to choose, knowing some might be impassable if the weather was bad.  meggy wasn't bothered either way.  one morning we set off past the dump down to the campsite on the banks of the riviersonderend.  at one point we were going to have to cross a tributary which was normally a splash and a hop.  not so on this day.  a good ten-metre stream in full spate greeted us.  we stopped to plan our next move — which meggy made for us without consultation.  the caretaker of the campsite, on the other side of the stream, had freed his chickens from their hok to save them from drowning.  meggy spotted them and gave chase.

chickens to a staffy are like water to ducks.  meggy leapt into the swirling stream and set off for the other bank.  she was swept away downstream, swimming against the current but going backwards, eyes still fixed firmly on her quarry.  alistair, all five foot a genuine scotsman, charged in to save his mad dog.  meggy saw him coming and was delighted to include him in the chicken chase.  as alistair arrived she tried to climb onto his head.  had it not been for a tangle of vegetation to hang on to, i am sure both would have drowned.  i crossed the stream a little higher up and met the two swimmers on the far bank.  the minister of water affairs was explaining to his dog, in his broad scots accent, the dangers of crossing swollen streams.  the dog, like most nutters, paid not the slightest attention to a word.  instead, meggy was trying every trick in the book to escape the lead which had been firmly secured around her neck.  she was at a loss to understand how anyone could run past a flock of chickens without giving at least one a serious heart attack.

sometimes we just did the circular route around the outskirts of greyton.  alistair's voice was not related to his size whatsoever.  he could be heard from miles away.

being partially deaf, he spoke loudly so that the rest of greyton could hear.  while we pounded the roads around the dorp in the early hours, alistair’s voice could be heard relating the latest plumbing disaster to me.  i was often asked how various jobs were progressing by the strangest folk, who claimed to have heard the details from the passing plumber.

all our jogs ended up on the walkers’ back stoep with a cup of tea or coffee.  with luck joan walker might have turned out a new batch of cookies or, better still, a cake.  as a keen upholder of quality, it was often my task to give the latest walker creation my opinion.

this i did as a service to the village, and at no charge.