Transition time…
It might sound as if my departure from 10 Windsor Road went smoothly. It did not.
It was brutal. I was still surrounded by the last black plastic bags when the new owners’ demolition force moved in.
I could not believe that they were ripping the delicate ivy off every surface. The two large windows, now naked, looked out from the stripped facade in an expression of terror. The cottage began to shiver as the rumbling machine started to powerclean the roof with such force that the water issuing from the pipe would have reached down to the main road. It was quite frankly horrible. I moved through the house shrieking from room to room, calling for a respite so I could take my leave with dignity and a quiet thank you to this little cottage, which had held me through my wheelchair months and hosted the joyful creations.
No. This was brutal. I drove away shaking.
Fortunately, I was due to go to the St Francis retreat centre a day later, where I would be able to relax and process the events of the past months and regain my own centre. By the time I returned, No 10 was unrecognisable. The green door and iron railing to the stoep, which had blended in harmoniously with the neighbouring buildings, was now painted a harsh pillar box red and the cottage listed as an Airbnb rental.
***
Returning from the muchneeded soul nourishing 10 days at St Francis Health Centre, I picked up the search again. I visited my sister who, with her husband, had recently moved from Noordhoek to Napier, a charming sleepy little town. One morning we drove through to Stanford where I met an agent and looked at a few possibilities. After a late breakfast at the Coffee Corner, we were about to drive away, when a pleasant man greeted us.
‘Are you locals?’
I answered ‘No but I think I’d like to be’.
Neil and I exchanged cell phone numbers.
That night my cell phone went off quite late with a message from Neil, forwarding me an announcement for a cottage available for long-term rental. I called the contact number first thing in the morning and arranged to be there at 11.30.
It was perhaps 11.45 when I arrived, and Marianne ushered me in,
‘Quick… there’s an arrogant man who wants it arriving shortly’
I glanced around, immediately feeling at home with the only room that I could see, and with her.
‘Don’t worry Marianne, I’m your new tenant’, I said as there was loud knock on the door and a bombastic man stood there looking smug and then surprised that he was not in fact getting his way.
We saw him out, and only then did I get to see the whole cottage. I was pleased my intuition had been spot-on. It was delightful and I could easily see myself there for the three months before my next return to Switzerland.
I moved my few basic belongings to this lovely well-proportioned Stanford cottage with an unbroken view of the mountains and began to feel my way into village life. It didn’t take long. My first weekend coincided with a jazz evening at La Trattoria, the family-run Italian restaurant where I met Andrew the local jazz pianist who invited me to the open day they were holding at their home the next day. A very pleasant and sunny musical moment.
During the proceedings I met Jan, who immediately asked if I was a swimmer. And nodding yes, he said I should meet his wife Mary who organised the swimming group. The next week I was part of the Stanford swimming group who swim in a nearby dam three early mornings per week. Known affectionately as the ‘Soggy Bottoms’ the group were first in line after every swim when Coffee Corner turned on its coffee machine.
The other significant meeting for me on that first outing was Jack, Andrew’s grandson. I found myself drawn into this exceptional young boy’s presence and then learnt of the Butterfly Centre, a small school for children with special needs. Two days later, I met Andrew at the Centre which had a piano and began weekly sessions with the children there.
The sessions continued whenever I was in Stanford, first on a one-on-one basis with each child as I got to know them individually. Then as the group expanded a bit, we started to have group sessions using a variety of musical instruments. It was wonderful watching the children explore the musical landscape and, as I don’t have a method per se but am comfortable working with whatever came through, we explored this landscape together. A couple of children were very sensitive with the piano and when they played just the black notes they produced sweet sounding melodies. When I accompanied them, we created quite pleasant duets.
Soon after my arrival in Stanford, Francois and his partner Joke, a poet from Belgium, decided to visit me in my new village. The sitting room in Marianne’s cottage was not big enough for a Soirée du Coeur and there was no piano, but the Coffee Corner had ample space, and we were able to organise a well-attended event there when I got to meet several more people. Stanford appeared to be opening its heart to me pretty quickly. This was where I wanted to be.
***
By the time my lease was up I had put in an offer on a property with abundant roses along the front fence, overlooking the old stone thatched roofed church on the village green. Comprising a main house with a huge ‘voorkamer’ and a guest cottage – there was a quiet enclosed and pretty garden between the two.
I contemplated this seriously when I saw that Neil had put their cottage on the market and would be needing somewhere to stay. This meant we could consider a joint project. His wife away for a few months, Neil and his daughter Kaolin moved in and were already settled when I arrived back from Switzerland in October 2017. Ian Burgess-Simpson could now deliver the courtesy piano, and we had a marvelous house-warming concert with Francois just after Christmas.
The most significant aspect about this new co-habitation arrangement was that, for the first time since 1995 when I had moved back to Kalk Bay for a two-year contract with UCT, I could think about having cats in my life again.
Kaolin and I chose two sisters from a mixed litter of six kittens – clearly the offspring from several fathers. In reality they chose us, as I plucked the little black Siamese- looking kitten off the back of my neck. With only the faintest suggestion of a white puff on her throat, ‘Kali’ was the name which seemed to resonate with her blackness and fierce little spirit already showing through. Her sister ‘Tara’ was a beautiful light charcoal grey, with white little paws, a perfect waistcoat and an asymmetrical white smudge on her nose.
So Kali and Tara joined our menagerie: which now comprised Monty the black and white Great Dane, Sushi an elderly deaf but lively longhaired dachshund, a family of three rabbits who burrowed through the garden, and Honey another indoor bunny. We were all cautious when Monty was eventually allowed to approach the little balls of fluff, towering over them. He had been known to have dispensed with a couple of cats in his youth. But now he just seemed curious.
Quite an idyllic period ensued, sharing meals and getting to know each other. I felt fortunate to have Neil as a co-tenant and we talked through the required projects scheduled for when the sale went through. It didn’t go through by the first expiry date on the offer to purchase, nor on the second when I’d extended it. Nor on the third. In fact, it took a year and several months. And during this year we watched the lovely house deteriorate without the much needed maintenance.
During this time I spent 3 months in Switzerland where the Amani Harmonic Foundation had successfully hosted its first major international event. Almost 90 people came from some 22 countries for the Mastering Alchemy first European Conference. I was due to return in July and get on with the building renovations but learnt that the process was still delayed; there were still complications with the deceased estate.
Frustrated in my plans, I instead had an opportunity to travel to Ladakh in August and delayed my return to Cape Town till mid-September. I had been following the work of Judy Satori, a fascinating channeler from New Zealand for several years, and had found her programmes insightful and very helpful in these chaotic times of shifting consciousness.
Months earlier when I had seen the announcement of the pilgrimage to Ladakh she was organising ‘in Search of the Golden Tara, I thought it sounded fascinating but didn’t fit in with my schedule. And now an email had flashed up on my screen saying there were a couple of places still available. Perfect timing. I signed up immediately.
Apart from my work trip to Sri Lanka for the ILO in 1984, I had never been to Asia and had never intended to travel to India. But here I was, planning a trip to the high Himalayas.
To Ladakh, ‘the Land of the High Passes.’