T
HE hot, dry wind shrieked like a banshee. Tumbleweeds raced through the dusty streets. Palm trees bent double, their fronds sweeping and swirling the dust through the choking air. Two gunslingers faced each other in the distance, squaring up for a duel. But no, wait; that last bit’s not true … no scene from the Wild West featured an azure sea, shimmering and glinting in the distance.
We weren’t actually in American cowboy land but we were in the wild West: the wild west of the Cape, that is, Shelley Point to be exact. It was January and people had warned us about the wind. We hadn’t listened.
We were longing for the barren, unspoilt landscapes of the west coast and nothing was going to stop us. Not even gusting winds of 100km per hour.
Our apartment was situated on the grounds of a golf course, grounds that should have gleamed emerald green but which had been turned pale yellow by a combination of drought, wind and sand. As we drove through the winding lanes, the sand battered our car like showers of gritty hailstones. Opening our car doors was a test of strength and endurance. I soon admitted defeat and the hubby came to my rescue. Together we battled our way up a steep driveway, heads bent and bodies braced, to a house where our smiling host awaited.