Deep in the folds of the arid Northern foothills of the Swartberg Mountain lies a valley named Weltevrede. I have a long family history with this valley, and for this reason I feel a deep connection with it. Every morning the sun creeps along its folds, searching for its deepest crevices to illuminate and bake. Even the deepest creases in this mountain is powerless against the harsh Karoo sun that beats down on it mercilessly while the clouds never seem to advance beyond the crest from the southern side.
Still sleepy, still hopeful, the valley welcomes the warm orange glow of the first rays, clouds receding into oblivion as the warmth approaches.
This is the Weltevrede valley.