A YEAR IN RHODES by Sharland Urquhart
Rhodes had captured our souls so very quickly, so very simply, that buying a cottage became both natural and inevitable. As a gardener I had to, in some small way, pay homage to the majestic beauty of the mountains. I decided on an indigenous low maintenance garden filled with local stone and rocks. This had to be a Rhodes project. Materials would be sourced locally. Local skills would be drawn on and utilized to their maximum. I would commute from Cape Town as often as necessary to my involvement in the project.
Commute I did, travelling to Rhodes at least seventeen times during 2011. Every month saw me in Rhodes at least once, sometimes twice. I watched and felt the changing seasons. I experienced the delights of the winter snowfall, and the not uncommon winter temperatures of -14 degrees Centigrade. I experienced the (very uncommon) delights of fishing in the snow in these temperatures. I delighted in the camaraderie engendered by the extreme conditions, not least when Eskom power was lost for more than three days.
Construction of dry-stone garden walls and steps, using old sandstone blocks that I had been fortunate to find locally, continued throughout winter, creating the correct levels on the sloping terrain. My trees, arriving in the depths of winter, stood stoically under their snowy mantles as we waited for the earth to soften so that the great planting team effort could begin in earnest. With the spring came the indigenous grasses, planted in massed blocks and looking instantly at home. The planting resembled nothing so much as a three day long pagan spring festival – boisterous, joyful, a celebration of the mystic connection between mankind and the soil, chaotic from a distance, but expertly choreographed. The final result was all that I had wished for.
But what of the fishing? I had come to Rhodes for the fishing. The WTA Festival was imperative. What better opportunity to meet up with some old friends and make some new ones whilst doing what we all loved. The camaraderie and spirit was uplifting and joyful. The weather, a little less so. Day 1 was washed out. Day 2 allowed access to the rivers. But those great white waters resembled oceans, not rivers. Huge white walls of waves heaved and broke over every rock, crevice, bridge and causeway. The waters rushed by, green and dark, flecked and mottled by the white waves and foam. I doubt that I was alone in wondering whether it was really possible that wonderfully plump rainbow trout lived beneath that raging torrent.
One of the fords across the Bokspruit near the old sheds at Brucedell during the 2011 festival – by Sharland East Urquhart
Doubts or not, we were at the rivers to fly fish. Managing to keep my stability whilst walking at an angle over some dry rocks set into the cliff side, the wind buffeting me from my left, I set off. I was hoping that perseverance might just pay off and reward me with a little undercut somewhere around the next corner, or perhaps the one after that. If this was the case, I thought to myself, I may then also find a relatively calm pool of water to cast my line into. My wish was granted – under a huge Willow at the very bottom of the bank the swirling water was somewhat less powerful and rough.
Buffeted by the current, I waded into a position that would keep my fly out of the Willow. Landing the fly beside a rock near the far corner of the undercut brought up my first catch of the day. Onwards we battled, upriver against the unrelenting flow. But if the going was tough, the views were so spectacular that I often found myself losing concentration while casting. The tallest poplars were turning to gold, all protecting each other
from the buffeting wind. For me, progress was possible only in the shallowest areas in the river, slip sliding from rock to rock. Patience and perseverance were rewarded with further catches.
Exiting the river alone some time later, I moved slowly up onto the bank concentrating on the placement of my boots and grasping onto tufted grasses and branches to aid my progress. With the wind, slight drizzle of rain and cracking of water pounding in my ears, I looked down onto the mass of seething water. What, I wondered, am I really doing here? As I lifted my eyes to the heavy metaled grey clouds in the heavens, I saw a pair of the most hauntingly beautiful eagles circling gracefully as they rode the turbulent updrafts. That for me was reason enough. Alone in this high up, seemingly secret place I knew I was at peace.
But what of the future? We now have a constant and tangible reminder of the magic of Rhodes, a mixed breed Pointer from a noble lineage. We acquired him from Zakhele Township on our last working visit to Rhodes before returning for Christmas. I named him Fly and like us he lives in Cape Town but returns as often as he can to drink in the majestic beauty of the centre of the universe.