Dazzling light. The wind is the icy rapier in the scabbard of the sun’s warmth. The trout dams are buttons of blue shellac in the brown and yellow fur of dry, crisp grasses and stony hills. A railway line snakes down the hill, between a stand of trees, and in the early morning we hear the clatter and hooting from the dark warmth of the fluffed-up duvet, as the train rattles by.

Lazy Sunday morning, sitting by the window on a farm in Dullstroom, the sun falling across the breakfast table and the sky outside rimmed with cold white cloud. Time slowed, for a moment, before the clock restarts.