If we are to believe them, everything was always better in our parents' and grandparents' days. So when my mother and I travelled to Namaqualand for my first encounter with the famous Namaqualand daisies, to me the display seemed spectacular.
Mom was dismissive. She related how she had seen it as a young girl travelling with my grandparents. The land had been transformed with a carpet of flowers stretching from horizon to horizon and that this was a poor show, to say the least.
I took that with the proverbial pinch of salt... until some years later when I realised she had not been exaggerating. Our next visit was during one of those miraculous seasons in which flowers bloomed which had not shown their faces in more than 50 years. Well, that's what the locals said, and I wasn't going to dispute them as we ooohed and aaahed at each unfolding scene.
But it's not just the flowers, it's other memories which linger... such as taking an obscure farm road which no one else was using, and my mom climbing out to open and shut about 70 gates as I sat behind the wheel feeling a tad guilty.
In the delicate hothouse of Namaqualand, perfect conditions are required to bring forth flowers in profusion: the right amount of rain in winter and early spring. The sun must shine and the wind remain locked up or, better still, just rustle the blossoms slightly so they nod and dance, showing their petticoats with grace.
The helpfulness of the locals was special. We arrived without bookings, a distinct no-no. Checking into rooms in Pofadder (more than 200km from Springbok, the gateway to flower country) we met several people who had been unable to find accommodation and so travelled backwards and forwards each day to sightsee.
The owner clucked at how remiss we had been to arrive in such a foolhardy manner, especially as I had an old lady in tow. Did we expect accommodation to fall like manna from heaven? It did!
Taking pity, she sent us to her husband (who ran the bottle-store) with our tale of woe. He said nothing, but handed over his business card with instructions to take it to a specific café in Kammieskroon. "Tell the owner Oom Gert sê jy moet ons help."
In Kammieskroon the café owner was unconcerned and unmotivated until the words Oom Gert proved to be the magic key, unlocking all sorts of largesse. One phone call later we were on our way over a mountain pass to one of the farms in a neighbouring valley, where we were able to walk in the fields in the late afternoon as the flowers were settling down for the night. The goats were coming home from their stony pastures, sheep bleated softly, and the world was at peace.
Next morning we set off for our next home-stay ... and so we were handed on from farm to farm, each taking us into the family bosom. It probably helped being able to impress with fluent Afrikaans, even though we live in Durban!
In one place our bedroom was the size of a ballroom, complete with grandma's feather bed, while the food which found its way on to the family tables was incredibly tasty.
Purples and pinks, mauves, oranges and yellows transformed the land and - just like my mother said - it stretched from horizon to horizon.
In one field we came across a truly amazing display of white flowers, so thick it was indeed a carpet. We never saw them anywhere else in our wanderings. As the locals claimed, flowers had bloomed which they hadn't seen in decades... but now the figure had become 90 years!
- It's not recommend that you leave accommodation to chance like we did. Phone 027 712 8035, where they will be able to give you updates on the flowers (which are normally at their best between mid-August and September 9) and provide information on where to stay.