We delivered the first 100,000 Rapala order on time—actually, well ahead of time—and they immediately placed another. This was thrilling. By Christmas 1994, I was full of optimism for the future. I’ve already told the Knysna story in an earlier chapter, but for context: that was the trip where my pilot error on the return leg almost ended in disaster. Almost—but not quite.
Then 1995 arrived, and Terry came to me with a suggestion.
“It really doesn’t make sense living in Johannesburg anymore,” she said. “You’re back and forth to Lydenburg all the time. Why don’t we move to the Eastern Transvaal? I can't live in Lydenburg—it’s too Afrikaans. But I could live in Dullstroom.”
Music to my ears. Fantastic.
We headed to Dullstroom to look at properties.
There we met Pete Viljoen, a former Joburg socialite who had traded his city life for the highlands. A fixture at the Dullstroom Inn, Pete knew every inch of the place and took us on a tour. Dullstroom was a charming village in the highlands of the Eastern Transvaal, perched along the railway line between Belfast and Lydenburg on the way to Mozambique. The surrounding landscape was mountainous, dotted with fast-flowing trout streams, still dams, and Boer War graves still tended by the War Commission. It was already a weekend escape for Johannesburg folk, though back then the main highway didn’t stretch far enough, meaning it was still a three-hour drive from Joburg. Its popularity was only beginning to grow.
Pete showed us a string of old railway cottages, each one more disappointing than the last. Sensing our dissapointment eventually, he said,
“I’ve got another place. An old chap named Daubney has lived there forever. His wife’s passed on recently, he’s elderly now, and he’s moving into the MOTHs Home in Belfast. He wants to sell.”
We drove to the edge of town and there it was: an old Boer War-era cottage sitting on 20,000 square metres of land—about four acres—most of it pine forest. Out front stood three or four magnificent old cedars. The veranda sagged under the weight of broken furniture. Inside, the place was tired, but Terry and I looked at each other and saw the same thing: potential. We could make it wonderful.
Daubney’s asking price was R200,000. Here I must pause for a side note: when my mother heard we were looking for a property, she immediately said, “I’ll gift you R150,000.” This was the privileged life I enjoyed then—business booming, beautiful wife and son, and a mother prepared to make that kind of gift.
So I said to Daubney, “Our budget is R150,000.”
He paused, looked at us, and said, “I really like you and your wife. I’ll take it. I just wish you the same happiness I had with my wife.” A tear glistened in his eye. I shook his hand and accepted. How I wish now that his wish had come true. It would be anything but—but that part of the story is still to come.
That night, Terry and I went to a newly opened local joint, the Duck and Trout. Standing at the bar, I overheard a whispered comment not meant for my ears:
“Those are the idiots who bought Daubney’s place for 150k.”
Well—as you’ll see later—the last laugh would be mine.
And so the deal was done. We were the proud owners of a charming old cottage in need of love, sitting on four acres of highland land in Dullstroom. It as located about a block to the right just as you enter Dullstroom from the Belfast side and had a magnificient view down the escarpment.
So the die was cast. We’d bought our property—our little piece of heaven in Dullstroom. Now it was time to sell our Jukskei Park home. We’d put so much effort into that house: the sprinkler system, the expanded master bathroom, even bringing in full-sized trees. Selling it wasn’t difficult.
Once that was done, the task was to move all our furniture, our pets, and Mikey down to Lydenburg. We would be moving into Valentine Farm, which Niels had vacated after deciding that his eldest son, Christopher, wasn’t coping with the Afrikaans schools in Lydenburg. Niels and his family had bought a property in White River, leaving Valentine Farm empty. He kindly offered it to us.
I need to mention our dogs because they were very special to me. Earlier in this memoir, I talked about Purdey, my wonderfully trained Labrador who once chased guinea fowl over the hills and far away, and Wellington, Niels’ Labrador. They had a litter, and from it I kept Holly, a beautiful Labrador bitch. Then there was Oscar, the Alsatian I inherited from Pete Becker when I was living in Rivonia. Holly and Oscar had a litter of their own, producing Guinness—a Labrador/Alsatian mix every bit as wonderful as his name implied. Terry’s parents adopted him.
I arranged for a truck to take our furniture. Terry drove the red City Golf down, Mikey with her, while I took KAJ with the two dogs on board, Holly and Oscar. Their excitement during the flight was pure joy to watch. I was so sad Purdey wasn’t with us—she had passed away at the vet’s while we were on holiday the previous Christmas. I’ve described that in an earlier chapter, but even now, thirty years later, I feel the sting of guilt for having let her down. Her name still features in most of my passwords.
It was also sad to say goodbye to Agnes, our maid of three years. We offered her the chance to come with us to Lydenburg, but she didn’t want to leave Johannesburg.
And so we arrived at Valentine Farm—Terry, me, Mikey, Holly, and Oscar—ready for whatever came next.