The Small Town Delusion (That Turned Out To Be the Dream)

For as long as I can remember, there has always been something oddly comforting about the idea of fleeing to a small town. I always thought it was a universal thing—like heartbreak, or pretending not to like The Notebook. When life got too much, surely everyone dreamed of packing up, saying goodbye to the big city noise, and disappearing into a dorp with two cafes, one grumpy tannie, and zero Ubereats??

Well, apparently not.

Over the years our friends were off holidaying at resorts, room service, pools with lifeguards named Brad. And we were... well, not. We were holidaying in a sleepy little town where the biggest attraction was a rusty tractor on the side of the road and a sign that said “Welkom” in Comic Sans.

My friends? Confused. My kids? Mortified, and mildly betrayed.

The message from both friends and kids was clear: "Why are you like this?"

But somewhere between being the “weird one” who dragged everyone to remote towns and the woman who now gets excited by the phrase ‘self-catering cottage’, I found people like me. Hikers!

Hiking did that for me. It gave me an excuse to vanish into the hills, into small towns with charm, dust, and stories. And also, crucially, fewer humans.

It also gave me something far more valuable than approval: validation. The realisation that I didn’t fit in with the city crowd—because I didn’t want to. And honestly? That’s a level of peace you can’t buy at a boutique hotel with a pet-friendly gin bar.

Even my children have started appreciating the small town vibes too. They no longer whine about the lack of WiFi—they just stare dramatically at the horizon and mutter their affirmations. “I am grounded. I am grateful. I am never letting Mom book the holiday again.” Whatever. They're quiet, and I call that growth.

So yes, call me a hiker, a dreamer, or an off-grid enthusiast in denial—but I’ve seen the light. Or rather, the slightly-flickering light bulb in a dusty lamp holder next to a crocheted bedspread. And I’m not turning back.

South Africa is packed with tiny towns that ooze character and trails that humble your ego and soothe your soul. Places with communities that have each other’s backs, where people are proud—really proud—of their little towns. And yes, of course, every one of them has that one person who works at the bakery and knows absolutely everyone’s business.

They’ve also got the “unattractive bits,” the “dodgy corners,” the “maybe-don’t-walk-there-after-dark” zones. But let’s be honest—for every one of those, the big cities have a dozen more... just with more pollution and angrier people.

I’ve only scratched the surface. But I’m coming for you, small towns.

One by one. I plan to hike every dusty corner, scale every hill that smells vaguely of goats and nostalgia, and maybe—just maybe—meet a few equally unhinged locals who also need someone to tell them: “Take a hike. No really., it will change your life.”

This will all happen... in about, oh, a few lifetimes. Once I’ve saved enough to live like the free-range, trail-dusted hippie I was clearly meant to be—minus the kombucha brewing, plus a lingering Woodstock fantasy I never fully earned but refuse to let go of.