When you find a piece of paradise, tell no one

Sabine Jones moved to a sleepy country village to escape the trappings of city life. But they followed her

A neighbour came to my door the other day to complain about my rooster. "He wakes us up at dawn's crack," he whined, apparently oblivious to this colossal statement of the obvious.

It was just another sign that things have changed since 15 years ago, when I first moved to a village that was then barely on the map. "Where's that?" was most people's reaction when I told them where I was going, even though the town was only an hour's drive from the city. Jaw-droppingly beautiful, it was still un-chi-chi enough not to have made it onto the public radar.

I lived on a dirt road and for the first few years didn't have curtains or a front-door key - there was little crime, partly because there was little to steal. The small population was by and large eccentric and low key - artists and poets, carpenters and metalworkers, jacks-of-all-trades and masters-of-none.

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During the summer, the village slumbered in the baking sun; giant hairy sun-spiders had to be chased from the house, flies settled in black clouds on anything uncovered, and you would be drained of blood if you didn't sleep under a mosquito net.

The night skies, with no light pollution for miles, were astonishing. Occasionally, the artist next door would appear on the dirt road in his underpants, martini in hand, and spend an hour or so star-gazing on unsteady feet.

In winter, the driving rains caused mudslides that barrelled through people's homes; frogs, toads and snakes took refuge inside; rain spiders perched on walls to scare the willies out of the unwitting. There were few fences; flocks of chickens pecked happily across large vacant plots. The chameleons stayed sensibly out of their way.

On weekends there was drinking and dancing into the wee hours at the Royal Hotel (all small towns have one), and a lot of misbehaviour, usually involving other people's spouses.

The only retail outlet was a farmers' co-op, great if you wanted giant bags of feed or fertiliser in bulk, useless for things like household cleaning products or orange juice. When friends came from the city, I phoned through a shopping list.

The changes happened in such small ways they were barely noticeable. First there was the subdividing; people who owned the typical large plots suddenly realised that they could rake in a windfall and still have a substantial piece to call their own. Houses went up on the subdivided plots - big houses, with big walls and big attack dogs. People no longer had "plots"; they had "gardens". Property became unaffordable.

Businesses that previously wouldn't have had customers here started opening: a private school, a proper grocery store, an upmarket clothing boutique, an art gallery, a trendy coffee shop.    

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Foreigners bought the Royal Hotel and renovated it, making it unpalatable to the locals - which suited the new owners just fine, as we were not their target market: they were catering to rich people on weekend escapes or on holiday from abroad.

Crime became an issue. Neighbourhood-watch WhatsApp groups sprang into existence.    

Media articles gushed about the town - how convenient to the city it was; its foodie-friendly eateries and gussied-up guesthouses; and how, thanks to its artisanal (expensive) bread and beer, farm-fresh veggies and free-range eggs, locally made wine and jewellery, the place retained its "village atmosphere". How jaw-droppingly beautiful it was.

One day, I realised that my property was entirely bordered by neighbours. I had to stop using the outside shower - I no longer had the privilege of privacy for sheer lack of people.

The flies and mosquitoes have persisted, but all other wildlife has disappeared. It's been years since I saw a chameleon. Basically, I'm back living in suburbia.

So the search is on for another small town I can call home. And this time, when I find it, I'm not telling anybody where it is.