I suppose the journey began on a hill in Central Africa.

We rented a house from a couple who had emigrated. It had been their wedding present, made from the stones of the hill and was surrounded by Masasa trees and faced ever receding mountains to the east towards Malawi. The house was called Lunji, after the coffee farm in Tanzania where the wife had grown up.

 

Carol, my wife, had found Lunji and fallen in love with the stone house and the distant views, and knowing I was cautious about such things, had signed the lease whilst I was away looking at either some tiny gold mining operation or a hole in the ground hoping to become a tiny gold mine. As with all things Carol was right and Lunji was to become our very happy and much loved home.

 

One day my business partner announced that he was leaving for Canada and it seemed that our time in Zimbabwe must draw to a close. What to do now? Carol suggested a solution. 

Although I  pointed out to my wife that there were no gold mines in Cape Town she reminded me that I loved her and she, in addition to loving me loved Cape Town, that ridiculously beautiful city at the end of Africa. The decision was taken and Cape Town was to be our final home.

 

Some years later I was partly retired owing to the fact that Carol had become seriously ill with a terminal cancer. I hoped to look after her but she was concerned that I did not have a future. She believed that I should be able to meet people and have a life.  Her good friend, Ann, told Carol that in London her son was working as a chauffeur and tour guide to foreign visitors.  Carol thought that sounded promising.  I had a good car (a Mercedes sedan) and I knew the attractions of Cape Town.

 

I was alarmed, scared, and said that I had no idea where to begin.  It seems so unreal now but Carol took our dogs for a walk on the nearby beach and came back with a smile and a phone number.  She had met and talked with a visiting English family who told her they would love to have a driver who knew the Cape and to show them around.

All I had to do was phone them, charm them and play the part of an experienced guide! So, I did, and I found that I enjoyed the lively conversations and I found that they were happy with what I was doing, the places we were going to and the facts and history I was quoting. And most importantly, I had a great time, forgetting just for a short while that Carol was desperately ill and had gifted me this new life so that I could survive the lonely, sad times to come. 

Running on the adrenaline of this first experience I walked down the road and knocked on the door of the first Guest House. ‘Hi, I’m John. I live nearby and I’m a tour guide’. A suspicious look followed and I was asked if I was experienced. ‘Why yes’ I said ‘I was busy with an English family just last week and they will vouch for me if you call this hotel number’.

Conveniently avoiding the possibility that my reference had flown back to the UK, I crossed my fingers and smiled.  The guest house owners smiled back and invited me in.  A small, successful tour followed and I was now “in business” and had other work in prospect.  

So, Kestrel was born.