It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, as the saying goes. While Dickens may well have forgiven me for snagging his line, he probably would not have lasted a week in that windblown, tide-lashed little hamlet caught on the crooked tooth of False Bay where my woman and I tried to make a stand against the world. Hell, he would have gotten his ass kicked on the first night in Plankies or brutally ravished by a troop of rogue baboons, or worse.

Indeed, ‘twas not a place for poofs or poets, though I somehow managed to make do. Relatively unspoilt by the madness men have come to call civilization, it had a long-standing reputation as a makeshift haven for hermits, hooligans and refugees from the city wanting to raise a bit of hell. Back in the day there were no streetlights, no malls, no banks, no cops. At night, the stars blazed overhead with a holy fury that lit up your blood. The mountain rose like a butcher’s block over the sea by day, dulled by the dust the howling southeaster whipped up off the gravel roads. Barely a thousand permanent souls called the place home, with most of the mish-mashed holiday houses standing empty throughout the year. It felt like a cross between a frontier town and an abandoned summer resort, a deserted movie set where a zillion zingers played out every day and night, if you were down with the scene and you knew where to look. It was rough as fuck and sweet as spit. We were all outlaws back then at the start, ragged pioneers staggering through a strange land, gatekeepers to a precious realm we could not entirely comprehend but would defend with our lives if it came to it.