I will lift my eyes ....

• 

Details

Written July 2020

Was it being born on the slopes below Paarl Rock, so named because it glistens pearl-like with early morning dew? Or was it growing up in Kloof Street on the slopes of Cape Town’s Lion’s Head before we moved to Port Elizabeth where cycling up the steep incline of Russel Road was always a challenge? Was it the Grahamstown years, where we lived first on Hill Street and then in Hillsview, looking across the valley to Makana’s Kop, the hill with its distinctive clump of trees. Or was it back to Cape Town for university and early married years on the slopes of Devils Peak? Or exploring the caves of the Kalk Bay Mountains above Fish Hoek, at least one of them inhabited by prehistoric man in Peer’s Cave? And we did we spend part of our honeymoon in the majestic Drakensberg Mountains. And holidaying in Clanwilliam a few years later being attracted to the Pakhuis Pass nearby, finding a few bushman paintings and the cave where South African poet-doctor, Louis Leopold is buried, the inscription on the grave in Afrikaans: ‘Go and find your place in the veld.’ I’m still looking. What is it about hills and mountains that seem to draw us?
 
Arrive in London in 1967 and we find ourselves at the Salvation Army college on Denmark Hill, with views across the capital, its tower dominating the South London skyline, as William Booth wanted it, higher even than St Paul’s. And when we return to the city 12 years later, it was to live on South Norwood Hill. More of that later.
 
But first I must mention the Chikankata years. From our back garden we looked across the Chifwankala stream to the hill Kalvali, obviously a local attempt to name it after Calvary. No crucifixions here, but the site of the Easter Sunrise Service with repetitive singing of ‘Jesu Kristu Wabuka - Hallelujah!’ (Jesus Christ has risen!) But the hill almost as well known to our family, was Chilala, with its gentle slopes to give it the shape of a reclining cow. This was a favourite for a father to take a daughter, and in later years, also a son for Saturday afternoon walks, even if we had to end up digging tick mites out of each other when we returned home.
 
Back to London and the wood on the north ridge of the Weald that is Upper Norwood. They were busy, but important family years together. The local tramp frequented Beaulieu Heights, the woods across the road from us. That meant we seldom walked there, opting rather for Grangewood Park. After all it had a children’s playground. Was it there that one of the visits ended up in A&E for stitches in a child’s chin bumped in over-enthusiastic see-sawing?  We would look out from Upper Norwood and see the tower of St George’s, Bickley, on another horizon. Little did we know then that we would live within walking distance of it when we returned to London ten years later.
 
Most of the Indian years were in steamy, sticky Madras, now Chennai. But it was a relief to be able to take an overnight train journey as we headed - yes, you’ve guessed - for the Nilgiri Hills, even if the last lap of the journey was being driven up a dozen or more hair-raising hairpin bends to Coonoor and Ooty, known during the days of the British Raj as hill stations. The early morning mists rolling down to the plains below and the smell of a wood fire will remain among many beautiful memories. It was a blissful retreat from the exsanguinating months of humidity. And we could enjoy the same refreshment on a week’s holiday in Kalimpong in India’s north-east, and waking up one morning for a brief glimpse of the majestic Himalayas, its third highest peak, Kanchenjunga, dominating the horizon.
 
In later years back in South Africa,  we stop off at another hill - Majuba - not England’s best day with defeat in the First Boer War, and then to Isandlwana, with another British defeat, this time inflicted by the Zulus. We stand quietly in both places, reflecting on the horrors of conflict and give thanks for peace and reconciliation.                
 
Retirement, and once again there’s enjoyment in hiking as I tackle the North Downs Way, a little at a time. Was this preparation for the more major hike - seven days up and down in Switzerland’s Jungfrau region? I nearly didn’t, but did finish it! It seems we’re made to achieve something, and must accept the challenge. The reward then was an afternoon in a mountain spa at Leukerbad. That was warmer than a night in a mountain igloo above Gstaad. I can relax, looking out from Catherine and Steve’s garden onto the quiet beauty of Ranmore in the Surrey Hills, or from the pavement outside Andre’s apartment on the Franco-Swiss border onto the Saleve. Despite its face being scarred by a limestone quarry there’s beauty there too.
 
Now during lockdown I find myself on the hilly outskirts of south London. The bike is in the garage. I must get it out again. I’ll have to pump the tyres. I know I would enjoy it - but those hills!

I think I’ll stick to walking for now. Or should I say climbing?
 
July 2020