Winter can be charming, delightful even, but when it’s as wet and icy as a penguin’s handshake, it has a way of sapping your will to live. If I had to summarize this winter in the Cape Peninsula, it would go something like this: far too much rain, far too few sunny days, and a distinct lack of sympathetic weather gods.
But let’s not be too hasty to judge the season harshly. After all, winter ushers in the annual quest for warmth and coziness—an endeavor that involves huddling around a heater or fire, sipping hot beverages, and engaging in spirited conversations with equally icebitten souls who, for reasons only known to them, insist on venturing outdoors despite the torrential downpours.
Nature, of course, is thriving in this deluge. The Silvermine River has decided it’s time to show off, flowing merrily into Fish Hoek Bay on the Clovelly side, with the nearby wetland enthusiastically joining in the fun by overflowing with all the exuberance of a toddler in a mud puddle. A drive over Oukaapse Weg reveals a stunning display of Cape flora, resplendent in every shade of green known to humankind (including whites, pinks and yellows) as mountain streams gush with a fervor usually reserved for reality TV show contestants.
However, it’s a tad less delightful when a mountain stream takes an unexpected detour through your kitchen. My humble cottage, snugly nestled against the mountain, was rudely awakened on 11 July 2024 by a stream that decided it preferred the indoors. The kitchen was soon awash with water, and my primary occupation for the day (and several days thereafter) became mopping, soaking, and inventing new curse words. My main concern was to prevent further damage, though the insurance assessor, in their infinite wisdom, informed me that “preventive maintenance” wasn’t part of the coverage. Clearly, they missed the small detail of the Level 8 storm that had decided to pay the entire peninsula a visit that day.
As if that wasn’t enough, my bathroom joined the fun, springing a leak despite my best efforts to patch up the roof. The scene reminded me of a tune: “Oh, no, don’t let the rain come down (Ah, ah), My roof’s got a hole in it and I might drown.” Drip, drip, drop, drop—followed by a mini Niagara Falls in the bathroom at 3 a.m., a sound that could only be described as “worrying.” Yet sleep must come, as one must cling to the naïve hope that all will be well in the morning.
I’d rather not discuss the army of black mold that decided to set up camp in the corners of my abode. Let’s just say that the hardware store is now on speed dial, and I’ve become intimately acquainted with every mold-fighting product on the market.
Having spent over 40 years in Randburg, where winters are cold but dry as a desert, I find this Cape winter a whole new beast. Randburg’s winter woes were limited to chapped lips, parched skin, and dust levels that could rival a Martian landscape. Recently, I found myself envying those still up in Randburg—basking in their heatwaves during the day and chilly nights that at least had the decency to stay dry.
This marks my first winter in the Cape in what feels like several lifetimes, and I’m still adapting. I recently struck up a conversation with a couple from London who’d moved to Fish Hoek. I asked how they were handling the Cape winter. “Just like London,” the man said with a shrug, followed by a hearty chuckle that suggested he might be a little too familiar with this kind of damp misery.
I’ve always marvelled at those hardy souls who seem to glide through winter in nothing but a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, as though cold weather were merely an optional inconvenience. I once met a plumber who spent the entire season dressed this way. He might be onto something, though I suspect it’s more likely he’s lost all feeling in his extremities.
Spring, that elusive season of renewal, is theoretically just around the corner. However, we’ve still got a fair number of cold weeks to endure before the weather decides to cut us some slack. Yet, every season has its merits, even if winter’s are somewhat hidden beneath layers of rain and the occasional bout of despair. Winter may be unpleasant, but you do get better at surviving it each year. And, after all, it’s winter’s relentless chill that makes the arrival of spring, and the promise of new adventures, all the more sweet.
Yesterday, in a rare moment when the rain paused to catch its breath, I found myself overlooking the Dalebrook tidal pool. Just as I was beginning to wonder if the world had been permanently washed in shades of grey, there it was—a whale, out in the distance, launching itself skyward in a spectacular display of defiance against the gloom. A mighty wall of white water soared into the air, a signal, perhaps, that Spring had begun its subtle approach. As for the dolphins, well, I imagine they popped into the bay, took one look around, and, with a knowing nod, said, “So long and thanks for all the fish.”
