Treats And Truths Of Country Living

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Our peaches are ripening! The bumblebees, and a little hand pollinating by feather, have done the trick. An exciting time in the rickety greenhouse on our organic acre in Berwickshire, UK.

These are the treats of country living that are hard to beat, a blessing so much appreciated, especially when one pays such a high price for living in the British countryside, surrounded by vast acres on which synthetic fertilisers, highly toxic sprays and huge machinery are employed to perform every task. It’s the little blessing that gives strength to the next hour.

It has been a journey learning to live in this cold and temperamental climate, living very isolated in a range of ways, learning to understand the lie of the land, to work with the seasons, to make sense out of some vicious hands that have been dealt. The eight years have been incredible in many ways, but they have also been eight of the hardest years of my life, pressed and crushed and shocked by all sorts.

With every squeeze, in every rocking challenge, I always take my focus back to the blessings, back to what is solid, back to what is beautiful, back to what is miraculous, back to what is even fleetingly lovely, back to what is simple and straightforward, back to what is truth, back to what is sustainable, back to what is real and utterly good … Always refocusing, always learning, always getting back up, always moving forward inch by tiny inch …

These peaches are quite symbolic, representing what is still reliable, what is honest, what is wonderful, what tastes and is pure and purely good. Nourishment for the body, nourishment for the soul. The taste of Summer, the taste of health, the taste of joy and delight. The taste of innocence, the taste of simplicity, the taste of hope.

I started this blog / website a few years ago, to record some of my experiences, poetry, recipes and thoughts, now and over the fifty plus years of my interesting life. The blog grows in hiccupy stops and starts, but there is a fair body of collected writing here now.

These peaches form part of the story of the last eight years, and so much more.

 

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Yours mindfully,

Holly x

[This post has been adapted from the original, which appeared on Instagram on 13 July 2017  Link: https://www.instagram.com/p/BWeocXsgLZQ/?taken-by=hollymaxwellboydell ]

A Childhood In Photograph

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I saw this picture yesterday, for the very first time. It was a complete surprise. It came in a little collection, that I had not been expecting. It is a photograph of myself, taken circa 1965, on a journey from Durban to Cape Town. A journey that, in more ways than one, was to totally rock my world.

At first, on looking at this tiny picture of my little self, I felt the numbness experienced after years and years of irregular life pattern. And then the dam in my heart ripped open, my soul cracked painfully, and wide. This picture, part of a little collection of my and my brother’s very early childhood, was placed in my hands by my son, who had conveyed it carefully from Africa, along with other meaningful photographic portraits and treasured dossiers that had been lovingly handed to him to give to me, of our much valued family history.

Simple things that others might take for granted, without their natural presence through my childhood, appearing now they shake my world … towards a more grounded and more beautiful life, I hope. Pain has forced me to lean on God, from a very early age.

I have no grievance about the hand I have been dealt, time and again, only sadness that it needed to be so. I feel gratitude that these treasures are coming to light, although at fifty four it almost feels as though my life has slipped through the gate. To be honest, my adult heart breaks for this little girl.

When your world has been shaken many times, it takes courage to keep one’s head up. I trust that God and his promises are in all of this, and that true grace is firmly intact.

In mindful contemplation,

Holly x

 

A Little Silver Trunk of Life

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From time to time, I receive messages from people around the world who have been helped, inspired, motivated or simply enabled to take another step through a challenging period in their lives, as they’ve heard bits of my story or read my words.  We are each doing our best on this planet, and we are each facing different things as we negotiate our way along our paths, but it is always encouraging to hear that one’s own journey has acted as an example to others of what is possible and to hear that hope has been restored in the life of another.  Here, I’m sharing another little piece of my jigsaw, as an open hand to any other who might need a little strength …

I have a little silver trunk, where the few remaining contents of my life before marriage are filed … in some ways the trunk is a little substitute for the roots of family home I don’t have.

Late last night I climbed up to the attic, negotiated papers and packages strewn across my studio space to reach it, prized open the wonky lid and extracted some of my old journals ~ teenage and early adult snippets of “life” … Can’t recall why I went up there in the first place, nor so resolutely climbed obstacles to reach my private little trunk, but the gems contained within the pages of the first tome I opened are emotionally immense ….

Clearly it was meant to be, but I’m not sure why.

Poetry reading, words of times past pouring out of my pores now, saturated and awash with memory … and gratitude … for a life well lived …

Potent moments recorded there.

I am grateful that these have survived so many moves. God is good. He has a plan. One day at a time …

Whoever you are, whatever you’re going through, just remember: it will make you and mould you and you’ll be so much richer as a result.

“Never, never give up.”   ~ Sir Winston Churchill

With love,

Holly x

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot – A Motherhood Memory

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Cooks Hill, NSW, Australia ~ 1993/94

 

“Swing low, sweet chariot …”

This picture … me ‘n my girl … in the garden of the first home that we owned, where we spent many glorious hours in Nature together, had lots and lots of parties and get-togethers, with friends and family frequently coming to stay.

The garden was a ”postage stamp”, whose every inch I knew, into which I poured my love and learnt all sorts about Australia. Gardening became the therapy for a very homesick heart, a heart that missed people in two countries, two continents called “home”, but with that came a grateful connection to the earth and so much that reminded me of my beloved Africa.

In order to be a parent, I had to learn to listen deeply to the rhythms of real soul, such as I had seen in the ways that African people cared for their young … My journey was an otherwise blind one, based only on what I felt to be right, and most of the time I could not see further than my nose in the process. I read LOTS of books.

I called that home “Tintinnare” … which is Latin; it means the ringing of bells. It was and still is, I’m sure, a very special place. We lived there five years, sold it to move to “Rosewood”, when my son, four years younger than his sister, was a year old.

Holly x


[This post was written for another platform originally, hence the brevity of script.]

The Gift Of A Mandela Book

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This morning, whilst drinking my early morning cup of tea, something prompted me to look across to the little bookshelf beside my bed.  As I glanced up to the top shelf, a book almost spoke to me to lift it down and open it … this book … “Mandela. My Prisoner, My Friend”.  I obeyed.  I held it, I stretched out my hands and looked at the cover, I drew it close to my chest and hugged it, as if to feel the warmth of southern hemisphere sunshine … and then I opened the covers and peeped inside.

I knew that I was taking a chance by opening the book, potentially exposing myself to pain, at seeing evidence of things about Nelson Mandela’s life which I know were brutal, creating uncomfortable feelings of despair and utter shame, coupled with longings for the country of my birth, and yet I knew that it really was time to face whatever the pages contained … but I was only going to peep.  A little.  It was not my intention to spend too much time on the book today, with a list as long as the proverbial piece of rope of things demanding my attention, but I felt that I was being guided to read some of it and to at least make myself acquainted with a little of what the text contains.  The book had been given to me some time ago, a surprise gift, and it was time I gave it my attention, bravely.

As so often happens, I feel intuitively that I should do things and, instead of questioning the prompts, I usually tiptoe or stumble forth in the direction where I am led. And so I prised open the unread book, and I recalled the immense sense of amazement that I had felt when it had first been given to me, as I read the handwritten inscription inside:

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“To Holly,
Nelson Mandela was / is such an inspiration for me, as are you!
Keep shining your light and doing what you do.
Kirsti   x  “

[gifted to me on 28 April 2016]

Once again, as when I had received the book, which had been a complete surprise, I felt a wave of humility mixed with pleasure, at being thought of so highly and in such a wonderful way.  I cannot imagine anyone on the planet not being touched to be associated with “Madiba” in any sense at all … what a tremendous honour that I should be so blessed to remind someone of him, so much so that they would give me this book with open handed love.  It’s no small thing to have received this, and I remember at the time I could not comprehend why, nor quite take it in.  I still cannot see how I bear any passing similarity to Nelson Mandela, but life has been incredibly challenging to me as well, starting with a turbulent and at times heart breaking childhood, and has taught me so much through those challenges.  I suppose this gives a tiny reason to feel that Mr Mandela and I might have, had we ever met, been kindred spirits.  Each of us, people acquainted with harsh reality and at times extremely unfair judgement, both very much in love with Nature, people and the African soil, giving some vague reason to believe that perhaps we might have had some things in common while he lived.  I would have loved to meet that real, power filled man – as many would have, I know.

And so, I turned another page, to see what I was being led to read.  The few pages that I opened spoke deeply to my consciousness and, whilst I could not face reading into the detail, what I read was enough for today, enough to make it worthwhile to have opened the book – almost a year since it had been given to me, in April 2016.

In the Prologue, these words by the author, Christo Brand, struck my soul:

“Nelson Mandela spent his boyhood in the green and golden hills of South Africa’s Eastern Cape.  There he ran wild with his friends in the village of Qunu.  He has told of the happiest years of his life – shooting birds out of the sky with a catapult, gathering fruit from the trees, catching fish with a bent hook and drinking warm milk straight from the cow.

Just like me, he sometimes looked after flocks of sheep and would go home to his family’s little house after playing till dusk, to eat supper and listen to his mother’s stories around the fireside.

As a young boy, he had no immediate knowledge of apartheid.  In his small, safe world there was no obvious menace.  His childhood was secure in the rural Xhosa community where he belonged.

I also knew nothing of the cruel racial boundaries in our country as I grew up.  My father was a farm foreman in a fertile part of the Western Cape.  All my young life I played with black and mixed-race children who lived on the farm with us in Stanford, many miles from the city.

Looking back, Mandela and I both enjoyed childhoods full of innocence and charm, although many years apart.  We were both brought up in the Christian tradition, our lives ruled by strict but loving parents who taught us right from wrong.  All that mattered was home and family, with rewards for good behaviour and punishment for bad.

He and I, in contrasting worlds, came to know in our different ways the full cruelty of the apartheid laws, and those worlds collided only many years later when we both found ourselves on Robben Island, the bleak maximum security prison where he was serving life and I was his warder.

I was 19 years old when I came face to face with Nelson Mandela.  He was 60.  Until that day I had never heard of him, or his African National Congress, or the deeply held reasons that meant that he and his comrades were prepared to die for their cause.

I found a man who was courteous and humble, yet at the same time the powerful leader of many of the political prisoners serving time on Robben Island.”

and

“He wrote of his ‘long walk to freedom’, and I walked some of that road with him, an incredible journey that defines my life today, as well as his.

In truth, my life began so much later than his.  A white Afrikaans boy born into the very culture that created Mandela the revolutionary, I’d had no idea it was going to lead me to him.”

~ * ~

Unlike Christo Brand, whose childhood and life story are also described in the book, I did not grow up in a Christian household, and my home and background influence were very definitely liberal British / generally English ones, but I too experienced the times of friendship with ‘forbidden’ others, and the wildness of living free during part of my childhood in the African countryside.  In this way, I suppose one could imagine that each of these aspects makes us plaited and pure South Africans of the apartheid era, kindred spirits in all sorts of ways.  There are aspects of imprisonment which Mandela experienced, that I could identify as similar in various parallels with my own life on other continents where, despite appearance to the contrary, I have also experienced the sheer despair and discomfort of being contained, misjudged, overlooked, misunderstood.  It is in the nature of some of us to express ourselves openly and to put our gifts to use with excellence and generosity; when we are constrained, those energies can be directed inwards and threaten to overwhelm us … Nelson Mandela showed that they and the opposition he faced would grow him, instead, and indeed they did.

As I turned to a few more pages, before getting up and on with the day, I came across a page that struck me as special to share, and so I took a quick photograph (a bit blurry, given the time of day!) ..

On one page, two human beings whom I have a huge amount of respect for, both having been at the receiving end of unimaginable condescension and criticism, both heroes of their day, despite (and perhaps because of) it all, both educated, civilised, philosophical giants, with warm hearts and the grace of forgiveness in the fibre of their make-up: Nelson Mandela and Barack Obama.  Each man a legend, in his own right.  Each man someone I look up to as an example of a fine human being.  Each man with roots in Africa. Each a leader, against all the odds.  Each man a lion-hearted soul.

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At the front of the book, US President Barack Obama’s message in the visitors’ book on Robben Island, dated 30 June 2013, is quoted and reads:

“On behalf of our family, we’re deeply humbled to stand where men of such courage faced down injustice and refused to yield.  The world is grateful for the heroes of Robben Island, who remind us that no shackles or cells can match the strength of the human spirit.”

These words deserve a moment …

I am one of those people who will often read the final pages of a book, and then go back and absorb the detail, quickly, or pausing to comb through the fine print, savouring each page like a morsel of delicacy.  Thus, confining this one quick comb through my precious gift of “Mandela.  My Prisoner, My Friend” to another ten minutes or so of perusing the content for now, I turned to the last couple of pages, where I read the words of co-author to this story, Barbara Jones:

“It was soon after dawn on Sunday, 15 December 2013 when Christo Brand walked through the ancient fields of Qunu village and past the river where Mandela played as a child, on his way to a sad but fitting ceremony, the last goodbye to the great Nelson Mandela.  Security guards noted his damp and muddy shoes and insisted on brushing them clean for him.  He continued alone right up to the burial place and looked into Mandela’s empty grave.

‘I thought to myself how he would now be able to look over the whole of that green valley he loved so much.  Madiba had come home, just as he always longed to,’ he said.

Christo was greeted warmly by a group of military generals, every one of them an ex-prisoner from Robben Island.  Film producer Anant Singh, whose “Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom”, had recently received huge critical acclaim, persuaded Christo to sit nearby, along with actor Idris Elba, who took the lead part.

Mourners started up their beloved freedom songs dedicated to Mandela, and Christo felt proud.  Close to tears, he listened to Mandela’s grandson Ndaba giving his moving speech.  ‘I closed my eyes and I could hear the man himself, and see him in his youth’, he said.  Granddaughter Nandi was also impressive and talked of Mandela’s warmth towards his family.

Daughter Zindzi saw Christo, gave him a special smile, and thanked him for being there.  The singing stopped and everyone stood.  It was the moment for Mandela’s coffin to be carried solemnly past the mourners.

‘The coffin was close enough for me to touch but I didn’t think that would be right,’ said Christo.  ‘And it was enough to know that our lives had touched for so many years.  I said a silent goodbye to the best, strongest and most honest human being I have ever known.’ “

I don’t think I have spoiled the story by sharing these last few lines in the book … most of the world was watching the procession of Nelson Mandela’s coffin on that day, we all know how the story ended … I, for one, was glued to my television screen, candles lit and with tears pouring down my cheeks.  Scotland, where I write this from, is a long, long way from home.

God bless you, Madiba.  You, Lion of Africa, gave eloquence and elevation and grace to the people and to the country I am now so proud to call my real home.

To the friend who gave me this book so unexpectedly, your generous gift has blessed me with a renewing, an additional and special link to a country I left thirty two years ago this December, two weeks after my twenty third birthday, a country that was in turmoil … leaving a country and a people whom I miss with heart and mind and soul.

Holly x

The book was published by John Blake Publishing Ltd, in 2014.
ISBN 978 1 78219 743 0

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Optimism is …

Optimism is …

Singing and dancing whilst living on a plank.

Tips:

1. Look at the plank, not at the swirling waves.

2. Appreciate the plank, stare at the horizon, ride the waves.

In strength,

Holly x  

Life is worth mastering …

This month marks the thirtieth anniversary of when I left my beloved Africa, to come to the United Kingdom, embarking on a journey whose road I could not see before me. It has been one heck of a ride.

The original version of this particular blog post, “Life is worth mastering”, was published in February 2015 (twenty three years after leaving Britain at short notice, due to the death by suicide of my husband’s eldest brother, returning again to live in the UK in 2006).  This post has been reblogged by others, for which I am immensely surprised and grateful. I thank all for the tremendous support that my words have received.

Here it is again …

Blessings and love,
Holly x

 

 

 

The Holly Tree Tales

The piece below was written upon waking this morning, Tuesday 17th February 2015, and flowed from my pen as I allowed the words to ‘write’ themselves. The thoughts come from my own experience of life, and my own journey, but the flow of words was not controlled. I simply allowed them to be, just as I am learning to do.

This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of my arrival in Great Britain, home of my ancestors, from the country of my own birth, South Africa. This month, February, marks the anniversary of the sudden and tragic death of my brother-in-law, an event which catapulted me to Australia, as a young bride twenty three years ago. Nine years ago, I returned to the United Kingdom once more, older, a little wiser and with a family of my own. This month, and this year, each hold enormous significance for me personally, as do several other…

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Quiet Time In Winchester Cathedral

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A few months ago, I was down in Winchester to attend a couple of events at Winchester College and found a little time for myself on the Saturday morning, anonymous and alone amongst the many inhabitants and visitors to the town. Feeling tired and fairly tender on the day, I decided to take myself on foot to the Cathedral, in the hope of finding a quiet corner where I might not intrude, and where I might be allowed to simply be.

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Whilst there, I penned the following into my notebook …

~ : ~

In Winchester Cathedral
Epiphany Chapel

As I walked into the Cathedral, on a video screen I saw the words very clearly “Be Still And Know That I Am God” … before they disappeared, replaced on the screen with something else.  I had walked in alone, in that moment, and felt as though the stillness and trusting message was especially for me.

I asked the lady greeting visitors at the door if I might be allowed to just come in and sit down.  I barely had the emotional strength to explain that I was not a tourist nor a history scholar, merely someone needing solace. I did not wish to join the milieu, nor have to walk across to the ticket kiosk and deal with the business of being there.  Thankfully, mercifully, I did  not have to explain to her. The lady looked directly into my eyes, and asked if I wanted to pray. I said “Yes, just to sit and pray, and to write”.  She looked as though she clearly understood my need and, without hesitation, showed me the way – “towards the wrought iron gates on the left hand side, and then left into the little chapel” – which has been set aside for this purpose.  I was so grateful to be able to come here and be peaceful, alone.

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As I walked into the chapel and sat down, the tears that had been gathering on the long walk down the side of the Cathedral were beginning to really flow free, and I was pleased to be able to let them out, completely alone and privately.  Then I looked up at the beautiful flowers, in an arrangement near where I was sitting, and noticed snapdragon heads amongst them, and realised that they are similar to the few apricot-coloured snapdragon plants that I had inherited at [the home where we currently live], before I moved them out of the area near the house, into the Stables Courtyard.  Not my favourite colour in plants by any means, but I felt as if they were a link to here, a message of some sort.

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I opened the Bible sitting on the pew rail in front of me; it fell open at Proverbs 19.

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Then I opened another page, after reading what had been shown, and saw Psalm 126.

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I photographed the pages, to have a record of what I had seen and read.  Some meaning was already and immediately there, but I felt that more meaning might come later, and wanted a record of what I had felt to be special and relevant messages.

Before entering the Cathedral, I had walked around the area in and near the shop and refectory beyond it, photographing the beautiful and meaningful bits to me, nurturing myself by being peaceful, enjoying the unrushed time to absorb what I felt led to and what I wanted to see.

Drinking in the peace at the Cathedral, even with the many other visitors and voices bouncing around the huge stone walls, I feel grateful for being understood, being allowed to stop, sit alone quietly, and simply be.

“Be Still, And Know
That I Am God”

Psalm 46: 10

~ : ~

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As I was leaving the Cathedral, I slipped gold coins into the donation box, in thanks for the peace and understanding shown to me, by the kind lady at the entrance door. That time in the Epiphany Chapel had been a gentle, much-needed balm to my soul.  I had felt momentarily as though, perhaps, someone truly is looking after me.

Holly x

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Harvesting Blackcurrants

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At our current home we have a little courtyard area, where I have collected a number of plants in pots, in order to experiment and easily study them, while I learn about plant habits in the British climate. Gardening here and learning to live here is a challenge unlike any I have known, and having my most special plants in a protected environment around me helps to ease the transition at times. It would have been easier learning to garden productively in the northern hemisphere first, and then going to live and garden in the southern hemisphere, but my life has worked the other way around. So, for now I am learning the harder way, but the lessons are, at last, reaping bountiful rewards.

Besides being a study zone and handy to the house, there is another reason why the little courtyard, which still houses the original cobbled floor stables, is used as a sanctuary for my pot plants, one that is a deeper, more personal reason … perhaps I shall write that story another day. The photograph above hints at the part-wilderness, which I have allowed freedom in the enclosed courtyard space. Whilst not entirely private, it has become a space that, for me at least, offers solace to the soul. The growing numbers of wild creatures that join me there seem to think so too.

About a year ago, I bought two fairly large pots of blackcurrants, from a small local nursery who pride themselves on growing their own. They are not an organic nursery, which I would naturally prefer, but a small concern who deserve local support and whose heart is definitely in the right place. Much of what the nursery sells is for the benefit of bees, butterflies and ladybirds, which is what appealed to me when I first saw their sign, and curiously followed a road I had never been on, in order to discover who and what they were. Having semi-nursed my original two small pots of blackcurrants through a few ferocious Winters here, I know that without some proper care or replanting their fruiting days are numbered, so I was delighted to discover, at very little cost, the big black pots of prolifically fruiting blackcurrants. Can you imagine the impossibility of resisting such delights?

Over the past nine years, since setting off from Australia (where I’d lived in a fairly un-rooted way for fourteen years), leaving behind (more like “being dragged away from”) a rather substantial, elegant and valuable plant collection, I have almost sub-consciously amassed an impressive (or obsessive) number of new botanical treasures. Plants are my one true and enduring ‘weakness’, that is clear. Other than providing bird seed and fresh water, I have learnt to leave wildlife to take care of itself, and to let others adopt needy stray creatures, but I still find it impossible to walk blindly past a beautiful plant. Thus, despite my meagre spare means and full intentions not to collect any more botanical treasures on that day, a plant that was not only beautiful, but also fruiting prolifically in a pot, providing food at a cheaper rate than a bought beef burger, meant that it was coming home with me – and that was that.

If truth be told, I hardly expected the two tempting blackcurrant bushes (yes, two, not one) to make it through the Winter – they looked too lush to be hardy – but could only hope and see. I told myself that, if they did not survive, I could reuse their large pots – perhaps even for the blackcurrants I already had, which remain pot bound and awaiting roots-into-soil release. Well, my hope was not in vain: this year the lush new blackcurrants’ bounty has been tremendous, and so I set myself up to harvest each pot’s offering in style … as you can see!

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I realise that, without proper care, there is little chance that any of my potted blackcurrants will continue to prolifically produce and that, if they are going to live in pots ad infinitum, I shall have to manage their living conditions appropriately, of course. I have also learnt that one has to make the most of what Nature offers when it offers it, a lesson not always fully appreciated in the southern hemisphere, where so much grows all year round. I have learnt too that, when the sun shines, one must go outside and make the most of it … it so rarely shines in the part of Britain where we live … and being outdoors, gardening or harvesting in the very long colder months, for a warm-blooded creature like me, is nigh on impossible.

Thus, despite eating almost the same amount as that which I harvested, while comfortably seated and soaking up the sun’s gorgeously balmy rays, I have squirrelled away into our little deep freezer about four punnets full of delicious, juicy, fruity, vitamin-packed organic blackcurrants, and am incredibly proud of myself!

Holly x

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Ek Wil Huis Toe Gaan – An Ode to South Africa – With Translation

A Power of Prosperity moment.

A Kwa-Zulu Natal house martin, resting on a telephone wire at the Author’s home in Berwickshire, UK.

In my previous blogpost, I explained the writing of this poem, which seemed to write itself one chilly evening in Britain, during October 2013. I have now cobbled together a translation, which appears below the original, for those who do not speak Afrikaans nor know the South African lingo …

Ek Wil Huis Toe Gaan

Ek wil huis toe gaan …
Weg van hierdie koue plek;
Weg van hier, waar die mense kan nie lag nie;
Weg van die grys en die vreeslike ys,
Daar waar die hemel dikwels blou is;
Waar die mense lag en speel,
Waar die vriende warm is,
En die blommetjies baie is;
Waar die dikdikke dik,
En die blomme lekker ruik;
Waar die koppies loer my in,
En die pad lekker warm onder die fiets is;
Waar die biltong smaak,
En die boerewors kraak;
Waar die sonskyn soos parfum op my vel voel,
En die wind so lieflik oor die veldt grassies ‘skyn’ …
Ja, ek wil huis toe gaan.
Ek moet huis toe gaan.
Ek kan nie langer wag nie,
Ek moet huis toe gaan.
Die pyn is soms vreeslik koud.
Ek moet huis toe gaan,
Voor alles is vergeet en ek is baie oud.
Draai my huis toe nou,
Op die wind en die voel se rug,
Nou, asseblief, gee my ‘n bietjie verlig,
Ek wil huis toe gaan.

Asseblief. Net huis toe. Nou.

~ : ~

 

And in English, a rough translation …


I Want To Go
Home

I want to go home …
Away from this cold place;
Away from here, where the people cannot laugh;
Away from the grey and the terrible ice,
There where the sky is often blue;
Where the people laugh and play,
Where the friends are warm,
And the flowers are many;
Where the dik-dik call,
And the flowers smell divine;
Where the little hills entice me,
And the road is hot under the bicycle;
Where the “biltong” tastes delicious,
And the “boerewors” crackles;
Where the sunshine feels like perfume on my skin,
And the wind shines so beautifully over the “veld” grasses …
Yes, I want to go home.
I cannot wait any longer,
I must go home.
The pain is sometimes freezing cold.
I must go home,
Before everything is forgotten and I am very old.
Draw me homewards now,
On the wind and the back of the bird,
Now, please, give me a little relief,
I want to go home.

Please. Just home. Now.

~ : ~


Explanation of Words used

Boerewors :  a spicy South African sausage.
Biltong : a dried meat, often spiced with coriander seed.
Dik-dik : a very small type of antelope, named for the sound  that they make.
Veld or Veldt : the wide open spaces of natural African grasslands / meadows.
Verlig : literally translates as someone who holds progressive or enlightened views, in this poem used with liberty to describe a sense of relief, lightheartedness, or respite from continual care or burden.

Holly x

The original poem, written in Afrikaans on 26 October 2013.
Translation on12 August 2015.
~ by Holly Maxwell Boydell