Walking the Spaniel this morning, I felt a distinct whisper of Spring. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there. The smell of snowdrops circled my nose and the morning chill had lost its bite. Spaniel seemed to be able to tell the difference too. On her 6th lap of the field, she still didn’t think it was an appropriate time to go home and I was left to admire my favourite tree and 
take in the view of the surrounding valleys, pastures and bleating sheep in the next field.
Moving to the countryside, I’d sort of lost the typical look-over-your-shoulder-be-wary-of-strange-folk feeling that I’d developed in Cape Town. Happy to say that it wasn’t an all-consuming sense of threat, but rather the typical locking of doors when you make a journey, especially at highway off-ramps, or slowing down and going vs stopping completely when arriving at red traffic lights on empty roads. It was an awareness of things and people around you, most of the time. Living in Beaminster, I’d started becoming more lax about things – forgetting my car open, leaving the back door unlocked at night. I was now living in a house without burglar bars and security gates on the front door, none of the things that remind you of anything untoward.
Until there was a ring on the doorbell one Saturday afternoon. My Englishman opened the door, and I could hear the faint sound of a woman’s voice. By his reactions and the tone of his voice, the strained politeness, I could tell he was incredibly uncomfortable. So I went to interfere. Or help, as I like to put it.
There stood a middle-aged woman – slightly disheveled, breath laden with the smell of Jack or even Captain Morgan himself. One plastic packet in her hand, shoes untied, not making eye-contact. She’d decided to wander into Beaminster, from the next village over the hill and with 4pm striking, realised that she wasn’t going to get back before nightfall. She had noticed all the cars on the driveway and decided to ring our bell to ask us to take her home.
What can you do? I was foreign to this situation. I would most likely have had my sentences rehearsed and organised, was I back in South Africa, but I didn’t understand this situation. My gut instinct was telling me that something dubious was ahead, but my head kept insisting that this instinct was based and built on a very different environment and upbringing.
Needless to say, both Englishman and I were at a loss for words. We didn’t have a lie ready, and we both felt too uncomfortable to kindly ask her to go away, so I volunteered to drive her to the village. For the first time since arriving on the shores of this green and pleasant land, I was slightly fearful. I grabbed my phone – thinking that it may save me should I be, I don’t know, at the hands of some unmerciful ax-murderer.
I didn’t care for the speed limit, nor the potholes in the road that led me to the next town – I just wanted to get there. She just wanted to talk. She, or it may have been The Captain, told me about her life, and her struggles, and her husband, and her son, and how life had generally just been unkind to her. We arrived at the hill leading into the village, and she asked me to drop her off there. It was deserted – there was nobody around. I insisted on driving her to her house (where hopefully, there were people around), but she declined. So I stopped.
She hopped out. Thanked me. And without fuss, trundled down the hill towards her home.
Driving back to Beaminster, I felt like an utter fool. My paranoia and second-guessing had created an experience in my mind that implied that this would be my demise. After 3 years of un-noticeably becoming alkaline to any sense of disturbance or imposition, my built-in, almost innate sense of self-protection kicked in.
Whether this lady was a source of real concern or whether she was just simply someone who had been dealt a rough set of cards and was looking for a lift home – I’ll never know.
But I’ve never seen her again.
And I did start locking the back door.
It rained today. That’s not unusual. What is unusual is that I don’t find myself shielding my face and running & hiding as if the stuff that’s falling from the sky is some unknown acid liquid ready to burn out my eyes and bleach my hair. It’s just rain. And for the longest time, while adjusting to life in the UK, I marvelled at how people just continued on, despite the weather. The dog still gets walked. The kids still walk to school in the rain – hair drenched; blazers sodden. People still stroll into town to get their daily supplies. But the thing that amuses me most when it rains is the resilience of festival-goers. I’m not talking those Woodstock-esque festivals where Wellies are the popular outfit of choice, tents are pitched in mud baths, and revellers come away slightly weather-worn, but with a look of gratification on their faces, and I know that I’ve missed out on something special. I’m talking about the little country fairs and markets that take place in the Dorset countryside, over summer. Those little country fairs with merry-go-rounds and candy-floss machines, dog shows and pony rides, little exhibition stands of carved wooden planting boxes, hand-painted porcelain jugs and historic photographs of towns in and around Dorset.
I suppose resilience may not really be the right word, as much as “way-of-life” would be. Growing up, if it rained, we’d wait it out because it would probably be over in about half an hour. Either that, or if it did continue for a day or two, we simply wouldn’t venture out. Certainly not to a country fair or for a walk on the beach. It was as simple as that. But in the UK, what has struck me most is that life just continues onwards – rain or shine. It must, I suppose. Rain is not an anomaly, it’s a guarantee. And I’ve realised how a little thing such as weather-dependency has been such an overlooked privilege for those of us hailing from warmer parts of the world.
Arranging a Bring & Braai on a weekend was as easy as pouring the sauce over your pap, and people pitched up with beer, boerie and chops. It was a regular thing – a dependable thing. But not quite so much in the UK – where the sun may shine at 10, and wash out any good intention by 2. However, for those of us who are still adamant that summertime beans braai-time, and the abundance of BBQ gear (albeit instant barbecues), outdoor loungers, beach huts and pop-up swimming pools over the summer season, it is quite clear that this the UK is also a nation that enjoys a good meal outdoor, and I’ve often wondered why the concept of the Stoep, has never quite caught on. Especially with the vulnerability of weather-independence. Perhaps it’s just a seasonal thing – like turkey for Christmas, pancakes on Shrove Tuesday – perhaps if it rains, people simply just don’t braai. And perhaps that’s actually ok?
Regardless, our house will probably be the only one in town with a Stoep – perhaps even a replica of my brother’s karoo Soeperstoep that stretches for what seems like miles, and is littered with habitable places, eclectic cacti, candles and lanterns of all shapes and sizes. And ours will have a shelter for a braai, and it will allow for outdoor dining, even if it rains.
And perhaps that, in a sense, is my version of rainy-day resilience.
And I’ll be ok with that.