If you haven’t grown up in the Karoo, and you are just driving through, it is so easy to miss the beauty that it holds. Seeing the windpump is a symbol of the Karoo. But when you stop and meet the people living there, you realise the love they have for this magical part of our country. It’s in the quiet moments, the endless skies, and the stories of those who call it home that the true heart of the Karoo reveals itself. You leave with a sense of peace, wonder, and gratitude for this unique treasure in our country. 🌾✨ Photos taken in the Northern Cape of Karoo

January? Yoh. We survived. 😅 New month, fresh vibes, same lekker energy. 📸 Share ONE photo/Gif that sums up how you’re stepping into Feb. Finish the sentence: “January was __________.” (Examples: a blur, character building, longer than Eskom schedules, actually not that bad, rough but we made it 😂) Here’s to February being short, sweet, and very lekker. 💃🏽🔥

If you have not yet seen it, the new Skool magazine is out with some golden nuggets for new and old members. Best of all... the editor, Zak King is from South Africa! Lekker man lekker! Enjoy! Online Flipbook

Old church buildings have always fascinated me. There’s something almost hypnotic about them — a quiet magic that pulls you in. On a trip to Knysna, one of South Africa’s most beloved seaside towns, I stumbled upon one of the most beautiful surprises I’ve ever experienced: a tiny church tucked away in the hills. Knysna is familiar territory for us. Whenever we holiday in Plettenberg Bay, we take a drive there, but we never truly explored it. Known as the “jewel of the Garden Route,” Knysna is famous for its waterfront, oysters, and forests. One day, while my husband went fishing, I decided to explore the town properly. I visited the town hall, the Dutch Reformed Church, and Parkes Cottage. It was 2017 — the year the devastating fires swept through Knysna — so I also drove toward Brenton-on-Sea, one of the hardest‑hit areas. That’s when I saw a small sign: “Holy Trinity Church.” Without hesitation, I turned onto a gravel road that led to a quiet gate. The garden was lush and green, hiding most of the building from view. I parked, walked down the path, and suddenly found myself standing before a peculiar sandstone structure — unlike any church I had ever seen. As I walked around the corner, the full beauty of the church revealed itself. Built in the Norman style, it had thick walls, tiny windows, and rounded arches. The entrance was at the back, overlooking a serene garden and an old graveyard. The door stood open, inviting me in. Inside, the simplicity took my breath away. It wasn’t ornate or grand, but the holiness of the space gave me goosebumps. The beams, pews, floors, and window frames were crafted from yellowwood and stinkwood — shining proudly, even though plantations just a few kilometres away had been destroyed by fire. The sandstone interior was remarkable. Later I learned that when the church was built (1851–1855), the usable sandstone was found 3.5 km away. Three Scottish masons shaped the stone, and it was transported to the site by ox‑carts and sledges.