I’m not even going to apologise for the bold stealing of the idea for this post from my favourite blogger. He knows I’m an inveterate idea larcenist, but then maybe we all are after a fashion.
But on with the post. I have just got back to the UK after three weeks in South Africa and the feelings and thoughts these visits usually evoke haven’t settled down yet.
It was summer and hot and thundery, shade was at a premium. That sticky, heavy air oozed across the water barely lifting a ripple. Doves slept in the gum trees which sighed under the relentless beating sun. “I love it here so much,” I hear myself breathe. But it isn’t love: it’s essence, spirit, basis, being. And it’s hard and unforgiving and demanding and cruel. It makes you need it, but remains unmoved; it makes you long for it, but it doesn’t care if you leave; it hooks itself into you like a parasite that leaves you feverish and disconsolate.
I want to go back, but that would mean a kind of dying and I’m not ready for that.