I’ve overshot the town. Zipping along the R45 with wheat fields going past my windows in a golden frenzy, I barely notice Hopefield hunkered in its shallow basin. Before I know it, I’ve missed the next turn-off, too. In the space of less than a minute, my short glimpse of the town (a blur of low-roofed houses) is replaced by more open fields, scrubby bush and white-barked eucalyptus trees. Thanks Hopefield, nice knowing you. Residents will confirm that it’s easy to miss. (“The R45 doesn’t run through like main roads through other towns. It’s an issue, but it’s not – it’s why we like the town so much,” says John Smuts.) But the town’s invisible existence isn’t only a consequence of geography. The journey from Cape Town to the West Coast had put me in a meditative state. Once you’ve made it through the snarl of roadworks in Malmesbury – the unofficial capital of the Swartland, which seems permanently under construction – and traded the busy N7 for the more scenic R45, your mind tends to drift. From the rustling wheat fields to the looming wind turbines that spin at a hypnotic pace, to the sweet harvest air coming through the car windows, it was as if the world slowed down around me.

After recalibrating with an ungraceful three-point turn on a dusty farm road, I find myself heading into the centre of Hopefield. It’s only 9.30 am, but the tarmac is already shimmering with heat. The temperature will climb beyond 40° C, but for now it’s a “cool” 32° C. Passing the church, surrounded by trees and bright flowerbeds, the road starts to slope. Save for a few cars parked in the shade, there’s not