Things we lost - and gained - in the fire

It's midnight in Noordhoek and the mountains above Muizenberg are burning. The air is smoky. My two cats are uneasy.

Two hours later, I wake to frantic hammering on my window: we've received orders to stand by for evacuation. My first feeling is relief that I know where the cats are.

The mountains that cup our estate have turned into walls of fire on three sides. The sight is so terrifying that I go numb. I find my passport, keep watch with the cats.

The eerie glow from outside makes everything feel unreal.

At dawn, I hear the welcome gudda-gudda of helicopters. I watch footage of the battle to stop our estate from burning: demonic scenes of exploding pine trees, raging vortexes of flame.

As the smoke clears, I look onto a wall of devastation I can't compute - the mountain is charred in all directions. Houses have burned.

Tales of everyday heroism pour in. Local vet Karyn Levy opened her clinic at 3am, offering free board to animals. She promises to keep space for my cats. I'm overwhelmed by the courage and efficiency of the fire-fighting teams and support they are getting. The co-operation between the city, national assistance units, NGOs and civilians is a microcosmic testament to how well this country could function.

I pack valuables into my car, with a pang of insight into how refugees must feel. How to decide what to take? I load irreplaceable paintings by my parents and books with personal dedications by Walter and Albertina Sisulu and André Brink. The rest of my stuff suddenly doesn't matter, although I copy the files from my desktop computer onto an external hard drive and pack my laptop.

The next day I cross Ou Kaapse Weg, which looks post-apocalyptic. I know fynbos is adapted to fire but the black-and-grey devastation makes me weep. Helicopters are precision water-bombing Tokai and the Constantiaberg, tiny against sheets of fire.

I return to desperate calls for help in cutting a firebreak on our estate boundary. The volunteer command centre sends me to give refreshments to exhausted, filthy firebreak builders. I feel like an air hostess: "Water or juice?" "Do you need a halaal sandwich?"

The neighbour whose house they've saved tells me how it felt, watching total strangers risk the flames to save her property, animals and skin. I'm comforted not just by the selflessness of the volunteers but the professionalism of the fire-fighting services.

Local businesses, organisations and individuals are donating everything from food to medical supplies to expertise - tree-fellers and snake-catchers are in demand. Humanity at its best.

At 1am on Tuesday disaster strikes. A howling northwest gale turns Chapman's Peak into an inferno. Watching the flames billow and rage down the mountain is utterly terrifying.

We're placed back on evacuation standby. Noordhoek looks like a war zone, with cars streaming out, firefighters and volunteers pouring in. Houses are burning in spite of magnificent efforts by the fire-fighters. We're all beyond tears and terror.

The sheet of flames, only hundreds of metres from our gate, is the stuff of nightmares. I keep promising family and friends to put safety first.

Next morning I lie down to nap, and wake a few hours later to blessed rain - just enough to damp down the crisis. Relief.

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