Till this last week, the weather was pertinaciously cold and windy;
and I had resolved to go to Worcester, which lies in a 'Kessel',
and is really hot.
But now the glorious African summer is come,
and I believe this is the weather of Paradise. I got up at four
this morning, when the Dutchmen who had slept here were starting in
their carts and waggons. It was quite light; but the moon shone
brilliantly still, and had put on a bright rose-coloured veil,
borrowed from the rising sun on the opposite horizon. The
freshness (without a shadow of cold or damp) of the air was
indescribable - no dew was on the ground. I went up the hill-side,
along the 'Sloot' (channel, which supplies all our water), into the
'Kloof' between the mountains, and clambered up to the 'Venster
Klip', from which natural window the view is very fine. The
flowers are all gone and the grass all dead. Rhenoster boschjes
and Hottentot fig are green everywhere, and among the rocks all
manner of shrubs, and far too much 'Wacht een beetje' (Wait a bit),
a sort of series of natural fish-hooks, which try the robustest
patience. Between seven and eight, the sun gets rather hot, and I
came in and TUBBED, and sat on the stoep (a sort of terrace, in
front of every house in South Africa). I breakfast at nine, sit on
the stoep again till the sun comes round, and then retreat behind
closed shutters from the stinging sun.
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