Isn’t it funny how one misses the things you are used to when you are no longer around them? Even the ones you do not like. Like viennas. Vienna sausages must surely be the most deliciously vile things you will ever come across. But ask a South African living abroad, and their shopping list will include Mrs. Balls chutney, Top Deck Chocolate and Viennas. I recall Colin asking his family to send him over a jar of Branston Pickles. His tastebuds performed cartwheels at the thought of getting all sticky with the pickle, which is until it became very available in our stores. Colin now passes the Branston Pickles, to get to the Mrs. Balls which he is planning to put on his Vienna sausage for lunch.

One of our detours on our Knysna trip, was to drop into a village called Belvidere. The land where this is situated, was bought in 1834 by one Thomas Henry Duthie. Duthie had married the daughter of George Rex, who was known as the squire and proprietor of Knysna. There was one snag, however. Mr. Duthie missed his English country village more than a South African residing in Dubai misses a Bokkie Vienna. So, he built himself a village. Manor house, village green, Oak trees, and even a Vicar, to preside in the ever so quaint Anglican Church, built in the Norman style, nogal, the visitors board told us. Driving into this tiny little hamlet is a bit like “falling through the stones” (Outlander viewers will get it). It takes one back to what an English Village must have been like in 1834.

The church is surrounded by graves, all belonging to one family: the Duthies, of course. Should you happen to die in Belvidere, and you are not in some way related to the founding family, you get relegated to the cemetery behind the church. Front row seats (or graves) are for family only! The family resting places all have rather large headstones. You see, they needed space to explain how they fit in. Here lies Martha van der Merwe, beloved mother, and sister, second wife to Peter van Schalkwyk, who happened to be second cousin, eight times removed of Mary Swanepoel, neé Duthie. But hey, Location, location, location, even in death, it would seem.

Talking about location, about halfway between Knysna and Home, we passed a dorpie called Albertinia. This dorpie’s claim to fame is that its economy is mostly based on growing an indigenous Aloe species, called the Aloe Ferox. Oh, yes! That had to be our next stop. If ever I find myself living an expat lifestyle in an Igloo somewhere in Siberia, my home wish list would be for Rooibos, Aloe Ferox, Honey Bush and Buchu. Once we got home, I could not contain my excitement to tell those around me of my Albertinia pit stop. Really? they wanted to know, you stopped to buy Aloe products? Audience did not even know about the aloe shop, they all assumed we detoured to Albertinia to buy, what I believe, is the best “Rooster Brood” in the world. Bunch of traitors. They could have told me about that sooner. Anyway, back to my Aloe juices and powders that Colin and I slug back in smoothies every morning. Poor Colin, because his wife feels bloated, he now also must have his daily dose. Somehow, I think he would prefer a rooster brood.

Three years ago, as we were planning our move down here, we looked forward to cold winters beside a fireplace, glass of red wine in hand. The reality is far from that. Getting into bed last night Colin complained of his feet being cold. I have an extra pair of bed socks, I mentioned, tongue in cheek. Unlike his Aloe smoothie, it did not take long for Mr. Icicle Toes to find them and put them on. There we were, the two of us, wrapped up in a blanket each, cups of Milo in hand, box of tissues between us.

Maybe it was the Aloe juice getting to me because I found myself getting all philosophical about human mortality. We come into this world naked, and if death catches you at an inconvenient time, you may well depart this world naked. You are born with no teeth, and eventually die with few teeth remaining. You find your legs in a walking ring, and you lose your legs to a Zimmer frame. Baby feet are coddled in booties to keep warm. Now tell me, what is a bed sock other than a supersized booty? For most of us, from dust we came, and to dust we will return. Not the Duthies, though. They have immaculately maintained grave sites with headstone pedigree.

In some ancient civilizations it was custom to bury the dead with everything they may need in the hereafter. Our sons had a pet Hamster, called Jack. When Jack departed this world, he was buried in the garden, in his favourite sock. Each family member put into his little grave something that we were fond of. Colin dropped in a few drops of Whisky. I think I added a block of chocolate. And if memory serves me right, a Vienna sausage also found its way in.

I was rather pleased to wake up this morning and know that Colin and I did not die of exposure last night. I could well imagine St Peter’s expression had the Scotts arrived at the pearly gates. Sjarlene in her purple bed socks, and Colin in his turquoise ones.