Category Archives: Southern Tip and Struisbaai

A Fortnight of Fear, Care, and Unexpected Strength

(All images are AI created)

The thing about me is this: I can be perfectly healthy one minute — bustling about, doing normal chores, feeling quite pleased with myself — and then, without so much as a polite warning, wham! Something sneaks up behind me and floors me into a limp wimp.

Friday, 24 April was meant to be a happy day. My Cape Town kids were on their way, the lodger had vacated their room after breakfast, and I attacked the linen-changing, vacuuming and bathroom-mopping with great enthusiasm. Everything was sparkling, I was sparkling, and the whole house was practically humming with anticipation.

Baby Daughter had taken a week’s leave and was already there. The weather looked promising. Life was good. And then — at precisely 11 a.m. — my body decided to stage a dramatic collapse. A wave of exhaustion hit me so hard I thought, “Oh no. I’ve just survived a UTI and I’m on the last of the antibiotics. I absolutely refuse to be sick again.”

Baby Daughter took one look at my face and said, “Mom, go lie down. You don’t look well.”
When your child uses that tone, you obey.

I thought a short nap would sort me out. Instead, I woke at 3 p.m. with a slight cough and a fever of 38.5°C. Lovely.

My GP, naturally, had chosen that exact weekend to be out of town. So off I went the next morning to a different doctor who took one look at me and declared, “It’s Flu.” She prescribed Tamiflu and paracetamol and told me to rest — which was no problem at all because at that point I could barely lift my eyelashes.

Meanwhile, my poor visiting family tiptoed around the house, keeping a respectful distance lest they catch the dreaded lurgy. They carried on gamely without me while I slept, coughed, and generally impersonated a wilted houseplant.

The weekend drifted by in a sort of feverish fog — my temperature rising and falling in perfect synchrony with my paracetamol intake. But improvement? None.

Then came Freedom Day, the Cape Town clan bade me farewell and told me to get well soon as they took their departure. But my body celebrated by staging a small rebellion. A sharp pain in my right breast appeared out of nowhere. Pneumonia, I thought immediately, because the symptom was similar to my 2012 and 2019 attack. The first being no hospital, the second a five-day stint in hospital. Still, I decided to wait for my own GP to return the next day.

First thing Tuesday morning I phoned the practice sister, who told me to come in at 13:15. Perfect. I could manage that, get some antibiotics, and be back to normal in no time.

But at 12 noon — precisely when I was congratulating myself on my timing — a savage chest pain attacked me, shooting down behind my shoulder blade like a lightning bolt with bad manners. I yelled for Baby Daughter, who bundled me into the car. Just as she was about to drive off, a wave of nausea hit me. She shouted for Dad to bring a bucket, but too late – alas, the gutter received the full performance. Not my finest moment.

At the practice they whisked me straight into an examination room. The doctor listened to my heart, started a drip, did an ECG, and Sister handed me a sick-bag while I dry‑heaved like an amateur actress in a medical drama. Something soothing went into the drip, and the nausea finally surrendered.

Then the doctor told Baby Daughter to go home and pack me a bag because they were calling an ambulance. She returned with Dad, who looked only mildly concerned — he’s survived enough of his own medical adventures and knew I would be in good hands.

Hooked to a drip and clutching my treacherous shoulder, I endured the most bone‑rattling ambulance ride imaginable. By the time we arrived, I felt I deserved a bravery medal for surviving the potholes alone.

At casualty I was greeted by a doctor, a sister, and a physician who was casually eating an apple. Naturally, I quipped, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away — yet here you are.” He was not amused.

Then came the usual hospital rituals: blood drawn, probes attached, drip adjusted, and a gown clearly designed by someone with no idea about human dignity. The physician announced, quite calmly, “Your heart is racing. We’re going to shock it back to normal.”

That sounds scary,” I said.

“Not for me,” he replied.

“Nor for me,” added Sister.

Before I could lodge a formal complaint, I was out cold. When I woke, the pain was gone, so naturally I asked if I could go home.

“No,” said Doctor, with the firmness of someone used to stubborn patients.

“Do I have pneumonia?”

“I think so. Your lungs don’t sound good.”

Soon a film crew arrived — not for glamorous me, sadly, but for my misbehaving lungs.

All I wanted was a proper bed and some peace, but instead I was sent to ICU, as both lungs had pneumonia. My area was sealed off with red tape beyond which none should cross unless appropriately attired because I had H1N1 flu as well.

I remained in that appalling backless gown unable to do anything for myself. Masked, gloved angels handled all ablutions with saintly kindness. Most of the time I slept and slept disturbed only to answer questions and endure blood pressure monitoring, prodding, blood-letting and drip insertions.

The meals looked perfectly decent, but my body rejected the idea of food. Alcohol was scandalously forbidden. Drugs, however, were plentiful.

By Thursday the 3rd I was improving and moved to a private ward. Visitors still had to mask up as did I if I left my ward. Assisted by a physiotherapist I shuffled around the nurses’ station for exercise. She also pummelled my back and had me blowing bubbles through a straw into water — ridiculous, yes, but apparently excellent for the lungs.

Then on Sunday, just as I was feeling almost human again, my heart staged another protest, sending pain through my chest and shoulder blade. Back I went to high security, where Doctor treated it with a nil‑by‑mouth medicinal drip. After dreadful pain, half a painkiller, and a sleeping tablet, I drifted off like a tranquilised astronaut.

The next morning, I felt like a wrung‑out dishcloth, but at least the pain had vanished. By Tuesday I was allowed back to my private ward.

After sleeping most of Tuesday, I felt nearly myself by Wednesday. Then an X‑ray, scan, and sonar revealed fluid on my lungs, so on Thursday morning I had a pulmonary tap. I felt fine if a little tired but was sure I was ready to go home with my husband and daughter when they arrived to visit. However, Doctor and Baby Daughter insisted that I first go to a rehab facility to fully recover.

I was meant to be transferred immediately, but the ambulance only collected me the next afternoon (Friday). By then I felt much better, though still tired easily.

As I said in my opening paragraph, I can go from perfect health to an invalid in an instant and the same is true in reverse – I tend to bounce right back. And right now, I am feeling perfectly fine and a fraud for still being in hospital. But the doctor and my family insist that I spend a few days in step-down to ensure I don’t overdo things and have a relapse. Well let me out of here – let me tell you about STEP-DOWN

A lovely new doctor welcomed me and told me that Medical-Aid had approved a week or so of rehab – just lots of rest and gentle exercise, he assured me. Saturday physio began with a brisk walk around the grounds followed by a few leg lifts and squats in the gym – nothing too daunting – I could do this.

It was only on Sunday that I realised that this was not going to be a walk in the park with gentle strolls around the lovely facility. Oh no – it’s more like a Prison camp with a Gestapo Officer after your blood. Sunday afternoon and the torture began.

The Gestapo Officer for marched me round the prison to the torture chamber at a crisp pace then forced me into ankle chains and made me march on the spot for 2 minutes non-stop. This, however, was not enough for her so she made me do Step-ups for another 2 minutes. My pleas for mercy were ignored when, still in chains, she chased me up and down the training steps. After that it was dead lifting a 4kg ball up above my head and down again several times while she yelled keep your back straight. By this time, I was ready to confess all but no I then had to return to my cell by going up and down a flight of steps. Only then was I allowed to confess to the reason I’d landed here in the first place.

Fine – she said – The rest of The Gestapo and I will discuss your case on Tuesday and then make a decision on your release date – depending on your behaviour!

And now there’s an added element that might prevent my early parole – the weather! The hospital is an hour and a half from home and it is storming, trees across roads, flooding, rooves blowing off buildings etc. etc. Too dangerous for Dad and Baby Daughter to come and rescue me. I coped with another torture session this morning and again this afternoon. I did okay so it will be interesting to hear what the parole hearing reveals tomorrow. Weather permitting will I be allowed out? I certainly feel fit enough and if I can endure the tortures of the prison what can possibly go wrong at home?

The Cats That Chose Us

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I’ve been rather absent from the blogosphere lately, only managing the occasional quick visit. A few disruptions to my usual routine — along with a small hiccup in my own health — have kept me from settling back into my normal rhythm. Not that my routine is ever what you’d call normal — there’s always some minor drama or spontaneous adventure popping up to keep life from getting dull.

But enough with the excuses — I’ve been itching to introduce you to the feline visitors who are utterly convinced my home is their personal kingdom. So, without further ado, dear reader, allow me to present the first instalment of the furry visitors who more or less run my life. (Thank you to their humans for allowing me to blog about their pets)

I don’t know what it is about our place that attracts the feline species, but over the past three years, no fewer than four different cats have made our house their second home.

When we retired, we made the decision not to have pets. Our plan was to spend long stretches adventuring in our caravan, and national parks don’t allow fur babies. As lifelong animal lovers, both domestic and wild, this was indeed a huge sacrifice. For a while, our only joy came from the pets of our children in Cape Town and Plettenberg Bay, or from friends who brought their dogs and cats along when they visited.

A few years before the feline invasion, two feral bunnies used to visit. They brought endless entertainment, hopping through the garden and nibbling at the greenery. Sadly, one disappeared and then the other. Rabbits like to be free, but freedom comes with dangers—from dogs and birds of prey to locals who see them as lunch. Their absence left a quiet gap in our garden life.

One of the bunnies enjoying the greenery

Then came the day our neighbours introduced their Siamese kittens to the great outdoors. Within minutes, those curious explorers had scaled the dividing fence, with young Syd hot on their tails. The Earl and I were in the garden at the time, and he wasted no time in encouraging them to investigate every corner. That moment marked the beginning of a joyful change in our lives.

On that fateful day, we were introduced to Alan and Mike. These two quickly became regular visitors, padding through the garden and into our house as if they owned it. Their presence brought laughter, companionship, and a sense of connection we hadn’t realised we were missing. Alan, however, soon revealed himself to be the bossy one—his loud, commanding meow keeps even Mike in line.

No permission asked to sit here – Mike left Alan -right

Next came Mimi, a little ball of grey furriness who rolls over and purrs the minute she sees you. She doesn’t want to be picked up—just strokes and tickles will do, thank you very much. At first, Mike and Alan resented her presence, but eventually a tolerant truce was reached. Mimi lives across the road, and the Siamese had already met her before she began visiting us. I’m convinced Mike is secretly in love with her, though Alan insists on being the only cat in charge.

Mimi on the birdbath – uh oh – Birds beware!

Most recently, a smart cat in a tuxedo began hanging out in the garden. At first, he would dart away whenever we approached, much to the Siamese’s delight. But eventually, he allowed us to pet him, and soon nothing could stop him from coming indoors. For months we called him Peanut, until I eventually tracked down his owner and discovered she was a schoolgirl who called him Charlie. (This young girl’s mom and I later connected through a series of blog posts I did for the company for which she is the marketing agent – small world!)

Charlie is his own man—aloof, dignified, and uninterested in laps. He’ll rub against you and accept a pat, but he ignores Alan’s hissing and screaming until he’s had enough. Then, a chase and a cat fight ensue. Because Alan was here first, he gets preferential treatment, and we whisk him off to the bedroom when tensions rise. Charlie, however, seems deaf to our pleas to visit only when Alan isn’t around. He and Mike aren’t exactly the best of friends but they tolerate each other.

So now we have four regular feline guests: Alan, Mike, Mimi, and Charlie. Each has a distinct personality, each has chosen us in their own way, and together they’ve turned our home into a lively stage of feline drama and affection.

We may not have set out to be pet owners in retirement, but life had other plans for us. The cats who wander into our house remind us daily of the joy animals bring, even when they aren’t officially “ours.” They’ve turned our home into a place of unexpected companionship, and for that, we’re grateful.

Watch this space for more stories about these curious kitties.

Zoetendal Academy’s Colour Fun Run: A Grandmother’s Joyful Adventure

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Last week, Mitchell, a little girl whom I have claimed as my ‘granddaughter’ brought home a form for a 5km Colour Fun Run at Zoetendal Academy, where she is in Grade 2. It was open to kids and any adults brave enough to join. “That sounds like fun!” I declared, and before I knew it, I’d filled in both our names and paid the entrance fee. What was I thinking? I haven’t jogged in eight years! Still, I walk regularly, so I figured I could give it a go.

My good intentions were to get fit during the following week, enough to jog at least a quarter of the way, but—well, life happened, and I didn’t! So, when the day dawned cool and cloudy (thank goodness for no heat exhaustion), my little lass arrived bursting with enthusiasm. We were among the earliest to register at the school, ready for whatever the day would bring.

The route was simply breathtaking. Zoetendal Academy is nestled in the picturesque village of Cape Agulhas, and we ran (and walked!) from the school, past the iconic lighthouse, all the way to the southernmost tip of Africa and back. The vibe at the school was electric—music played, kids danced and played, and everyone buzzed with anticipation.

Just before the start, buckets of poster paints were set out, and at a signal, everyone grabbed handfuls and threw colours over each other. Oh, what glorious fun! My friend Michele was there with a group of spirited ladies, including one who was 82 and game for it all.

When the bell rang, we all set off. Mitchell dashed ahead, not looking back to see if Granny was okay (I was, just at a much slower pace!). Yes, I did jog—very slowly—with long spells of brisk walking in between. Okay, mostly walking, and not so fast! But the route was stunning, the weather perfect, and the marshals cheered us on at every turn. It warmed my heart to see so many families supporting their children, even the tiniest ones riding on their dads’ shoulders when the going got tough.

Mitchell on left in striped t-shirt -rearing to go!

I thought I was making pretty good progress to the half-way mark when I saw the front runners returning. They hadn’t even broken a sweat! And the toughies were even bare foot!

Look Gran, I’ve also got no shoes! Mitchell did really well – Thanks to the mom in this picture for keeping an eye on her!

On the return route, I caught up with a woman about my age. We chatted in Afrikaans, sharing our walking histories. Near the finish, she said, “Kom, ons draf—Come, let’s jog,” and so we did—though she beat me. Well she is a year younger!

To our surprise, one of the lovely organisers offered us each a free hot dog for being the oldest participants. We declined (neither of us eat bread!), so we settled for jumbo sparkling waters instead. Then, to our delight, we were called to the podium—along with the 82-year-old mentioned earlier —and were each presented with a generous prize envelope. Sometimes, the elderly are NOT invisible and are truly appreciated for supporting the schools their young relatives and friends attend.

The winners in each category—men, women, boys, and girls—were awarded gold, silver and bronze medals and gift packs sponsored by Pick’n’Pay

Mitchell and her classmate proudly wear their medals.

My little grandchild was thrilled with her participant medal, but when she saw the champions being crowned and me being presented with something special, she asked, “Will I get a prize?” I gently explained that only three in each category can win, but there would be some lucky draw winners.

She smiled bravely and said, “I’ve had fun anyway.”
“Of course you have,” I replied, “and that’s what matters most.”
Still, I could see a tiny bit of disappointment, so I sent out positive vibes as the lucky draw prizes were announced. Prize after prize was called— my next-door neighbours each won a prize- two from the same family? How lucky is that! Then only two were left. “Oh, please, let Mitchell be one of them.” And YES—the very last name called was Mitchell! The look of surprised delight on her face was priceless. She was over the moon.

When we got home, she opened her prize—It was not gold – it was so much better – a beautiful pink handbag, perfect for a little girl who is mad about bags, especially pink ones. What a wonderful ending to her exciting day.

Zoetendal Academy, what an incredible event this was! The organisation was superb, the music uplifting, the food delicious, and the atmosphere simply amazing. Thank you for making this such a memorable outing for young and old alike.

The Southern Tip of Africa

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It’s been a while since I’ve shared my thoughts about the place I call home. As winter gradually makes its presence felt in the southern hemisphere, we’re still fortunate to enjoy a few crisp yet sunny days. On Saturday afternoon, while the men set off to sea in hopes of a good catch, we ladies – Wise Wine Warriors—spent a lovely afternoon at Struisbaai Harbour Café. In that moment, surrounded by the beauty of the harbour, I paused to take it all in and truly appreciate where I was. Then, on Sunday evening, as we all gathered for a sunset braai, I was once again struck by the undeniable charm of this little gem in the deep south of my country. In this vast world, fate has placed me at the southernmost tip of Africa—and I must say, I couldn’t be happier.

It is often mistakenly believed that the southern tip of Africa is Cape Point, near Cape Town, and quite close to where I grew up. Some also claim that this is where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic. It’s good for tourism to go along with this myth! But in fact, the two oceans meet at Cape Agulhas, and it is also the most southerly point of Africa.

The Earl and Me at the Southern Tip of Africa

When I was a child, I was keen to stand on the very tip of Africa. I asked my parents if we could visit. But they did not share my adventurous spirit and thought that it was hardly worth the visit.
“It’s very remote and there nothing there,” my mother declared.
And she was right – my first visit was in 1982, and the area didn’t even have electricity! Of course, it’s quite different now, and this formerly tiny district is attracting more and more permanent residents. But its natural beauty still abounds. Sometimes I take a moment and let it all sink in that I am at the southernmost tip of “Darkest Africa.” Cape Agulhas and Struisbaai boast a remarkable diversity of flora and fauna. The Agulhas National Park hosts over 2,000 native plant species. The fauna in the region is also fascinating. The wetlands provide refuge for birds and amphibians, including the African Black Oystercatcher, Damara Tern, and Southern Right Whales, which migrate through the area. Our harbour welcomes short-tailed stingrays that swim in to enjoy some delicious pickings thrown into the water by the local fishermen cleaning their catch. We even have Cape Clawless otters frolicking in the shallows from time to time. Click on the link to see a video.

The coastline is also notorious for the number of sailing ships wrecked in its stormy seas. The Cape Agulhas Lighthouse was built in 1849 and is now a historic landmark, still warning seafarers of the treacherous waters

On November 16, 1982, the Meisho Marul ran aground near the southernmost point of Africa due to a storm. Fortunately, all 17 crew members managed to swim to safety. The wreck has since become an iconic sight. Over the years, the wreck has eroded significantly, with only the bow section remaining visible above the waves.

I try to get in a daily walk, and whether it’s just around the village, along the coast road from home to Agulhas or along our very long white beach, I never tire of the beauty around me. Hardly a day goes by that I do not ‘maak ‘n draai by die hawe’ (pop in at the harbour) and it always takes my breath away.

A while ago, I met two young Frenchmen at our local harbour café. They asked if I was local and we got chatting, They expressed how much they loved this part of South Africa.
“But surely it can’t beat the French Riviera,” I said.

“Oh but it is so very much better!” they declared.

I thought they were being polite, but then I really looked and thought, “Well, yes – it’s still so natural and quaint and simple. It’s not glitzy and busy like the top destinations of the world. We are indeed lucky to enjoy this little piece of paradise.”

Don’t get me wrong. When we’re having the foulest weather, I curse the wind, the rain, the flooding and the cold. But when the sun comes out – well – all is forgiven and forgotten.

To end, allow me to share some photographs from the sunset braai we enjoyed with the lovely friends we have made here at the southern tip. Thanks to Sonja for catering the delicious starters and dessert, and to Sharon who insisted we all gather at this stunning site right at the southern tip, overlooking the wreck. Where in the world can you safely picnic outdoors without paying an entrance fee or having guards to ensure your safety? It was exquisite and yes, we did make sure the fire was completely dead before we left.