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The long-tailed widowbird, pitch black with a patch of red on the shoulder, races my white Kia Picanto and wins, his long tail flapping elegantly as he hurries ahead to announce my arrival. The widowbird was born for the farmland winds, my Picanto was made for the inner city.
Yet here I am plunging deeper into the belly of the Free State, dodging potholes while my entire body vibrates on the merciless gravel. It's been a nine-hour drive from my home in Mtunzini, in northern KZN. A name drew me here: Rosendal. Previous visitors to the town describe it as a haven for artists to burrow away, pulling their fraying ends together after pouring themselves out on
