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biggest bed – Manon. There wasn’t a bit of plastic in sight, nor anything jarringly modern that might have interfered with our sense of time travel.

It seemed a shame to spend any more time in that car, so Martina gave us a number to contact so that we could hire bicycles. André Loots, the local weaver and soap maker, was also Rosendal’s bike hirer, and she told us to pop around to her home to pick them up. She greeted us with a grin and a tale about how she’d moved to Rosendal to escape the noise and pretence of the city. She’d never heard of Rosendal until her friend, artist Michèle Nigrini, moved here over a decade ago. ‘She was among the first “outsiders” to relocate here,’ said André, ‘and when we came to visit her, it struck us as the kind of place we’d find privacy, peace and quiet. We weren’t wrong.’

Then she showed us her all-natural soaps. ‘I use coconut and olive oil,’ she said, ‘and I get my essential oils from a farmer in the Karoo.’ André started making soap because of her sensitive skin and because commercial perfumes make her sneeze. Soon she was supplying to most of the village. She also made candles and had a beautiful range of thin-weave scarves and kilim carpets created on her hand-operated loom.

I got a pleasant shock when André told us how little the bikes would cost. ‘Fifty rand a day,’ she said, and told us we could return them anytime and pay whenever. ‘We do things differently here in the Platteland – we don’t worry about a few extra hours either way.’ Then she pointed us towards her friend’s gallery, warning us to stay warm because the temperature would drop dramatically after dark.

‘You be good now, you hear,’ she called as we rode off feeling like we’d just visited a long-lost aunt.

Katie Bigelow loses her heart to a tiny town in the eastern Free State.

‘N otice anything unusual?’ said Simon, self-satisfied.

‘Besides the fact that we’re in the middle of nowhere?’ I didn’t want to sound too over-the-moon, although he had really chosen a devastatingly lovely little dorp for our Valentine’s getaway.

‘No malls. No chain stores. Not even an ATM,’ he gloated. ‘Like we’ve travelled back in time.’

‘Do you think we’ll find something to eat here in the distant past?’ Besides the farmers’ co-op, the one-tar-road village of Rosendal also didn’t have a supermarket.

‘I’ve booked a table at the local restaurant,’ he said.

‘Just the one restaurant, is it?’ By now I was sounding like a real cow, but Simon somehow relished the challenge of pleasing me.

I told him I liked surprises and I’ll admit that when, a couple of hours from Jozi, we bypassed signs to Clarens, I thought he was getting us lost. But then we arrived at this charming little hamlet. Surrounded by sandstone mountains rising up like watchful sentinels, its houses and farms spread far and wide beneath a vast blue sky. It was, I suspected, a perfectly romantic sanctuary.

THE BIKE LADYNot only was there just one restaurant, but we were also staying directly opposite it. We pulled up outside Gaffie’s, an old sandstone house with a red tin roof and typical Free State veranda set in a lovely, flower-filled garden. The décor was creative countryside chic, with lots of lovingly restored antiques offset by shocks of bright, colourful fabrics and handcrafted ornaments. Martina, the housekeeper, walked us through and showed us how to operate the kitchen’s coal-burning stove. Simon said he’d picked the room with the

The village people

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filter coffee or olive oil, so we have to drive for major shopping. And we entertain ourselves by making every occasion an unmissable “happening”. I’m busier here than when I was living in Pretoria, because you have to do everything yourself.’

I was touched that even Rosendal’s most dedicated residents didn’t portray the town as some kind of fairyland where everyone spends their days relaxing. Rather, it was authentic and gritty – even if the scenic beauty cast it in a magical light.

‘Spend two days here,’ said Michèle, ‘and it’ll feel like you’ve been on holiday for a week. Stay three months and you’ll be totally buggered, because you won’t want to leave … there’s something in the air. It’s tough keeping a business alive in this town, but we’ve got six galleries, each owned by a different resident artist, and a few quirky shops.’

She told us to drop in at Turksvy Trading, which was like stepping into an unusual museum plastered with oddities – offbeat antiques, vintage Coke fridges, kewpie dolls, and ancient packets of sweets. The owner, Sandra Lemmer,

THE ARTISTAt the art gallery, Meerkatkolonie, we found Michèle hanging some of her paintings. They were colourful, energetic, and quite magical.

‘My art goes through stages,’ she said. ‘When I first came to Rosendal, I painted lots of landscapes – I couldn’t ignore this incredible terrain. Many local artists paint according to the seasons. We have snow in winter, and abundant fruit and flowers in summer, so we paint pomegranates, cosmos, sunflowers, figs … and for the past few years, I’ve been focused on painting birds, because that’s what’s here. When I moved here there was absolutely nothing going on, but the eastern Free State surprised me. I came for a year’s sabbatical, but after three days I decided I wasn’t leaving.

‘After the city, life here feels a little unreal – like some kind of board game. Farmville, perhaps! It’s a very simple life, but keeping busy is essential for survival. We don’t have shops selling ready-made dinners. Everyone grows their own veggies, and you don’t find luxuries like

explained that she’d come across an old trading store in Lesotho and when the owner died, she bought its contents lock, stock and barrel. The result is the kind of shop you can poke around in for hours.

Like Michèle, Sandra had lost her heart to Rosendal. ‘It’s a place that embraces you with love,’ she said. ‘Even on a stormy, windy day, you have beauty all around you. The visual impact of the rugged mountains and proximity of nature is astonishing – it’s like you’re absorbing life and creativity into your very soul.’

THE GOAT WHISPERERWednesday was pizza night at Rosa Restaurant, very popular with locals. Owner Tracy Rudling (‘No, I’m not the chef … I can’t even burn toast properly’) came to welcome us, and explained how access to fresh produce made it possible to have the most exciting menu in the Free State. They served wagyu beef raised in Senekal and handcrafted goat’s cheese from Mosamane, a nearby farm with scenic hiking trails. After breakfast the next morning, we cycled to Mosamane to meet

COLONY OF ARTThe local art gallery in Rosendal.

HELLO THEREWagyu cattle raised in Senekal.

Barry Sergeant, the goat farmer who’d miraculously exchanged corporate life for cheesemaking. Like so many of Rosendal’s transplanted ‘outsiders’, he’d fallen in love with the town’s remoteness and rugged beauty. ‘It’s one of the prettiest parts of the country,’ he said.

Barry seemed extraordinarily content, surrounded by 140 equally delighted goats. ‘They’re intelligent and highly sociable,’ said Barry. ‘Even though they’re livestock, I treat them as individuals and give them names matching their personalities.’ He introduced us to Alfonso, who stared up at us and kept on chewing. ‘He is my largest male, the name just fits.’

Then he explained how the happiness of his goats affects the quality of his cheese. ‘Most dairy goats live in pens and are fed hay and concentrates,’ he said. ‘Mine spend their days roaming in the mountains, dining on grasses, herbs and shrubs. It’s not all fun and games out here. It’s a very rugged countryside – not for the faint-hearted. And the weather can be extreme.’ I said it was hard to imagine: right then, everything seemed idyllic, calm and lush.

ROSENDAL | TRAVEL

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘after the rains, it looks like Scotland, but in winter it’s quite dry, and we get very powerful winds – almost hurricane level – plus dust storms and violent thunderstorms.’

And then he pointed us towards a hiking trail and asked if we’d like the goats to join us. ‘Of course,’ we chorused. So, with the help of his Anatolian shepherd dogs, he got the goats to follow us as we set off into the foothills of the Maloti Mountains. They were, as Barry had hinted, on their best behaviour.

THE LOVE PARADEBy Friday, the whole village was buzzing with excitement about the Valentine’s Day-inspired Love Rosendal Festival. The three-day annual celebration began with dinner at Rosa – a feast that culminated with dancing.

On Saturday, we used our bikes for the behind-the-scenes village tour. The homes and gardens were open to the public, and we got the opportunity to watch local artists at work in their studios. Then we watched the local soccer tournament

THE BIG THRILL, THOUGH, WAS THE PARADE THAT EVERYONE HAD BEEN TALKING ABOUT SINCE WE ARRIVED

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before squeezing into Rosendal’s rustic theatre for a scintillating singer-songwriter performance.

The big thrill, though, was the parade that everyone had been talking about since we arrived. As local residents geared up in flamboyant outfits, we browsed food and craft stalls, and by early evening, the tremendous gathering had set off. There were gumboot dancers and musicians, children pushing wire cars, grown-ups in crazy costumes, high-stepping drum majorettes, boere on horses alongside Sotho herders on their horses, plus jugglers, puppeteers, and a cast of cheering, jubilant characters representing the town’s marvellous diversity. Everyone was getting along and having a jol.

The parade set off from Rosa and ended in the adjacent township of Mautse at the Waya Waya Tavern – owned, as we discovered, by Jacob Mallane, one of Rosendal’s police officers. Jacob fired up the braais for a good old shisa nyama, while we danced to loud, DJ-pumped music in the yard and were entertained by mesmerising fire jugglers. The enitre weekend was unlike any Valentine’s celebration I’ve ever experienced: unhinged and unforgettable.

We celebrated into the night, sinking the Free State’s most affordable quarts before catching a lift back to Gaffie’s, where we tumbled into bed.

‘Simon,’ I said, ‘I think I’m in love with you.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You’re in love with this town.’

‘Oh? Perhaps.’‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘So am I.’

Check out the Love Rosendal Festival, taking place from 13-15 February 2015. For more information, visit www.rosendalinfo.org.za.