a double-shotofbrandy,andthefizzofCoke.
Manyyearsofarmliftinganddoppinghasleft
thewoodenbarcounterwithintricatepatterns
ofglassstainsthatextendliketattoosacross
itssurface,stirringupphrasesandtalesof
wowandwoe,ofstoriesgalore.I’dseeghosts
dancing,mendissolvingintomemories,slowly
fadingintoa cheeredpast.Inonecornerwould
standtheframeofa pitteddartboardspiked
overtheyears,witha badcalendarpictureof
a reclininggirldroolingsexappeal,justaboveit.
Now,propelledforwardthroughtimeof
yearslapsed,I ponderontheslowdemiseof
thegreatvillagehotel,overtakenbylodges,
self-cateringunitsandanendlesslineof
B&Bs.Perhapsit’smyhankeringforthe
longerdays,slowerlifestyle,simplepleasures,
noanimalcalledtheinternet,justa coupleof
wordsat ThePigandWhistleanda fewdays
at a Karoohotel.
Yet,mytravelsaroundthisgreatsouthern
continentovertheyearshaveshownthatsome
traditionalhotelshavekepttheirgableshigh,
theirspiritsflyingwiththeiredgesslightly
moreroughened,stillembracingthetraveller
withgreatfondness.
Notlongago,life’sjourneyonceagaintakes
usintotherollingMidlands’hillsthatsurround
Himeville,andsoarebornthesefewthoughts
onthreehotels.It’s 52 yearsafterthevisitby
threevagabondair-forcecadets,whenI once
againwalkintothebaroftheHimevilleArms.
“HolyMoses,”I sayto theZulubarman,
wholooksupwitha broad,white-toothedTOP LEFT: A cold morning mist turns my memories
back to my wanderings through the villages of England
and Scotland many years ago. ABOVE: Only the light
from the windows diffuses the lingering fishing stories
still told in the bar of the Himeville Arms.ABOVE: Some barmen are just barmen, but 33-year-old Mfanafuthi Mazeka’s welcome and delight rank right up
there with the best. BELOW LEFT: I journey my lens through the old-time moods, fire warmth and friendly chatter
of a traditional hotel dining room in Himeville. BELOW RIGHT: Sobriety wins the evening as I let my thirsty red
torch time-expose itself around each and every storytelling bar chair in the Himeville Arms.
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