Christmas in Greyton

We were all surprised by the sudden appearance of Christmas Klopse playing in our back yard. Their chink and change of notes a sweet crust over the crisp valley evening like thinly charred crème brûlée. Down our darkening evening road the glowing cigarette butts bopping to banjo and accordion. A bunch of notes gasping for a sokkie. Saxophone bellowing spirit and forsaking tune. Accuracy falls flat to passion. Formalism grown over by jungle of joie de vivre. Such is the life of the Greyton countryside. A lifestyle over-romanticized by inner-city based blogging photographers. The graph-paper prepared missionary engineers sketched and plotted. Ducts, plots, bridges, gardens and small town systems. But over this the mountains breathed deep heaves of life, water and an uncontrollable flourish of prosperity in the otherwise dusty bowl of the Overberg.

The Greyton church bell chimes hourly, even through the night. A signal reminding you that the times are changing but nobody noticing. The mountains will have none of it and throw it back. They’ve been watching the Landrover defenders, the new construction, the migrations, the church comers and the church goers for centuries.