After the 2026 Flood: Resetting Our Vision for Little Rock Garden

Afrikaans follows English: Ná die Vloed van Mei 2026: Ons Visie vir Little Rock Garden Herbedink

Welcome to the very first edition of The Art of Farm Living – a weekly letter from Little Rock Garden, a small piece of land in the Western Cape, South Africa, where Rhodi-Anne and I are learning to farm regeneratively, raise free-range hens, plant trees, and live a little more slowly than the world around us allows. We are custodians more than owners. Students as much as farmers. This is where we will write honestly about all of it – the beauty, the struggle, and everything the soil teaches us. We are glad you are here. This first letter begins, as perhaps all honest beginnings should, with a flood.

There is a particular quiet that comes after a flood. Not peace – something heavier. It is the quiet of a place working out what it has become. We stood in it in the days after the water went down, boots in the mud, looking at fence lines bent flat and debris caught high in the branches, and we understood that the home and gardens we had been building for five years were no longer quite the same place.

The water came

To understand what the flood meant, you have to understand the water that was already here. Little Rock Garden sits within a historic watershed connected to the nearby Jan du Toit’s River, an important tributary of the Breede River. Two seasonal dams and a network of older water-management features – channels, run-offs, and earthworks that appear to have been built and maintained through the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, and perhaps later – help hold water within the landscape. Fed by both seasonal flows and a naturally high winter water table, these systems were made to slow flood peaks, reduce erosion, and keep the surrounding ground healthy. They are the work of people three generations ago who already understood that water here is not an occasional visitor but a permanent neighbour.

For a long time, though, it looked as if those people had been proved wrong. Much of this old infrastructure fell into disrepair and went largely unused from the 1980s onward. Long dry periods, and the farming methods that took hold around us, made it seem as if these flows had permanently dried up – that the channels and overflows were relics of a wetter age that would not return. Then came the floods of 2023 and 2024. The old overflows ran again. Water found its historic paths, and showed us that the system the old custodians built was not obsolete at all – only waiting. Whether this is climate change, or simply a new turn in a longer cycle, we cannot say. But the water is flowing again, and 11 May was the clearest proof yet.

The water came faster than we expected. The biggest flood in living memory, people around here are calling it – and this is not even the first big flood we have seen in five years. Our two seasonal water-buffer dams filled and overflowed. The old channels and run-offs did what they could, slowing the peaks the way they were built to, but the drainage could not keep up. Water came over the roads, across neighbouring vineyards, directly toward us. Fences gave way. Trees came down. Mud moved into places mud had never been, and stayed there.

And then there was the wind. The storm arrived with winds this area has seldom seen, coming off the mountains in long gusts that did not let up for hours. You could hear them before you could see what they had done – a low roar through the valley, the crack of timber out in the dark, the rattle of anything not tied down. Trees that had stood for fifty or even a hundred years snapped and broke, their roots loosened by the saturated ground. Old limbs that had shaded the gardens for as long as anyone could remember came down across fences and paths. Power lines snapped like matchsticks, and the dark that followed was complete – no farm lights, no town glow on the horizon, only the storm and the rising water. In a few hours the wind undid what the land had taken decades to grow.

For three days, from Monday into Wednesday morning, the work was nothing but reaction. Check on family and other nearby people. Check the chicken coops and birds. Find the gaps in the fencing. Move what could be moved. There were losses, and real danger to elderly family members. But we struggled on. Dig and drag and carry.

Once the immediate danger passed and the worst of the cleanup was behind us, something quieter set in. We walked the property end to end – past the poultry runs, through the garden areas and seating zones, down to the dam and its overflow, around the old Goudiniweg Post Office that has become the public face of this place. And we found ourselves asking a question we had been too busy to ask for a long time.

Not: how do we fix this?

But: what are we actually trying to build here?

What the flood washed clean

For five years we have worked Little Rock Garden the way you work any living system – one task at a time, one season after another. The hens lay. The manure feeds the soil. The soil feeds the trees. The trees shelter the land that feeds the hens. It is a good loop, a regenerative loop, and we believe in it. But when you are inside it every day, packing trays and mixing compost and mending what broke yesterday, you stop seeing the whole. You see only the next thing.

The flood took the next thing away. It put the whole back in front of us whether we wanted it or not.

And here is what surprised us. Standing in that mud, we did not only feel loss. We also felt a strange kind of permission. So much had been disturbed that the question of what to keep exactly as it was simply dissolved. The dam overflow we had always meant to rethink – now we have to. The fences we had only ever intended as temporary – now we can route them properly. The corners of the land we had let drift into neglect – the water reached them too, and reminded us they are part of the system whether we tend them or not.

A flood does not ask permission, and it does not care about your plans. But if you are willing to look honestly, it gives you something in exchange for what it takes: a clean sheet of paper, and the nerve to use it.

Resetting the vision

So this is a reset. Not a retreat, not a starting over from zero – five years of soil-building, tree-growing, flock-raising, and heritage work do not wash away in a week. But a reset of vision. A chance to ask what Little Rock Garden is really for, and what it could become if we built the next five years on what the last five taught us rather than simply repeating them.

We find ourselves thinking less about production and more about resilience. Less about reacting to water and more about reading it – slowing it, redirecting it, designing with it instead of against it. The people who dug those channels understood this in their own way, and the flood has made us want to take up that same work again. We are thinking about which parts of this place earn their keep, which parts feed the others, and which old assumptions the flood quietly retired on our behalf.

Dragon Lake clearing progress – chipped and mulched. Pic: Anton

There is something in this ground that still wants to grow. The flood did not change that. If anything, it made it plainer – because the things that survived showed us where the real strength of this place lies.

What comes next

In the letters that follow, we want to take you back to the beginning – how a small piece of land near Goudini became Little Rock Garden, and what we believed regenerative farming could do here when we started. Then we will tell you honestly where things stand now, five years and one flood later. And finally, we will lay out where we are taking this place: the vision the water handed back to us, redrawn and, we hope, wiser.

The Old Post Office – where Little Rock Garden meets the world. Pic: Anton

For now we are still pulling debris from the branches and walking the fence lines. But we are walking them differently than we did before the water came. We are not just repairing Little Rock Garden.

We are re-imagining it.

Anton & Rhodi-Anne
Little Rock Garden

“God sleeps in the rock, dreams in the plant, stirs in the animal, and awakens in man.”
- Ibn Arabi

Ná die Vloed van Mei 2026: Ons Visie vir Little Rock Garden Herbedink

Welkom by die heel eerste uitgawe van The Art of Farm Living – ‘n weeklikse brief vanaf Little Rock Garden, ‘n klein stukkie grond in die Wes-Kaap, Suid-Afrika, waar Rhodi-Anne en ek leer om regeneratief te boer, vrylopende henne aan te hou, bome te plant, en ‘n bietjie stadiger te leef as wat die wêreld om ons toelaat. Ons is eerder bewaarders as eienaars. Studente net soveel as boere. Dit is waar ons eerlik oor alles daarvan sal skryf – die skoonheid, die stryd, en alles wat die grond ons leer. Ons is bly jy is hier. Hierdie eerste brief begin, soos alle eerlike verhale miskien behoort te begin, met ‘n vloed.

Daar is ‘n besondere stilte wat ná ‘n vloed kom. Nie vrede nie – iets swaarders. Dit is die stilte van ‘n plek wat uitwerk wat dit geword het. Ons het daarin gestaan in die dae nadat die water gesak het, stewels in die modder, met die oë op omgebuigde heiningdrade en rommel wat hoog in die takke vasgevang was, en ons het besef dat die huis en tuine wat ons vyf jaar lank gebou het, nie meer heeltemal dieselfde plek was nie.

Die water het gekom

Om te verstaan wat die vloed beteken het, moet jy die water verstaan wat reeds hier was. Little Rock Garden lê binne ‘n historiese opvanggebied wat verbind is met die nabygeleë Jan du Toitsrivier, ‘n belangrike sytak van die Breederivier. Twee seisoenale damme en ‘n netwerk van ouer waterbestuurstrukture – slote, aflope, en grondwerke wat blykbaar deur die 1930’s, 40’s en 50’s, en dalk later, gebou en onderhou is – help om water binne die landskap te hou. Gevoed deur beide seisoenale strome en ‘n natuurlik hoë winterwatertafel, is hierdie stelsels gemaak om vloedpieke te vertraag, erosie te verminder, en die omliggende grond gesond te hou. Dit is die werk van mense drie geslagte gelede wat reeds verstaan het dat water hier nie ‘n toevallige besoeker is nie, maar ‘n permanente buurman.

Vir ‘n lang tyd het dit egter gelyk asof daardie mense verkeerd bewys is. Baie van hierdie ou infrastruktuur het in verval geraak en grootliks ongebruik gebly van die 1980’s af. Lang droë tydperke, en die boerderymetodes wat om ons posgevat het, het dit laat lyk asof hierdie strome permanent opgedroog het – dat die slote en oorlope oorblyfsels was van ‘n natter era wat nie sou terugkeer nie. Toe kom die vloede van 2023 en 2024. Die ou oorlope het weer begin loop. Water het sy historiese paaie gevind, en het ons gewys dat die stelsel wat die ou bewaarders gebou het, glad nie verouderd was nie – net wagtend. Of dit klimaatsverandering is, of bloot ‘n nuwe wending in ‘n langer siklus, kan ons nie sê nie. Maar die water vloei weer, en 11 Mei was die duidelikste bewys tot dusver.

Die water het vinniger gekom as wat ons verwag het. Die grootste vloed in menseheugenis, noem die mense hier dit – en dit is nie eers die eerste groot vloed wat ons in vyf jaar gesien het nie. Ons twee seisoenale waterbufferdamme het gevul en oorgeloop. Die ou slote en aflope het gedoen wat hulle kon, en die pieke vertraag soos hulle gebou is om te doen, maar die dreinering kon nie byhou nie. Water het oor die paaie gekom, oor buurwingerde, reg na ons toe. Heinings het meegegee. Bome het geval. Modder het beweeg na plekke waar modder nog nooit was nie, en daar gebly.

En toe was daar die wind. Die storm het aangekom met winde wat hierdie omgewing selde sien (en ons sien baie), wat in lang vlae van die berge afgekom het en ure lank nie gaan lê het nie. Jy kon hulle hoor voordat jy kon sien wat hulle aangevang het – ‘n lae gedreun deur die vallei, die kraak van hout in die donker, die geratel van enigiets wat nie vasgemaak was nie. Bome wat vyftig of selfs honderd jaar gestaan het, het geknak en gebreek, hul wortels losgemaak deur die deurweekte grond. Ou takke het oor heinings en paadjies neergekom. Kraglyne het soos vuurhoutjies gebreek, en die donker wat gevolg het, was volkome – geen plaasligte, geen dorpsgloed op die horison nie, net die storm en die stygende water. In ‘n paar uur het die wind ongedaan gemaak wat die land dekades geneem het om te groei.

Reuse Bloekomboom ontwortel. Foto: Rhodi-Anne

Vir drie dae, van Maandag tot Woensdagoggend, was die werk niks anders as reaksie nie. Kyk na familie en ander mense naby. Kyk na die hoenderhokke en die voëls. Vind die gate in die heining. Skuif wat geskuif kan word. Daar was verliese, en werklike gevaar vir bejaarde familielede. Maar ons het deurgeploeter. Grawe en sleep en dra.

Toe die onmiddellike gevaar verby was en die ergste van die skoonmaak agter die rug was, het iets stillers ingetree. Ons het die eiendom van end tot end deurgeloop – verby die hoenderhokke, deur die tuine en piekniekareas, af na die dam en sy oorloop, om die ou Goudiniweg-poskantoor wat die openbare gesig van hierdie plek geword het. En ons het onsself ‘n vraag begin vra wat ons vir ‘n lang tyd te besig was om te vra.

Nie: hoe maak ons dit reg nie?

Maar: wat probeer ons eintlik hier bou?

Wat die vloed skoongewas het

Vir vyf jaar het ons Little Rock Garden bewerk soos ‘n mens enige lewende stelsel bewerk – een taak op ‘n slag, een seisoen ná die ander. Die henne lê. Die mis voed die grond. Die grond voed die bome. Die bome beskut die land wat die henne voed. Dit is ‘n goeie kringloop, ‘n regeneratiewe kringloop, en ons glo daarin. Maar wanneer jy elke dag daarbinne is, eiers uithaal en kompos meng en regmaak wat gister gebreek het, hou jy op om die geheel te sien. Jy sien net die volgende ding.

Die vloed het die volgende ding weggevat. Dit het die geheel weer voor ons gesit, of ons wou of nie.

En hier is wat ons verras het. Terwyl ons in daardie modder gestaan het, het ons nie net verlies gevoel nie. Ons het ook ‘n vreemde soort toestemming gevoel. Soveel was versteur dat die vraag van wat presies net so gehou moet word, eenvoudig opgelos het. Die damoorloop wat ons nog altyd wou herdink – nou moet ons. Die heinings wat ons net ooit as tydelik bedoel het – nou kan ons hulle behoorlik lê. Die hoeke van die grond wat ons in verwaarlosing laat verval het – die water het hulle ook bereik, en ons herinner dat hulle deel van die stelsel is of ons hulle versorg of nie.

‘n Vloed vra nie toestemming nie, en dit gee nie om vir jou planne nie. Maar as jy bereid is om eerlik te kyk, gee dit jou iets in ruil vir wat dit vat: ‘n skoon vel papier, en die durf om dit te gebruik.

Die visie herbedink

So dit is ‘n herbegin. Nie ‘n terugtog nie, nie ‘n begin van nuuts af nie – vyf jaar se grondbou, boomkweek, verskeie plaasdiere aanhou en erfeniswerk spoel nie in ‘n week weg nie. Maar ‘n herbedink van die visie. ‘n Kans om te vra waarvoor Little Rock Garden werklik is, en wat dit kan word as ons die volgende vyf jaar bou op wat die laaste vyf ons geleer het, eerder as om dit bloot te herhaal.

Ons vind onsself dat ons minder oor produksie dink en meer oor veerkragtigheid. Minder oor om op water te reageer en meer oor om dit te lees – om dit te vertraag, te herlei, om daarmee te ontwerp in plaas van daarteen. Die mense wat daardie slote gegrawe het, het dit op hul eie manier verstaan, en die vloed het ons laat begeer om weer daardie selfde werk op te neem. Ons dink oor watter dele van hierdie plek hul plek verdien, watter dele die ander voed, en watter ou aannames die vloed namens ons stilweg afgeskryf het.

Dragon Lake se opruiming vorder. Foto; Anton

Daar is iets in hierdie grond wat steeds wil groei. Die vloed het dit nie verander nie. As iets, het dit dit duideliker gemaak – want die dinge wat oorleef het, het ons gewys waar die ware krag van hierdie plek lê.

Wat volgende kom

In die briewe wat volg, wil ons jou terugneem na die begin – hoe ‘n klein stukkie grond naby Goudini Little Rock Garden geword het, en wat ons geglo het regeneratiewe boerdery hier kon doen toe ons begin het. Dan sal ons jou eerlik vertel waar dinge nou staan, vyf jaar en een vloed later. En laastens sal ons uiteensit waarheen ons hierdie plek neem: die visie wat die water aan ons teruggegee het, herteken en, hoop ons, wyser.

Die Ou Poskantoor – waar Little Rock Garden die wêreld ontmoet. Foto: Anton

Vir nou trek ons steeds rommel uit die takke en loop ons die heiningdrade langs. Maar ons loop hulle anders as voor die water gekom het. Ons herstel nie net Little Rock Garden nie.

Ons herverbeel dit.

Anton & Rhodi-Anne Little Rock Garden

“God slaap in die rots, droom in die plant, roer in die dier, en ontwaak in die mens.” - Ibn Arabi