It’s 2 June 2025, and winter has swept into Franschhoek like a gilded debutante, draped in golden sunshine and balmy breezes that ripple through the vineyards. The sky is a crystalline blue, save for a single wispy cloud that hovers like a bashful freshman refusing to make an entrance. Rumour has it that the heavens might muster a timid drizzle—a few trembling droplets clinging to their fluffy perch—yet the rain, it seems, has grown fainthearted this year. Blame it on some far-flung “El Whatever” or “La Who-Knows-What” stirring in the Pacific, courtesy of Climate Change’s capricious whims, which gift us either roaring floods or parched earth. Here in the Cape, the local weather vanes are murmuring that rain will be scarce this winter, leaving the vines thirsting for moisture and the farmers crossing their fingers.
The vines themselves wear their foliage with stubborn pride, the leaves lingering like reluctant guests at a feast that’s all but ended. Each leaf clings to its tendril as though savouring a last sip of warmth, their edges curled and sun-kissed, veins glowing emerald in the low winter sun. Morning frost is rare, but when it arrives, it settles on the leaves like powdered sugar on a delicate pastry. Meanwhile, enterprising Indian medicine makers prowl the rows of grapevines at dawn, baskets in hand, harvesting these tenacious leaves for their purported cancer-fighting compounds. The air smells faintly of grape sap, earth, and the distant tang of eucalyptus—an unexpected perfume for anticancer research.
You’d never guess it’s winter by the mercury reading, but the streets tell a different tale. The village has transformed overnight into a hushed shadow of its summer self. Cobblestone lanes that once rang with clickety-clack of heels and the rumble of tour buses now lie quiet beneath drifting leaves that have dared to fall. Shop doors stand open and empty, desperately inviting the few window shoppers to fill their emptiness. Gone are the polyglot choruses: German lilts, clipped British cadences, lilting French, the drawl of American tourists, the nasal buzz of Johannesburg accents, and hearty Afrikaans of the Karoo—each voice vanished as surely as summer’s heat.
Yet soon enough, these wanderers will return in cheerful flocks, chasing the sun like migratory birds. The rumble of jet engines, the thrum of suitcases on tarmac—they’ll reclaim the valley’s cafés and tasting rooms. We live for their arrival: without “tourists on the ground,” our wineries risk reverting to humble fruit farms, the cellar doors replaced by crates of peaches or apricots bound for uncertain markets. And let’s not pretend it’s easy to sell apples and pears to a “Trump Tariff, USA” and cheap Chinese faux fruit already choke the European market.
Tourism here is no mere pastime; it’s the lifeblood coursing through Franschhoek’s veins. Restaurants yearn for “bums on seats,” candlelit tables set for high-spirited laughter and clinking glasses. Locals—ever thrifty—rarely splash out on truffle-drizzled pasta or a bottle of vintage Pinot, so empty dining rooms during winter are a constant ache. Beyond the grocery stores, every other storefront is gilded for the tourist dollar, pound, or euro—currencies that sparkle far brighter than our humble ZAR, worth about as much as a vegetarian at a braai.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not whining. It’s delightful living here in a tourist paradise—as long as flocks of customers are willing to trek thousands of kilometres for the illustrious Franschhoek Experience, we’re in good shape. Come spring, we’ll embrace some familiar frictions: unexpected roadworks that plant orange cones in every direction, jackhammers at dawn, and detours that seem designed to test anyone’s patience. We locals may grumble, but these minor irritants never deter the intrepid wine-seekers determined to sip their way through our sun-warmed vineyards.
And with winter’s pseudo–chill finally upon us, it’s time to tackle those long-deferred maintenance tasks. Now is the moment for fresh coats of paint, the crisp, ammonia-tinged scent of primer drifting down quiet lanes. We’ll climb ladders to clear gutters brimming with soggy detritus, rattle roof tiles back into place, and perhaps even gut an ageing barn for renovation—savouring every crash of the sledgehammer while the rest of the town stays snug indoors.
Before long, the notorious leaf apocalypse will descend: a swirling tide of amber and russet, crisp and brittle underfoot. If you’d hoped to cash in on a leaf-export venture, take heed—only vine leaves, please, say our Indian friends. So arm yourself with a trusty rake, sturdy canvas bags, and a hearty sense of adventure for trips to the dump, where the piled foliage ferments into earthy compost overnight.
Life in Franschhoek trudges on, winter or not. Three mornings a week, you’ll see our forlorn street folk—bundled in scarves—picking through bins, salvaging eatable scraps and recyclables before the garbage trucks rumble by as an occasional Lamborghini glides past, its glossy chrome bumper reflecting their crumpled faces. Here, in the valley that contrasts opulence and breathtaking beauty with the raw, rugged reality of poverty, winter reminds us, like a pandemic out of the blue, that we are all in this together