Ailsa Craig and Me

Over the years as the children grew up, their school books, story books and drawing books all disappeared, except one.  I am not t all sure why this one book remained on the bookshelf for over 20 years.  The children were never terribly interested in books and I was mostly too busy coping as a single parent and studying myself to find time to read the books on our bookshelf.  This book however did catch my interest and whenever there was a cleanup, it always was one that stayed.  It is not written by any renowned writer, nor does it enjoy any fame that I am aware of.  The author was a local Capetonian who wrote her material before I was born.

Mostly poetry about family and everyday life, I could relate to what she had written.  My life took many ups and downs and turns, throwing me from merely frustration and unhappiness into dire despair with no will left to live.  Divorce was easy, it spelt freedom from misery.  Losing my precious youngest child was devastating.

After a long uphill battle following this traumatic loss, spanning some 8 years, life reached a kind of normality again.  Packing for what I hoped was a move for the last time, I considered throwing out this old book with its water stained and tattered cover, but when I saw my son’s handwritten name under his sister’s in the front of the book, it stayed once more.  The book had been her school book passed on to her younger brother.  I glanced through the book as I had done years before and then settled down to read some more.  Part of my recovery over the years was to write poetry myself as well as the story of my unhappy past.  Because of my new past time, the poetry in this book again attracted me.

It was then that the coincidence, if that is what it is, struck forcefully home.  As I read the poem ‘The View from Ailsa Craig Muizenberg Cape’, I caught my breathe in wonder.  The house I had just bought was virtually opposite the area where Ailsa Craig was situated.  Separated by the Zandvlei Lagoon, I looked at the mountainside from where Florence V. MCLaren had sat and looking my way, had written her poem.  I was incredibly intrigued and wondered if in fact this book had been meant to stay with me, so that I could bring it home again.

From her writing, I knew that Florence was a lady I would have enjoyed knowing and as I read, her life became clear to me.  So many years before I was even born, Florence led a life that could have been mine.  Ailsa Craig was lovely, placed in a perfect position to enjoy sea, lagoon and mountain views.  I had to find it and see if the house had been changed over the years.  It would be a comfortable walk from my house to where I thought Ailsa Craig would be.

Who was living there now and did they have any idea of their home’s earliest owner.  I found myself wondering what the view over Muizenberg and Lakeside was on that day in 1923 when Florence wrote her poem.  A ‘modern train’ went by far below, so the railway line w

he house as the family holiday home for visits from Scotland.  Obviously Ailsa Craig in Scotland was near and dear to her heart, hence the name of their lovely holiday home.  When Florence passed away her family sent a copy of the book I now had to the new owner.  Apparently McClaren family members still visit the house when out from Scotland as it holds many happy memories for them.

I wondered why it was that I had kept the book for so long and after a while came to the only conclusion I could.  There are many crumbs on the paths of our lives, messages, clues, hints as to where we should go or be, or which turning to take when there were choices.  This book was a clue as to where I truly belonged and a message I did not understand until I was actually there.  Not a day goes by when I do not look out through my patio door at the Muizenberg Mountain and feel free.  I have this constant wonderful feeling that I have come home and this is truly where I belong.  I never read Florence’s poem and thought “I want to live there” but somehow got there anyway.    Each day when I walk my dogs on the Lagoon, I look up at Ailsa Craig and think of Florence.  This lovely poet from so long ago is real to me and alive once again in Muizenberg.   My life is on track just the way it should be.   Perhaps Florence was part of my destiny and wanted me to bring her book home to where it belongs.

Marilyn Mills

as already there, but surely little else but bushes and trees.

Ailsa Craig was not hard to find, comparing the painting in the book to the houses on the hillside.  It was just the same and the grounds were still landscaped in the same way but clearly with different trees and plants.  With great excitement I drove my car up and parked in the circular cul-de-sac at the base of the property.  It was exactly as it had been painted so many years before.  I looked out at the view and felt ecstatic.  Florence had written her poetry from here and it felt good to be there, holding her book.  The gates were locked but as I looked up through the garden, I recognised it all.  The house and grounds had been kept just as Florence had created it.  I left a note in the letter box asking the current owner to call me as I wanted to share the history with them.

A little while later I received a phone call from an elderly lady, the current owner who explained that her and her husband had purchased the home from a 90 year old Mr McLaren.  They were only the second owners and had kept it original with no modernisation.  Florence had built t