Day 24 - Redelinghuys

Wednesday, October 30

Rus Roes to Redelinghuys Manor

10k/6mi

Sunny and Hot

 

 

I was up at 3:30 a.m., not fretting, but not settled either. It was far too early to venture out to the kitchen in search of coffee, so I read. The book, No Two Persons, was a perfect warm embrace of a story, full of light and wisdom and a story structure that delighted the writer in me. As I have since childhood, I found comfort and home in story and the magic of words. 

 

When I felt it was late enough to be out of my room, I crept past a sleeping Gezie into the kitchen. With the door closed behind me, I made my coffee as quietly as possible. It took two cups that morning to fuel me through all I had to say in my journal. There was a lot of anger showing up on the pages: at Cape Camino, that this was my Camino, at myself for signing on in the first place when I knew there was a risk of this very thing. Anger at the universe for allowing this. I had asked for a pilgrimage in which I had time to reflect and to get to know myself, to feel my way to the next stage of my life. 

 

Interestingly, I did not mention anger at Clare or A. in that journal entry. Even then, in my confusion and pain, I knew they were instruments, and not really my enemies. That didn’t mean I felt safe with them, but I did have enough strength to be willing to look deeper beyond their actions into my reactions. 

 

 

It was on this morning that it began to dawn on me that perhaps this pilgrimage wasn’t about making friends with my aging self or about figuring out what to do with my last years. That dawning was just a glimmer, however. I didn’t really believe I’d been wrong about the purpose of my walk.  There was still time for those lessons to emerge. That they didn’t and I didn’t notice until long after I returned home, is a testament to how little energy or focus I had for anything but dealing with what was going on in the group and inside of me. Which, as it turned out, was the gift the pilgrimage surprised me with. A gift I struggled to receive. 

 

The morning journal ended with: “I hate this enough I’m not sure I’d ever put myself in this position again. So I pray for wisdom, for clarity, for the right words, for right action, for breath. I pray for the ability to be here fully even as I long for the peace of home. I pray I can learn what I need to, that I not settle into bitterness, that I can keep my focus on my own work, my own soul, that I don’t let my ego drive the bus, that I don’t settle into the false comforts of addiction. That I be whole and act from my wholeness, not woundedness.”

 

And, as was becoming the case more and more, John O’Donohue’s words set me off into the new day with a feeling of being held, a feeling of hope.

 

“Real growth is experienced when you draw back from that one window, turn and walk around the inner tower of the soul and see all the different windows that await your gaze. Through these different windows, you can see new vistas of possibility, presence, and creativity. Complacency, habit, and blindness often prevent you from feeling your life. So much depends on the frame of vision – the window through which you look.”

 

 

There was a substantial sit-down breakfast where tension was masked in polite conversation and both Cynthia and I managed to avoid Clare. Alfie said goodbye to us and headed out into his farmer day. Gezie buzzed around, mother henning us all, as she also prepared to walk part of the way herself. The group pic was taken, and while the others lingered with Gezie, Cynthia and I headed out.

 

 

That two-hour walk was glorious and one of my favorite memories of the pilgrimage. It was not yet hot and the light held the magical quality only an African morning can. Cynthia and I were closer than we’d ever been, united in our woundedness and determination to not let Clare have any more power over our walks. 

 

Very early in the walk I heard a bird sound that registered as the bird Bregda had told us about. It started with a rapid clapping, followed by a high whistle, then silence. Repeated over and over again. We couldn’t remember the name of the bird so I WhatsApped Bregda and asked. She answered right away, and that connection made me inordinately happy. The bird was a Cape Clapper Lark. My first lark ever. They kept us company the entire morning. We stopped a couple of times, searching the distance trying to see the flapping ascent, followed by a dive to earth. Although far away, we did manage to watch a couple of the birds as they danced in the sky. 

 

Our need to be separate from the group kept our pace brisk, but we stopped often to take pictures, determined to soak in the peace and beauty. We did look back from time to time, but the road was empty. That felt like a gift. For a long time, we climbed gradually. Just enough for our legs to feel stretched, but not enough to feel difficult. We reached an apex beyond which a beautiful valley revealed itself. Fields in the shape of circles, potato crops as I remembered, looked like modern art or maybe alien messages. Even as early as it was, with no shade at all, the heat joined us as a welcome companion.

 

 

My excitement grew on the long slow descent into Redelinghuys. Elmie, who’d been our chaperone two years ago had opened an art gallery which I was eager to see. Janet, who’d been our host two years ago, was someone I’d connected with as a writer. One of my all-time favorite memories, not just of the previous pilgrimage but ever, was of the dinner with Janet and her husband, Rodrick. She had published a picture book, illustrated by her artist husband, that she showed us at that dinner table that night. Without planning or discussion, one of the other pilgrims and I read the book out loud, alternating pages. It was pure magic, full of Janet’s incredible story and our voices, all the hearts around the table open and celebratory and full of gratitude. 

 

 

The town was quiet as we made our way to the manor house that would be our stop for the night. It was as beautiful and inviting as I remembered it. It was only 9:30, earlier than Janet expected anyone. Still, she greeted us warmly, giving me a great hug. She asked if we’d be okay rooming together, and then put us in a sweet old-fashioned room across from two spacious and inviting bathrooms. Clare and Anna-marie would get the other double room, and A. the single. 

 

 

Cynthia and I dropped our packs, and headed back out into the morning. We wanted to be out of the house when the others arrived. Plus, our luggage hadn’t arrived yet, so we couldn’t shower. It felt nice to be strolling along without a pack and without feeling tired or worn at all. We had seen the gallery on our way to the manor house, and were happy to find it open on our return. Elmie greeted me like a long-lost friend, and Cynthia like a friend she’d just been waiting to meet. 

 

The gallery was a surprisingly light-filled eye-engaging delight. Full of work by not just Elmie, but other local artists, all displayed beautifully. We chatted and wandered the space happily. This gallery was Elmie’s dream come true, and I was thrilled for her success and evident happiness. She left us to shop, and we both found items that needed to come home with us. Cynthia’s shopping included gifts for my upcoming birthday, which she let me have a voice in. We were checking out, still chattering away with Elmie, when Clare and Anna-marie walked in. 

 

They still had their packs on, so hadn’t been to the manor yet. We clocked each other’s presence, then determinedly ignored each other. They made no effort to greet us, and we acted as though they weren’t there. We said our goodbyes to Elmie and left the gallery without acknowledging the two other pilgrims. I wondered what Elmie thought, or knew. She surely saw we were all pilgrims, and so were walking together. Cape Camino doesn’t have separate groups walking at the same time. Yet she said nothing to indicate there might be a connection. She was as warm and welcoming to them as she’d been to everyone else entering her space. 

 

 

Cynthia and I headed down the street away from the manor house. We had seen two tuck shops (mini-marts) on the way through town and decided to restock snacks and see what was on offer. The first store was familiar – the one Jane and I had visited two years before where she introduced me to NikNaks, and where we bought a feast of junk food to entertain ourselves with the rest of the day. As Cynthia and I wandered the aisles, I enjoyed the foreign brands and amazed at how many American brands I saw. I bought NikNaks in honor of Jane, and chocolate and Coke and sparkling water. The last three my go-to treats for the walk. 

 

We left the store and headed in the direction of the other one. There was a colored family waiting on a bench, and Cynthia started a conversation with them. I was reminded this was Cynthia’s country and that it was not mine, and of my discomfort and low-level fear starting conversations with people who may or may not be happy for my presence. I thoroughly enjoyed watching her regularly engage people in conversation no matter where we were. 

 

The other store was a lot smaller. The entire inventory could be viewed through the front door. Gezie drove up beside us, on her way home after dropping our luggage at the manor house. She got out and wrapped us both in her great mother hen hugs. We turned to watch A. make her way into town, having walked the last half on her own. Gezie had walked the beginning with all three of the other women. 

 

Gezie drove off, leaving A. and Cynthia and me standing awkwardly outside the store. We asked how her walk was and offered to walk A. to the manor house, but she refused, saying she’d rather be alone. We left her staring in a store window, and returned to the house. 

 

 

We found things quiet in the house. Janet emerged from the kitchen and offered tea. The three of us sat on her stoep (back porch) and enjoyed the tea and treats and easy conversation. Cynthia and I decided it was hot enough we were willing to brave the cold water of Janet’s pool. We spent a very long time in the water, paddling a little, chatting a little, soaking up the contrast between the hot sun and water just warm enough to be able to linger in it. 

 

 

The pool was more pond than anything. Janet had set up a small wooden ramp on the steps so frogs could find their way out to the lawn. Snails clung to the sides as we watched one solo frog swim across the bottom where algae was evident. Red dragonflies skimmed over the surface, enchanting me with their ethereal beauty and what they always represented to me in terms of hope.

 

 

When we’d had enough, we settled in the shade on our sarongs, chatting more. Janet had asked if we wanted lunch and said we could come in for it when we were ready. Instead, she brought it out to us, simple satisfying fare that tasted like a gourmet feast as most food eaten outdoors does. 

 

 

We took the tray back, got more ice for our drinks and our junk food for dessert and settled ourselves on the stoep. Cynthia worked. I spent the time on my phone messaging. My first task was to begin the search for transportation to Cape Town at the end of the walk in Langebaan, less than two weeks ahead. It felt good that I had people I could reach out to for help, that I had options available because of my previous connections. Cynthia stopped her work to help me as well. 

 

Then I reached out to my people. I wrote to Walt, and then Jane. I continued a WhatsApp conversation with N., who was struggling. She was finding her solo experience to be frustrating because she didn’t feel supported by Cape Camino, and was feeling ripped off in addition. We weren’t going to get to see her for the coast walk as we’d thought. She was still going to meet Anna-marie in Cape Town to do the peninsula together, and I was happy for them both, and hopeful that would give them an ending that healed and restored. 

 

I’d been chatting off and on with Caroline, finding comfort in her wisdom and optimism. I had told her about the blowup at Gezie’s, and was happy on this day to follow up with the gentle gifts that came after. Writing to people I loved and who loved me back, from the back porch of an old and beautifully restored manor house, looking out over gorgeous wetlands, relaxed from pool time and junk food, it was easy to claim a deep and abiding peace. 

 

While we were enjoying our stoep time, the other three arrived and settled on the other side. There was no conversation across the gap. We looked up when they came out, but they acted as though we weren’t there. It’s not until I write this in real time, that it occurs to me they were acting as though we had done something to them. No apology was ever offered from Clare. If anything, the three seemed glad for the division. 

 

 

Cynthia and I went in to take our showers. I went back to the stoep to journal and just enjoy the air and the wagtails wagging their way around the back yard. I had the place to myself for a long satisfying time and in that space found myself feeling better about everything and more willing to accept that this was the way things were, regardless of how I might wish otherwise. 

 

 

We gathered for dinner in Janet’s incredible kitchen. I loved that space almost as much as I’d loved the old wooden table in Karin’s kitchen. It was modern enough, but had an old-fashioned feeling, like a grandmother’s kitchen. The table filled the center and we filled the table, five pilgrims, Janet, and Rodrick. The meal was delicious – lasagna, bread, salad, with an incredible passion fruit dessert. The conversation and the atmosphere were awkward. Rodrick did his best to keep things light, telling funny stories. Janet reminded us of the magical dinner of two years previously. I asked her about her writing, hoping to open the conversation toward dreams and the fulfillment of them. It went nowhere.

 

Anna-marie, who had offered not unfriendly acknowledgement when she wasn’t with Clare, left the table early to meet friends who were visiting the area on the stoep. Cynthia was quieter than usual, which left space that Clare and A. filled to overflowing with complaints (Clare) and stories we’d all heard before (A.). The drinking that had started on the stoep in the afternoon continued throughout dinner. I sat and listened, and left the table as soon as it seemed polite. I was disappointed to not have gotten more chance to visit with Janet, but also not surprised that couldn’t happen in that place and time. It was hard not to contrast this dinner with the one two years before. 

 

If nothing else, the last two days had helped me focus on what really mattered. I was learning just how strong I was, and how much faith I had in pilgrimage as teacher and as a messenger of spirit. I hated the group dynamics and felt lonely much of the time. But then there would be reunions that made me so happy, and moments with Cynthia that made me awe-struck with wonder that I got to be in a relationship with such an amazing person. The walking itself was saving me from despair and filling me up every day. I wished the legs were longer, both for the comfort of the walk and so there would be less down time for all the drama to play out. 

 

As I did every night, I reminded myself of my commitment (no shaping events, acceptance of everything as essential to the pilgrimage), and comforted myself with the proven fact that I could do hard things. Now, I was also counting days (seven) to the arrival of Ina and Frikkie, and then five more to the end. I soothed my hurt with imagining how I’d write Clare’s story, and A.’s, remembering Anne Lamott’s quote about if people didn’t want you to write bad things about them, they should have behaved better in the first place. (By the time I reached Cape Town for my return home, I’d mostly let go of the thought of revenge writing, and had already begun to search for a new way to tell the truth of the pilgrimage.)

 

Hafiz’ words for the day: “Even if it doesn’t turn out exactly as planned, this a game-changing moment. Seize it.”