Utrecht lies at the foothills of the Balele Mountains in northern Natal. Named after the Dutch namesake, it was the capital of one one of the Boer republics that sprang up in the mid 1800's. But that's not what this is about. My uncle was the district doctor, and we often spent our Christmas holidays there. Our cousins were of a similar age, and we got on, so they are remembered as happy times.
We'd spend the summer in the circular water dam in the back of the garden, us inside shouting and splashing, the dogs outside running circles around the cement walls of the reservoir, barking like mad. Far enough away that we didn't irritate the big people, close enough that they could hear a vague noise in the background And then, when the playing was done, we sat around a fabulous battery operated record player in a hidden corner of the garden, each with a can of condensed milk. You could stick a stack of 45's one on top of the other, and when one was finished, the next one would drop on top of the last one, and the needle starting its circular route all over again. The records were scratched to shit from rubbing against each other, but that didn't matter.
What did matter to me, more than the puffy summer clouds, more than the condensed milk, more than the constant chatter of good friends, was my introduction to Francoise Hardy. She sang in English that year (1966?), and I fell in love with her that that summer. And maybe it's just a memory of a lost youth her songs bring back - or maybe I still have a bit of that boyhood crush left.
This is the song I remember;
