Postscript to "Lambs Love and Laughter"

Coming full circle - from when this was taken in 1991,
we are back here in France and the barbeque is the one in our garden.

We left the farm and we left Africa and the leaving was hard, but there was no point longing for what could no longer be. I went on ahead and for a year, I worked in various jobs until John could finalise the sale of the farm and join me.

For three years we lived in England, battling financially and never really feeling as though we fitted in. John was amazed to see Englishmen who dressed up in collars and ties to mow their lawns and I had the feeling that very little had changed since I had left thirty years ago.

It was by sheer chance that John was offered a position in Miami, and feeling that we had very little keeping us in England, we bought our tickets and prepared to leave. All our personal possessions went into storage until we could send for them, and I agonised over leaving as my father suffered a massive stroke less than a week after we had done our bookings.

We spent the next five years in Miami, living in relative luxury in a seventeenth floor apartment, fascinated with the oddities of American living. We met some interesting people and made some great friends, but after five years, it was time to get our feet back on the ground, and once again we packed up our possessions and boarded a plane for the south of France.

To find out how we are settling in, have a look at my blog - "Diary of a French Housewife". I really do hope that this is our last major move, and its great to be once again growing beans, but this time we don't have to do battle with the sheep!

"Lambs Love and Laughter" was serialised in the South African Country Life magazine over the course of a year, and I was invited to lecture aboard the QE2 on several occasions, talking about Lesotho, the farm, and all the strange things that I had learned. The greatest joy of these voyages was that I managed to get back to South Africa, and although I never made it to the farm, it was good to feel the pulse of Africa once more, and somehow make my peace with having had to leave.

I have made my peace with a great many things since leaving, and in due course, another blog entitled "Cannibals to Croissants" will be uploaded and you can find out about those 23 missing years in Lesotho.

Au Revoir - Montpellier August 2008

Chapter 12. Never say "Forever"

Bulklip Farm after six years of love and a lot of hard work

‘Well now what am I supposed to do with you when you drop dead?’ demanded my long suffering husband one day.

Up until a few years ago his orders had been quite clear if I should suddenly fall under a bus.

‘Dig a hole between the two poplar trees down by Grandpa’s gate, wrap me up in an old Basotho blanket and pop me in there’ had been my instructions for the past eight years.

Before that, I had asked to be cremated and that my ashes be allowed to drift away over the Maluti mountains. Quite who I thought was going to slog to the top of Thaba D’Nali just to empty out my little urn, I don’t know, but since neither option has become a reality, I am now forced to think up another suitable parking place.

It’s not that I am of particularly fragile health or of a pessimistic nature, but in the same way that I always pack spare underwear for a long haul flight just in case of hijack or luggage loss, and never go anywhere without a plastic bag in my pocket, I like to prepare for the worst and then it seldom happens. I just feel that it’s so thoughtless, not just dying, but leaving a mess behind. At least if your nearest and dearest have a faint idea of where to put you, it’s half the job done.

Nowadays, while visiting England, I eye little country churchyards with tall cypress trees standing sentinel against moss covered walls, and try to mentally fit in between a ragged row of ancient tombstones with names like Hepzebiah Riddle carved on them. Two of my options no longer exist. I wouldn’t expect anyone to slide me in with his duty free and extra tee shirts and cart me back to Africa. No. Here I am and here I will probably stay, although in the words of James Bond, “Never say Never”.

We had to leave the farm, and now my body will never be buried there, but when the time comes, my soul will dance around the Bulklip Rock and my spirit will bask on the sun-baked rocks and watch the Cape Vultures rise and fall in the thermals. If we could have lived on love and fresh air, maybe we could have lasted, but the farm was draining every resource that we had. John had started farming with a gun on his hip and I locked the back door when he was away from the house. We had sworn that we would never put up burglar bars on the windows, but sometimes we would lie awake at night listening to the sound of a distant vehicle, or the muffled sounds of human voices, not knowing what they were doing out in the dark, and certainly not prepared to go and investigate.

A visitor by day could become a feared adversary by night, and you never really knew who would arrive at the farm and for what reason. We talked about it late into the night and agonized over our decisions. My children were now grown up and were moving to Europe to look for greener pastures; my parents were still living in England, but my father had already survived one heart attack and I dreaded the phone call that would announce the next and maybe final one. John’s family were all in France and although he had no urge to live there, he also wanted to be a bit closer to them.

For some time we had been renting grazing land to a neighbouring farmer, and when he made us a good offer to buy Bulklip quite literally lock stock and barrel, we took the decision and agreed to sell. In return for accepting part payment, we could continue staying at the house, thus having the best of all worlds. It was no longer our business to feed, tag, castrate, inject and worry about the cattle and the sheep. It was not our problem if the dam dried up or the veldt caught alight. Suddenly it was all ours to enjoy but not to keep afloat and for two glorious months we talked, read, lazed and discovered the joys of ownership with none of the responsibility. We even took the chance to travel down to the Cape to visit all the wine farms that we had so faithfully supported down the years, and found that we got strange looks when we exposed our farmers tans on the sun drenched beaches of Llandudno.

But it was a dream world and not one that we could support. The real world was reaching out to us and there was going to be a lot of technology that we would have to catch up with. For the past seven years, we had accepted that our only form of contact with the outside world was the party line. We had a handle on the side of the telephone and knew by the ringing tone who was on duty down in the town telephone exchange. If Marie was in a good mood, then she would only ring the number three times, but if she’d had a frustrating day, she would ring that bell until Rip Van Winkle himself would have answered it.

If Piet was on duty, he would cheerfully put through the calls to overseas numbers, pausing only to ask ‘Is that Paris in France?’ or keep us waiting while he had a cosy chat with the International Operator in far off London.

But just let there be a death or a drama in the community, and the operators at the telephone exchange were the lifeline between Zastron and the outside world. Often the names of the operators were read out at funeral services when they were given grateful thanks by the relatives of the deceased who had been contacted by those stalwarts of the switchboard who would never give up. They were the first to know about the arrival of a new baby, an engagement, a successful report of a medical operation, the inside information on who had bought which farm and who was leaving town in disgrace. They were privy to every little bit of news that moved around the area, and it was judiciously dealt with on a “Need to Know” basis. Boxes of chocolates, bouquets of flowers and strings of tasty farm sausages were often delivered to the exchange by grateful callers, and they performed a service in the community that was immensely important.

Where was the point in getting no reply? Surely it was far better that the operator informed you of the current situation.

‘You won’t get Dirk on a Wednesday because he’s playing golf down in Aliwal and since he’s playing against Sam and will in all probability beat him, it’ll mean a long session at the 19th hole and he won’t be back until late tonight’

Or to be told ‘You won’t be able to collect your melk tert this week. Tannie Marie has gone down to East London to visit her mother for the week but she’ll be back by Sunday night, and by the way, her feet are much better since the operation’.

Standing on the high point of the farm, it was possible to speak to anywhere in the world on a cell phone, but then who wanted to. Sometimes I used to run back into the house to answer the phone, only to find that it was the call of a bird perched high in the fir tree behind the house. We soon discovered that if the news was really serious, someone would have a method of getting it to us, and on one or two occasions, it was delivered by the neighbour who raced across the veldt on his horse, pulling up outside the front door just long enough to haul a crumpled airmail envelope out of his pocket before charging off again to check on his cattle.

But times were changing and life wasn’t as secure as it had been when we first arrived on the farm. We heard of attacks on other farms and of heavy losses due to stock theft. We joined with the rest of the community at the funeral of a young father who had been gunned down although he was unarmed. His widow stood with two small children at her side and a three month old baby in her arms, her head held proudly high but her eyes drenched in tears. There was nowhere else for her to go. For generations her family had farmed in the Zastron area and it was the only life she knew. My children had access to British passports and could choose the life that they wanted, but for her and her fatherless children, she had to stay and make whatever life she could, living alongside the people who had murdered her husband.

I had spent many years in Lesotho and had attended the funerals of no less than four young boys, each the same age as my son, all of whom had been murdered, and I was no stranger to the violence and brutality of Africa, but what was happening now left us uncertain and nervous.

For a while we stayed on the farm, but we resented the casual way that the new staff would enter and leave the farm property, and we couldn’t stand to see the manner in which the animals were chivvied and shouted at. We knew the name of every cow and had rejoiced in every safe delivery of yet another healthy calf and they knew us and came to our call, and now they were being treated as just another herd of dumb animals. But we had made the decision and signed the papers and had nothing to say on any subject but at least the endless bills stopped rolling in.

It was about this time when the saddest thing of all happened. Mr Dumpy had come along on a casual cattle inspection, and normally he would stay put on the back of the truck while we checked them over. This particular day however, he had spotted a rabbit making a dash for it on the other side of the herd, and he leapt off the truck and headed off in full pursuit. Zubeida, one of the matrons of the herd was an irascible old beast at the best of times and we knew to keep out of her way, but Dumpy wasn’t concentrating and ran too close. In a flash, she had lashed out with her back legs and caught him a glancing blow. Rolling over and whimpering in pain, Dumpy managed to limp away and get back to the truck, but we could see that some real damage had been done. We took him straight down to the Vet in town, but an x-ray showed that his spine had been damaged and he lost all control of his bowel and bladder. It was terrible to see this beautiful proud animal battling to drag himself upright and there was nothing for it but to let him go.

He could still walk short distances, and on the day he was due to be put to sleep, he and I moved slowly and quietly through the small meadow next to the farmhouse, and I carried a bag of cosmos seed which I scattered as we walked. It only remained to cradle him in my arms and bid him a desperately sad farewell as he slipped away to join that joyous collection of all the dogs that we had known and loved for the past thirty years, who would be gathered around some heavenly lamp post ready to make him welcome. He had been a good and loyal friend to me. Not overly burdened in the brain department but with a heart as big as Africa itself.

With the loss of Mr Dumpy, my nerve began to go, and sadly we packed up our possessions and moved down into the nearby town and set up home in a large apartment overlooking the main street. Klippie had already found himself a girl-friend down at Hennie’s farm and spent more time visiting there than being at home. He somehow knew that we were no longer farming despite the fact that the animals were still there, and he went off to live with Hennie where he would have a lot more to do than sitting around being a pet. Muffy also found a new home with the family of the local butcher. If ever a dog found paradise on earth, it was that little animal. Playful children, an adoring Mum and a Dad who could provide all the fillet steak titbits she could ever want. Lady and Charlie went off down to Champagne Farm where they would continue their retirement, and the last of the ducks went to a very up-market duck-pond down in town.

For a while it was a novelty being able to cross the road to the cafe and buy fresh milk and bread, and to go down to the local hotel for a drink or a good meal. But nothing had prepared us for the noise; the roar of vehicles, of sounds of people shouting across the street to each other, and the constant movement and bustle. Whenever we could, we would escape up into the Aasvoel mountain park and walk, and we began to spend more and more time at our little holiday house out at the nearby Montagu Dam. Occasionally we would drive out to the farm, but already the doors were being broken open and the glass in the windows smashed. The garden was reverting to its natural state and the sheep roamed freely nibbling off any green shoots they could find. It was as lovely as ever but it was no longer ours and it hurt too much to be there.

‘If we left Zastron, where else in South Africa would we settle?’ was the question, and despite having travelled extensively throughout the country, we couldn’t think of anywhere that would do. It was time to go back to our roots. Bit by bit we sorted out what could go and what we would part with. The Nigerian carved chest, the tribal antique art, the Lesotho weaving and pottery all found their way into the container. I had to go through hundreds of photographs and weed out those that really couldn’t warrant being kept. I hoarded the music that would remind me of my glorious days in the mountains of Lesotho and carefully packed up my pieces of old English silver and plate that had travelled to me from my parents’ home. Water colours of our favourite haunts painted by old friends were lovingly wrapped in acres of bubble packing and the Basotho blankets that had kept us warm throughout the bleak farm winters were interspersed with moth balls and stowed.

We had one last visit to the farm, and as we had at the beginning, we ignored the old house and climbed up onto the hill where the old gum tree stood. It was dying fast and many of its branches lay scattered about its tattered trunk and the boulders all about it were coated in the detritus of dead foliage. The view hadn’t changed though, and as we stood with arms about each other, we looked into the misty distance, our vision blurred by tears.

How do you say goodbye to Africa. It has been there since the dawn of time and will be there when the world disintegrates in a cloud of dust. We were the equivalent of a speck of dust that settled briefly before a vagrant puff of wind blew us back up into the air, leaving us to float northwards before settling back down onto the shores of England.

Maybe my bones will lie one day beneath an old cypress tree in an English graveyard, but my spirit will be high above the Bulklip rock flying with the vultures, drifting across the Makhaleng River, floating above the Maluti mountains forever playing in the updrafts and valleys of Africa.

KHOTSO – PULA – NALA

Peace – Rain - Prosperity

Chapter 11. Earning Our Keep

Sartorial elegance is the first thing to go for a loop when you farm!

Life was not all gardening and cooking however, and we soon realised that although the Vet was excellent when called upon in moments of emergency, it was up to the farmer to learn the basics of dipping, dosing and treatments if he was to stay out of the clutches of the local Bank Manager.

The first time I picked up a hypodermic syringe, I felt a distinct wave of nausea come over me. I was expected to stick this long needle into living flesh. I just couldn't see myself doing it. I wasn’t quite sure why I had been elected to do the aiming and firing, but I suppose it was felt that since I was handy with a darning needle and in patching up the odd cuts and bruises, it came under my jurisdiction, and bearing in mind John’s ability to fall flat on his face if he came near the needles, there was nothing else for it. Young calves need to be inoculated against a series of ailments that can turn a healthy animal into a dead one very quickly. Names like Lumpy Skin Disease, Sponsickter, and Brucella which had previously never entered my vocabulary, soon became part of my conversation.

Intramuscular or intravenous? Surely I had watched enough "Emergency Ward 10" and episodes of “Doctor Kildare” in my youth to know how to go about it. The problem was that in those programmes, the patients would lie supine and apparently willingly give themselves up to the ministrations of the angelic nurses and handsome doctors that surrounded them. My customers were anything but supine. With calves herded into the crush calling for their mothers, and irate mothers stamping up and down the fence nearby bellowing for their youngsters, and John, Stephen and Joseph, the hot and dusty herdsmen trying to sort out the males from the females, this was no time for a bedside manner.

With bottle and needle at the ready, I suspended myself over the edge of the crush and began injecting the youngsters, which only an hour before had been mildly grazing and suckling next to their dams. Now they were a frightened jumpy nervous bunch and I have the nasty feeling that the aim was not always as good as it should have been, and the dosage in some respects was probably a lot less as needles bent or fell out. However, we continued with a herd of healthy breeding cows who each went on to produce three calves apiece over the years we had them, and we learned the art of packing a crush and picking a spot.

For a few years, I continued to hang over the top rail and most of my working shirts bore witness with a lack of buttons and ingrained grime, and the job seemed to be mine for life, until we discovered “English Annie” who visited us once a year en route to Lesotho, and who, in exchange for a warm bed and a delicious dinner, took over the inoculation programme. Her appearance was much appreciated and anticipated by us, if not so much by the cattle. We had another fine Cornish farming friend who could be called upon at times when ticklish jobs like lamb castration came up, or if it was a question of needing pure brute strength to shift the bull into the crush. Titus would deal with the animal like an opposing prop forward. Murmuring the appropriate Cornish epithets into its furry ear, he would have it bent the animal to his will in no time and would still walk away with barely a wrinkle on his clean shirt, leaving the recipient of the treatment looking slightly bewildered about what had just taken place, despite his determination that things should go the other way.

Another necessary treatment for the cattle was spraying under the tails to remove the localised ticks that hide there in the warmth. Normally a cow will realise that this treatment is neither going to hurt nor harm her and will stand still, but there are the odd ones that get their revenge by depositing their breakfasts up your arm just as you are closing in with the spray bottle. Castrating and dehorning are necessary evils but here I would draw the line and declare it Men's Work and retire to the kitchen and bake something..

We quickly found out how much a bale of lucerne grass cost, how much it weighed, and how difficult it was to get someone to part with twenty of them during the drought. We also discovered that we could trade bales of feed for home-made steak and kidney pies, and pay the Co-op bills once sales had been notched up in the farm shop. We learned about coarse salt and cattle licks, vet bills and beef prices; icy cold winds and gates that freeze to your hands; we discovered how a windmill works and how to go about sinking a borehole. We learned about baking searing heat that would drive the water intake of a cow up to 80 litres per day when we were battling to lay hands on 2000 litres a day for the entire herd, the staff, the house and the garden. We cried at the death of an animal and rejoiced at the appearance of our first calf. We chased sheep over hilltops and herded cattle away from fires. We mastered the art of farm inspection from the back of a 250 cc trail bike and underwent the back-breaking business of laying pipes so that water could be carried to dry ‘camps’ as the fields were known.

We went into chicken production and at one stage we had two hundred birds out in the shed being fattened up to the required two kilo weight mark. When this day arrived, it was all hands to the pump and from dawn to dusk, the humane slaughter machine whirred and the huge vats of boiling water loosened the feathers on the birds which were passed to Angelina and her team for plucking. The birds then came to me for gutting and dressing, and pausing only for lunch when we would normally eat chicken livers on toast without a qualm, we would press on until late in the evening. Dressed with a sprig of parsley laid across their fat breasts, the chickens would be loaded in huge cold boxes and taken down to the farm shop and were normally sold out by the end of the week.

We even had a stab at growing our own mushrooms. There was an old dark cobbled stable which was never used, and this seemed to be the ideal place to experiment. We’d had all sorts of wonderful plans to turn it into a pub and had even gone so far as to chip all the old dried manure out from among the cobblestones, and clean the swags of cobwebs away from the ancient beams. There was a shady expanse of lawn outside the door and it would have made a great place for a summer evening, but we never did get around to it.

Having become enthusiastic after reading an article in the Farmers Weekly, we sent away for the spore and went and fetched a load of manure from the local race horse owners, and really tried hard to follow all the rules. John duly kept a close watch on the temperature in the room and we would damp down the sacks that covered the roof and peer closely at the piles of manure, but not a dicky bird emerged. Not one solitary mushroom grew in our factory but meantime, we had great fairy rings of them out on the farm. No-one could ever accuse us of not even trying to boost our meagre income, but this certainly wasn’t the way forward.

We had one creaking windmill up on the hill and it was terrifying to watch as John and Stephen clung to the scaffolding in a high wind, trying to fix the brake before it lashed itself to pieces. Water was a constant worry, but thanks to the kindness of John’s step-father, we were given the funds to sink a borehole. For a week or so, we had friends and family walking all over the farm with dowsing rods, and it was amazing to feel the pull of the bent willow branch fork as it tugged downwards to where the water lay, but we couldn’t drill just anywhere. It had to be within reach of the existing reservoirs and fairly near to the house.

In fact the answer lay right outside our front door and was literally staring us in the face. For what felt like years, we had sat gazing at the Bulklip rock at sunset, marvelling at how an old man’s face would appear on the angles of the rock when the last light was at a certain slant. His heavy eyebrows and great thick moustache gave him a serious detached look, although he seemed to be staring down into the paddock that adjoined the garden. The dowsers felt a strong pull in that area and we decided to take a chance. The machines were brought in and the team was led by a well-fed elderly man who’s thumbs were all important. When things were going well, his two thumbs would steadily twist until they were aimed towards the sky, and then when the drill hit ironstone, they would sink back earthwards. The drill was driven down into the earth attached to the machine by lengths of rod known as stems which are added as the hole gets deeper. We had gone to seventeen stems and the thumbs were horizontal and confused.

‘I can stop here and we give up or we can take a chance on one more’ he told us.

We had already gone through seventy metres of ironstone and the bills were mounting up. Should we cut our losses or play one last gamble. I thought of my skill on the dartboard and my rare wins on the roulette table.

‘Eighteen has always been my lucky number’ I told him. ‘Go one more’.

Having attached the eighteenth stem, the machine roared into action and low and behold the water began to bubble up out of the hole. We hadn’t hit a major geyser, but it was more than enough, and our windmill that worked on both wind and a generator and which was the envy of the district, began to turn. We would stand for ages listening to the sweet sound of water being pumped up past the house and into the big reservoir, and even had inflated thoughts of filling up one of the open reservoirs and using it as a swimming pool, but eventually we left it for the frogs to play in.

Africa was never shy about putting on a show. We watched in awe as electrical storms sent bolts of lightening bouncing from one mountain top to the next, and saw a raging river gouge out the topsoil where minutes before there had been a harmless trickle running through the land. We quaked in fear on one occasion as the old windmill broke loose from its moorings and thrashed itself to pieces in a gale force wind, knowing that as the sails whirled away in the blinding dust storm, our ability to lift water went with them.

But our old farmhouse withstood the strongest winds, the deepest snow, the fiercest fires and the coldest nights. The sound of the rain beating on the corrugated iron roof would lull us to sleep, and the early morning crackle as the rising sun caused the metal to expand was the sign that a hot day lay ahead. There were times when we avoided the Bank Manager and times when we could buy him a drink in the local pub. We had moments of agony and frustration but they were usually balanced by times when God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

But above all, we experienced pure joy, total happiness, and the feeling of utter contentment that no amount of money could buy. No bank balance could bring the strong breeze that pushed the windmill in order to lift water for the troughs, and no cheque could order the steady piling up of blackening cumulus clouds and the deep rumble of thunder. It cost nothing to marvel at the sight of the full moon beaming down on the rolling lawns that we had reclaimed from the rubble strewn patch; all we had to do was to drag our chairs outside and watch as the sun set on The Old Man of Bulklip, and then tilt our heads back and gaze at the vast night sky and count the satellites as they forged their path through the twinkling maze. No offers of payment could have lured the eleven Cape Vultures who perched on the rock one morning as if holding a directors meeting, and we certainly didn’t dip into our pockets for the sight of the great Kori Bustards who would lift off from the slopes of the farm hillsides at our approach.

The honking of geese on a summers morning as they left the dam to go in search of food for the day, the call of the Piet Mevrou bird as he heralded the coming of rain, or the cry of an eagle as he hung on the updrafts all came for free . In our most desperate moments, we knew that money couldn't save us, and in times of utter contentment, it was not riches that made us happy. We learned to minimalise our lives in respect of "stuff”. When everything you own has been threatened by fire, where’s the point in having too much? What use were designer clothes when the cattle don’t appreciate them, and why buy state of the art stereos and televisions when they cover up the sounds of the nightjars, the crickets and all pervading silence. What price expensive hairdo's that would get ruined in the wind, and manicures that would chip and break in the cattle crush. You can’t chuck three bales of Lucerne, four dogs and a sheep into the back of an airconditioned sleek motor car and woollen socks and stout boots look far more de rigeur than shiny shoes and high heels.

There was no better feeling than to stand under a shower and feel the water beating down on aching shoulders, or to lie in a lavender scented bath and allow the tiredness to float out of our bones, knowing that later on, we would sleep the sleep of well earned exhaustion and satisfaction. It was no hardship to wake early the next morning with the sun peeping in through the half open curtains and hear the telephone bell summoning the farmers on the party line as they called each other to exchange rain gauge totals, milk production figures, recipes and general good wishes. I used to think that to be awake at 5am in the morning was the job of night nurses in hospitals and those suffering from insomnia. I discovered that it was a time to lie and listen to the wakening world and plan the day ahead; to catch up with the morning news on the radio and absorb or reject what horrors or delights lay in the great world beyond the farm. It was so good just to sip that first cup of coffee from the depths of my mounded pillows and to enjoy the second cup on the veranda before the morning sun gained strength. Sitting there with Mr Dumpy’s soft grey head leaning against my leg, I could hear, far away in the distance, the cattle calling their young and the excited bark of Klippie as he and John did the early rounds . Not for me the 7.30 crush and the angry push and pull of city life. My office was 1500 feet above sea level and had a view out over the mountains. It had no walls, no roof and no calendars, no fax machine and no telephone. It was a field where the wind blew gently and the scents of grass and brush wood lingered, and if I did think that I heard a telephone ring, it would turn out to be a repetitive wood pigeon.

For a while, until the economic and security situation began to worsen, our guest cottage became a haven for those who inhabited the outside world . For those splendid folk who dared to depart from their schedules and leave the well worn path, we had a special welcome. On their arrival, we would taken them to the highest point of the farm at sunset, where we would sit and sip a glass of cool wine, and watch as the Maluti mountains changed from pink to purple , and the last rays of sunlight caught the glint of water in a never ending pattern of silver patches stretching away into the West. Down at the bottom of the hill, Angelina would sit outside her house and beat out a rhythm on her skin drum and this sound would float up the hill, mingling with the birdsong and call of the distant cattle. Guests were then dispatched to their own cosy cottage to soak in an aromatherapy oil scented bath before returning to join us for a friendly drink by our cosy fireplace in winter, or a refreshing gin and tonic served out on the still cool veranda in summer. In the cooler months, dinner would be eaten in the dining room where the candlelight reflected off the silverware and crystal, and a four course dinner made up of small, light delicious servings of a variety of home cooked food was shared in companionable surroundings. On a mild evening, we would dine in the Breakfast Room with the double doors open. Where the sounds of the garden sprinklers were shared only by the croaking of frogs on the nearby dam and the chirruping of the crickets. Guests, who by then would have become friends, would depart to sleep and the following morning, their departure was seldom either early or rushed.

A stroll to visit the Bushman paintings followed by an al fresco breakfast in the morning sunshine seemed to be of more interest than getting the required number of kilometres under their belt, and a visit of one night often became a return visit of two or three days. Quiet horses were supplied to those who wanted to amble around the farm, and for the more robust, our neighbour Hennie had opened up his glorious valley of "Champagne" with well marked hiking trails. Bird watchers and photographers revelled in the extensive flora and fauna and wonderful views, and those who preferred to laze away the day in the shade of a large willow tree in their private part of the garden, would find themselves supplied with a wealth of good books, a tray of tea and a pile of large cushions. There were those who said that there was world time and Bulklip time. I knew which I operated on.

Chapter 10. I'm getting married in the morning

Signing on the dotted line with help from Kobus and Sheila

For a few years, John and I lived and worked side by side, intent, not only on bringing the farm back to life, but on finding out whether our relationship was one that could withstand a more permanent arrangement.

Having both finalised our divorces from previous marriages, we each hesitated to embark on a second marriage unless we were absolutely certain that this was the wisest choice. We were well aware that the local population viewed us askance, and I came in for even closer scrutiny and censure since most of them had known my first husband far better than they knew me. To his great credit, Neville was not only understanding of our difficult situation, but was generous with both his time and expertise in helping us to get the farm established. Despite the fact that we were both involved in new relationships, our long term friendship and the fact that between us, we had produced two outstanding children, helped to smooth the path towards our final separation. John and I will always be grateful for his manpower and knowledge, much of which had been gleaned from time spent on the spectacularly beautiful farms in the Barkly East district, where I am glad to say he now resides and has also happily remarried.

I was fortunate that both my parents managed to make the journey from England to come and inspect the farm, and while my father proved to be a dab hand at dowsing for water and cooking up delicious meals in our solar oven, my mother enjoyed her water colour painting and rambles with the dogs. Her only slight concern was that Bokkie loved to come along on these walks, and in moments of excitement, he tended to bump and buffet whoever was in charge of the outing. She quickly learned never to wear a skirt when he was around, and learned the trick of getting through a gate first and quickly closing it before the attendant buck could race through with her.

Being thoroughly British, my parents viewed my current situation and decided that I was clearly happy and would probably work out my own destiny without any urging or advice from them. For the past twenty five years, they had watched as I had become a wife and mother, faced the end of my marriage and then ventured into this new relationship, and throughout all that time, they had given loving support, had kept me well supplied with letters from home, and quietly let me know that they would always be there for me.

John’s father had died when John was still a teenager, but his mother who was known by all and sundry as Mamy, had re-married a delightful man know to all and sundry as Papy.

Their generosity to us was exceptional and it was thanks to Papy that our windmill was replaced and we could afford a large and very useful diesel generator. He had wanted to pay for us to have electricity brought out to the farm, but we had to turn down his generous offer that would have cost thousands, so instead, he was responsible for us being able to run a washing machine, have a television set, and keep our computers going.

We had been on the farm for four years and so far had resisted the temptation to either beat each other to death with a frying pan or insert an axe into a sleeping head, and in light of this achievement, we began to discuss the idea of formalising our relationship. We rationalised that if we could still be together after everything that we had been through, then we had as much chance as anyone else did, of making a success of our future lives together. I can’t relate that John sank to one knee and proposed by moonlight, but somewhere along the line, we began to dig out our birth certificates and final decrees of divorce, and consider the legal aspects.

Having been born in England, I had no trouble producing the necessary document, but John had been born in Vietnam when it was still French Indo China. Needless to say, in the upheavals that surrounded the swift departure of the French in 1947, something that didn’t get packed was his birth certificate, and this was just one of the hurdles that had to be cleared.

Eventually we seemed to have dotted all the “i’s” and crossed all the “t’s”, and Mamy and Papy announced that they were coming over for a visit. It was time to make plans for the actual ceremony that would take place at the Magistrate’s Office down in Zastron. We drove down to town dressed in our “tidy clothes” and dutifully queued at the wooden desk, the front of which was fenced with large bars, and behind which sat rather ferocious looking ladies who dealt with the paperwork that held the town together.

We were starting to make known our request when the Magistrate himself appeared, and since we were something of an oddity, he came over to enquire if we needed any help. We explained that a marriage was imminent and that we would be delighted if he could officiate, and suggested that Thursday morning the following week would suit us ideally. He looked concerned and then informed us that although he would be happy to join us together in matrimony, he could only perform the service on Thursday afternoon since he dealt with criminal matters such as murder in the mornings!

Not to be daunted, we decided to have our wedding luncheon at the local hotel and then totter down the road to the Magistrate’s Office afterwards and sign on the dotted line. With Mamy and Papy beaming at us, and with our neighbour Hennie sitting in his wheelchair acting as witness for us, we said farewell to our single state, and inscribed our names on the document in front of us.

We were then showered with confetti thrown by our flower-girl Sheila, helped by our staunch young friend Kobus, before going to drink a most welcome cup of tea with Hennie and Aret. And then it was back to normal and we embarked on married life by going out and feeding the cattle and settling back into our usual routine, but not before we had taken Mamy and Papy with us on honeymoon to the Drakensburg!

Over the years, we had wonderful visits from family members who travelled from overseas, and from those who lived closer by. In addition to our respective parents, John’s two daughters flew over from France when they were still only eleven years old, and spent a couple of weeks with us, happy to chatter to John in French while leaving me to wonder what was going on most of the time. They not only delighted in having endless dogs to play with, but were over the moon when given the opportunity to drive the farm truck, despite the fact that they had to sit on a cushion in order to see over the steering wheel.

John’s sister and her husband came for a stay and supplied both extra manpower and a sharp pair of scissors. Michelle was a superb hairdresser back in France, and both John and I had become distinctly shaggy over the months that elapsed between visits to Bloemfontein. Taking into account my fly-away curls, John occasionally suggested that I wait until the man who sheared the sheep paid us a visit, and I could line up with them and get a short back and sides. I would get my revenge however, and when his hair became too shaggy, I would neaten him up with the scissors while giving Muffy the Maltese Poodle a quick trim, but it is debatable as to which of them came off worse. It is said that there are three days between a good haircut and a bad one, but John would jam on his old farm cap and refuse to remove it for about a week, after which time, he was once again returning to his normal shaggy state.

My son Peter and daughter Claire came to visit when they were back in South Africa between overseas trips to England and Australia, and it was wonderful to gather around the kitchen table with a few bottles of wine, and catch up on all their news and adventures. They subsequently each married terrific partners, and they all now live in Australia, and between them they have provided me with five beautiful grandchildren, and so the never-ending quest for air tickets continues.

Chapter 9. Visitations

Yes it does snow in Africa!

Visitors came and went under many guises. We had no sign-posts showing the way to Bulklip. We felt that if someone needed to get hold of us urgently enough, they would either phone first for directions, or ask at the neighbouring farm. We didn't want to advertise our presence at this isolated farmhouse at the end of the track, and as a rule, most people found us without too much of a detour. On only one occasion when celebrating a special birthday at the farm did we put up sign-boards to help our guests. We were still putting the finishing touches to the marquee and the food when a car drew up in the garden, from which alighted an earnest young couple with a very wispy little girl who wore a straw hat and carried a bible. We had only put the signs up half an hour earlier and the Jehovah Witnesses had tracked us down! Sadly we had to send them on their way with not a single convert to reward them for their long hot drive out into the countryside, but I did manage to slip a piece of birthday cake to the little girl who looked woefully underfed.

Very popular visitors were Oom (Uncle) Koosie and his grandson Kobus. They were part of the Labuschagne family who were our delightful neighbours from whom we had bought Bulklip and who had a lovely family of three daughters and a long awaited son. By the time we arrived on the farm, Kobus was a ten year-old live-wire with all the delightful attributes of any other unspoiled country lad. He hated school because they made him wear shoes, and he was always having difficulty deciding which of his two girlfriends he liked the best.

Despite his limited English and my halting Afrikaans, we became great friends and he was intrigued with John and I who had arrived from what to him must have seemed like another planet. In no time he was collecting English stamps and asking John about the delights of the French Revolution. I think the guillotine sounded as though it had remarkable potential for those who stole his dinky toys or made him stay in late after school.

His grandfather Koosie lived with the family and the two of them would arrive in high style in Koosie’s ancient vehicle with headlights flashing and hooter blaring. On first seeing the battered old car coming down the driveway, we thought that no-one was driving, until we realised that Kobus was sitting in the drivers seat on a cushion barely able to see over the steering wheel while his grandfather operated the pedals for him. Hugely pleased with themselves, they would negotiate seven farm gates, often with the help of a little African boy who was Kobus's pal, and they would sweep into the garden grinning from ear to ear.

The little African boy ‘Seun’ would never get out of the car lest he be devoured by Mr Dumpy or trampled by Bokkie and on the one occasion when Kobus did lure him out, he spent the entire visit sitting on the upper branch of the gum tree next to the farmhouse from where he watched every move that the tethered Mr Dumpy made, and we had to climb up to take his orange juice and biscuits to him.

Oom Koosie would settle back into the old armchair on the veranda from where he could see across the huge garden and up to the Bulklip rock, and he would regale us with tales of the old days. It was said that down in Zastron there were no fewer than fifty widows, all of whom he was on first name terms with, and most of whom were invited to his eightieth birthday party. He took the cowards way out and asked me to sit next to him which resulted in me having a hilariously entertaining lunch while trying to avoid the daggers being shot at me. Even in his khaki shirt and trousers and old farm hat, Oom Koosie still presented a picture of a handsome neat gentleman farmer, and to see him suited and booted for church on a Sunday was reminiscent of the glory days of Hollywood. He was a wise educated man who, despite having been born at a time when the country was still riven with the enmities created by the Boer War, insisted that his children and grandchildren learn to speak English and he encouraged them to communicate with us as much as possible.

The family was to meet with tragedy a few years after we move to the farm. Hennie, the son of Oom Koosie, who at this time was in the prime of his life and aged about forty five, was out riding his horse on a blazing hot summers day. His dogs ran alongside as he toured his adjoining farm, checking on the cattle and the sheep and ensuring that troughs had enough water and that salt licks were in place. Moving through the veldt at a brisk pace, suddenly, without warning, his horse stepped in a rabbit hole and Hennie was pitched forwards, landing on his back on the sun-baked ground. The horse caught fright and ran off but his dogs stayed loyally at his side, whimpering and nudging at him. The hours passed and the sun beat down on him, dehydrating and burning him and it was lunchtime before his wife, already concerned that he had not appeared, received a radio message that the horse had appeared riderless at a neighbouring farm. A search party went out and the barking of the dogs led them to Hennie who was in desperate straits by this time.

The frantic ringing of the party line alerted us to the fact that there was something terribly wrong, and the next thing we saw was the ambulance from town heading out towards ‘Champagne’ farm. Hennie had severed his spinal cord in the fall and lost the use of his legs. From being a man who rode a horse as though they were one, he was confined to a wheelchair and left paralysed from the chest down.

The first few days were spent re-hydrating him and dealing with the sun-burn that had scorched him as he lay face up unable to move and gradually the horror of the situation began to dawn on everyone; Hennie would never walk again. Not only did the family rally round but the entire community did whatever it could. Hennie was a man of immense character and determination, and before the year was out, he was driving himself into town in a specially customised truck, and with the aid of a wheelchair, he continued to run his farms and keep his family as the tightly knit loving unit that it had always been. Whenever we felt that our burdens were too heavy, we would think of Hennie and thank the good Lord for our health and strength.

I so admired this family and the structures that made it what it was. Even at an early age, young Kobus had a natural fierce love for his land and his people and a clear knowledge that he should defer to his elders in all matters until he was old enough to take up the reins. Unlike my children who held British passports and had strong links with England, and who could go out into the world as they chose, Hennie's children would find it hard to leave for greener pastures whatever the future held for their country. Whenever I hear anyone being derogatory about the Afrikaaners, I think of this educated charming friendly family who welcomed us into their lives and who gave so freely of their knowledge and time, and I am proud and happy to have known them.

Another welcome visitor was the lady who ran the mobile health clinic. Every month or so, she and her African nurse would visit the farms in the district, and the staff would congregate and be inspected one by one. New babies would be weighed and the toddlers would be injected against measles, mumps and whooping cough; young nubile girls were issued with birth control pills and the hormonally over-active young men were handed packs of condoms with strict instructions to use them. Everyone received a stern lecture on the dangers of Aids and then it was time for the farmer’s wife to issue a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits to the nursing staff and be entertained with the gossip from the surrounding area.

We learned very quickly that if one was in receipt of news, then one was expected to provide a certain amount to be carried forth to the next port of call. I came up with the clever notion of having batches of photos of my mothers' garden in England ready for viewing, and her horticultural prowess became a safe topic of conversation, which turned ‘Sister Marie’s’ attention away from the more enthusiastic grilling concerning our past, present and future.

We enjoyed the visits paid to us by guests who had come to see the tribal art collection. It became known in the district that the museum was now open and quite often a phone call would announce the imminent arrival of someone being brought out to view the pieces. For me it was an occasion to get out the best china and whip up a batch of scones, and invariably the visit would develop into a scramble up the Bulklip rock to see the Bushman paintings and then a hike up to the top of ‘Table Mountain’ to see the view.

This particular peak on the farm had gained its’ name from the battered wooden cable drum that we had hauled up there. We set it up and surrounded it with four wooden tree stumps, and from that comfortable viewpoint, we could relax with a chilled bottle of wine and watch the day sink into evening. Alternatively, we could race up there and see from which direction the smoke was coming from in the event of a veldt fire, or by using binoculars, spot a group of young calves that had decided to take themselves off on an extra curricular outing.

It didn’t matter in which direction you faced, there was a magnificent view laid out. To the north-west one mountain in particular stood out. During the mid 1800’s at the time of King Moshoeshoe the founding father of Lesotho, while the struggle for land went on between white settlers and black wandering tribes, it was up into the fastness of Vegkop mountain that a rebel chief led his band of stock thieves and a vast number of looted animals. Flat on top with plenty of dew ponds and room for habitation, the mountain was virtually impenetrable except by means of a steep climb up through a gap in the rock face that surrounded the mountain like a stone necklace.

Early one winters morning, a commando of local soldiers and farmers had crept up the lower slopes under cover of darkness, and as the sun tipped the upper reaches, they managed to fight their way up on to the top. Panic spread among the tribesmen now trapped but their resident witch-doctor had a plan. Assuring them that the mixture with which he had daubed them would make them not only bullet proof, but would give them the ability to fly, he encouraged them to fling themselves over the edge, and this a great number did. Needless to say, whatever mixture he had used was not strong enough, and the broken bodies of many of them lay on the rocks below. Sadly the records show that no prisoners were taken that day despite the presence of a large number of women and children, but a huge number of cattle, sheep and horses were reclaimed and driven back down the mountain.

Later on at the turn of the century, Vegkop was used as a rallying point when the Boer commandos gathered, prior to their big push to try and force the British back to the Cape. However, the action was unsuccessful, largely due to the fact that so many farmers had to leave the Boer ranks in order to return to their farms in the district that were now being razed to the ground during the scorched earth policy. Returning to the agony of dead and dying animals and barns ablaze, they would find that their women folk and children had been rounded up and taken to the internment camps in Bloemfontein and Thaba Nchu, where so many of them were to die from malnutrition and sickness.

They were unhappy times for this part of the world, and it was small wonder that the few English that had settled there were looked upon as ‘Uitlanders’ (foreigners) despite the number of years that they had wrestled with the elements alongside their Afrikaans neighbours. Another interesting geographic phenomena that we could see clearly from ‘Table Mountain’ was a long narrow fault line running from the base of our farm away into the distance towards Kimberley. ‘It’s a diamond pipe’ we were always told, but sadly, although there had proved to be a wealth of stones at the Kimberley end, we never saw so much as a glint at our end. I think we had more chance of uncovering the pot of gold at the base of the rainbow that so often arched over the Bulklip rock.

Chapter 8. Welcome guests and Christmas gifts

Friends and relations with Bokkie and his best friend Klippie

Visitors were always welcome at Bulklip. Because we lived twenty kilometres from the nearest town, and five kilometres away from our nearest neighbours, they were not something that we were over-burdened with, and so when they appeared, either by accident or by intent, they were usually very welcome. Of course there were those odd occasions when the prospect of a long Sunday afternoon siesta was regretfully turned into a slightly bleary-eyed presentation of tea and scones while all the time trying to give an impression of huge interest in the gossip of the day. We usually had a five minute warning of an imminent invasion. Mr Dumpy the Weimeraner, who was the largest and who looked the fiercest of the three dogs, was usually the last to bark, and on several occasions, was the first to flee into his kennel lest the arrivals were impervious to his best efforts to scare them off.

However, with his sleek grey coat and yellow eyes and not inconsiderable height, he could present a fairly scary sight if he was feeling brave and giving of his best. Farm labourers who came with their employer for whatever reason, made certain that they didn't leave a careless digit or a gum-booted foot hanging over the side of the truck for him to latch on to. He reacted to fear of any sort with joyous barking and leaping about, but if anyone looked him squarely in the eye and told him to shove off, he would take it in good heart and go and lie on the veranda and wait for the next bit of entertainment to start.

It was usually little Muffy who started up the barking . I always thought that the Maltese Poodle must be the national Free State dog as just about everyone had one. Tucked up incongruously inside the leather jacket of some hefty Afrikaaner farmer or peeping out of a basket hung over the arm of some well upholstered housewife, they really were a dime a dozen. You could be certain that if Muffy sat bolt upright on the front lawn with her head cocked to one side, within a minute you would see the dust of a vehicle coming over the distant hill. Klip the sheepdog would then swing into action and would race down to the front gate to give his welcome speech, more often than not accompanied by Bokkie and Noodle the sheep running along at his side.

‘Wow, guard sheep, you could make a fortune’ chuckled one visiting farmer. He wasn’t chuckling quite so loudly when Noodle mounted him in the cattle crush and proceeded to show him just who was the man around town.

Visitors came in all shapes and sizes and at all times of the day, but seldom during the night. A vehicle on the move at night was as suspect as the telephone ringing after 9.30. It usually meant that something untoward was taking place and could give rise to a few nervous palpitations until the matter was resolved. If the party line rang late at night, we could be certain that, even if it hadn't rung for us, that there would be news of some problem by the next morning. Family dramas, illness and fires were the most usual reasons, but with the increase in attacks on farmers, a late night ring was a most unwelcome sound.

On one occasions, our most welcome night-time visitors came in the shape of two dear friends who lived down in Zastron. Normally they would pay us a visit on a sunny Sunday lunchtime, when we would round up the gang, get the barbeque fired up and the croquet hoops set out. However, on this occasion they had heard that a series of ferocious veldt fires were sweeping through the area and from where they lived in town, it looked as though one was headed straight for us. Unable to reach us by telephone, they had nobly driven out to the farm to warn us. The four of us sat on the veranda, each nursing a glass of wine which we drank with one hand cupped over the top to keep the ash from flying in, and we watched and waited as the fire swung this way and that across the neighbouring farm. At one stage, the road to the farm was closed off with flames leaping across it, and the departure of our friends was delayed. I began to wonder if I'd have enough clean sheets to make up the guest beds, but eventually the moonlight began to filter through the billowing clouds of smoke, and the line of fire bent away from our farm and turned its malevolent attention to the slopes of the nearby mountain range. That was a night when a problem shared was a problem halved. It is all too easy to become so terrified and confused that the wrong decisions are made which can result in far greater harm, and to have them with us that evening gave us strength and sanity.

It was these same stalwart friends who agreed to come and spend Christmas Day on the farm one year on the understanding that Christmas lunch be served anywhere but within sight of the farm buildings. They had nothing against the farmhouse and gardens, but they just felt that it would stretch our imagination a little if we were to think up a different venue.

For a hot day in the middle of December, there was no better place than down in the Milagro. Alongside the field where we had made our early attempts at bean growing there stood an elegant driveway of trees. Presumably in years gone by, this avenue had been the original access road to the farm, but all that was left was a rather overgrown but still clearly demarcated double row of oak trees that formed a shady archway. The grass that grew underneath these trees was always kept trimmed and neat by the sheep that occasionally grazed there, and the effect was that of a delightfully cool sylvan setting.

‘You must come dressed from the turn of the Century, and we mean the last one’ we told them

and played the ball neatly back into their court.

Loading up our farmhouse kitchen table and the two long benches, we carted them down to Milagro and set them up. The table was rather low due to the fact that it had come from the canteen belonging to the French company which John had previously worked with in Lesotho. The Site leader was somewhat vertically challenged but suffered from Napoleonic tendencies, so in order to appear to stand tall and be in control of the situation when he and his cohorts gathered around for meetings, he had the legs shortened on the table. The fact that the rest of the team were resting their collective chins on the surface didn’t seem to faze him one iota, and we counteracted the problem by keeping it on four bricks.

Into the picnic basket went my favourite lunchtime specialty of a de-boned chicken which had been stuffed with a delicious mixture of fresh breadcrumbs, onions, garlic, French herbs and olives, then roasted, cooled and carved into slices before being put back together again to appear whole. Alongside that went our home grown salad, cocktail tomatoes still warm from the sun, chilled slices of cucumber sprinkled with olive oil and parsley and our freshly dug baby potatoes dotted with butter. A large tin of home made mince pies and a jug of farm cream collected from the neighbour when we dropped off their parcels that morning, plus the efficient cool box which kept the variety of white and rosé wines chilled to perfection made up the cargo, and portable Christmas lunch was ready.

Everyone had made a great effort and outfits were splendid. John had found an ancient pair of dungarees and chopping the legs off mid-calf, he had left his farmers suntan to do the job of an undershirt, Tying a colourful bandana around his neck and adding a battered straw hat, he looked the perfect French peasant from the turn of the century. This pastoral image was completed by an ancient sheep crook and his companion. Noodle the orphan lamb had been sent a length of Scottish tartan ribbon by my mother in England. All the dogs had been given new collars for Christmas and she felt that Noodle shouldn't be left out. With a bow under his chin, he looked like something straight off a shortbread tin and he was thrilled to be included in the festivities. Thankfully he couldn't understand the rather pointed remarks made by some about his proximity to the barbeque, and he romped with the children and had a great time.

Kathy had turned up in her wedding dress which had been first worn ten years before, prior to the birth of her five children. With a big picture hat atop her blonde hair and her tanned shoulders well and truly exposed by the dipping cut of the dress, she looked for all the world like something out of a French impressionist painting, that was until she hiked up her skirts to play cricket with her sons out in the field and exposed a pair of trainers and some Bart Simpson socks. Mike had arrived looking like a refugee from an English beach holiday with his trousers rolled up to half mast, his tie threaded through his belt loops and a handkerchief tied in four knots around his head. All he needed was a copy of the Daily Express and four pen’orth of chips wrapped in newspaper and you could have lost him at Skegness. I had opted for a long loose cotton skirt with a peasant top and a big straw hat and had to demure when it was pointed out that a haystack was the only thing missing for the requisite roll in the hay!

What a successful Christmas lunch. No ceremony, no Queen's speech, no telephone calls and no uninvited visitors. The children chased around playing hide and seek and collecting feathers, stones and wild flowers, and while the upper middle-aged folks collapsed on blankets under the trees, the lower middle aged gang sat around the shortened table filling and re-filling our glasses and telling tales of the best and the worst Christmases that we had known.
Mike had spent one in the Antarctic and had put his huge beard to good use by doing duty as Father Christmas complete with snow and sled. I had spent one Christmas day under a stranded Landcruiser trying to stay out of the baking sun while dining off tins of corned beef and drinking hot beer but it was still a marvellous day. John had been groaningly overfed in the South of France, in Liberia and in Nigeria. It seemed that wherever the French congregated, the smoked oysters and marron glacé that went to make up the Christmas feast couldn't be far behind. Lesley had managed to sort out warring Cornish factions, got them all back from church and settled down for lunch, fed the five thousand and still managed to listen to the Queens speech, but then she was in training having done it in England, South Africa, Malawi and Lesotho. Rob and Kathy had enjoyed a Christmas totally cut off from civilization at their trading station in Lesotho with only the sounds of carols being sung in Sesotho drifting down from the mountain village and cries of ‘Give us Pom Pom’ coming over the hedge from passing herdboys.

My children remembered camping out in the mountains and waking up to find decorations and tinsel wound round the guy ropes of their tent and a pillow-case full of presents at the foot of their sleeping bags. They could recall the sound of the herdboys high in the mist on the mountain-sides calling out ‘Christmas, Christmas’ and the increasing heat of the sun as it melted away the morning haze. I had a vague recollection of sitting in a rock pool with a silver wine bag on my head, but thought it best to let the memory slide gracefully away. We had each come a long way to be at Bulklip that day, and we all thought of our families scattered around the world, and just wished that for one magic moment, we could have them with us under the oak trees down in the Milagro.

Chapter 7. Paté and Peach Champagne

Looking across Montagu dam towards the farm at dawn

We always seemed to be hungry and dieting was something that we read about in magazines and that other people did. Food always tasted so good on the farm and I had a shelf that groaned under the weight of a variety of cook books. Food for every mood, every whim, every palate. We could wine and dine vegetarians, satisfy the carnivores, and occasionally treat the refined palate of the visiting French guests that occasionally graced our table. I even learned to conquer that great gastronomic feat, the croissant. Yes, we could sit on the stoep in the Sunday morning sunshine and drink real coffee and eat fresh croissants. Not bad for the back of the Free State.

It took many weeks and much reading and re-reading of the recipe, but slowly I learned that patience and cool conditions were the answer and eventually we were rewarded with crisp golden crescent shaped delicacies with air pockets a- plenty for the butter to drip through and for the strawberry jam to nestle in. Even John, who, being French was an expert on the perfect croissant which he always maintained were served at the Lyon Station restaurant, decreed that my croissants passed muster and all thoughts of baking and selling them for profit dwindled as we devoured batch after batch.

On one occasion, I was proudly presented with an entire pigs head.

‘Won't you make me some brawn’ was the parting shot as the giver of this somewhat unwanted gift left at a run. Back to the recipe books and the pig eyed me somewhat stonily from the kitchen table as I rummaged through my dog eared pages.

"Boil the head in a large saucepan having soaked it overnight in a salt solution."

Trying to keep images of John the Baptist at bay, I approached the malevolent looking object and gingerly lowered it into the biggest stew pan that I had. However, luck was not with me and both ears and snout stubbornly projected out over the sides like some latter day Kilroy. I placed my hand firmly on its hairy forehead and gave it a slight push, but was rewarded with a rush of air down the nostrils which sounded suspiciously as though it was arguing my best efforts to convert it into a much sought after delicacy.

There was nothing for it but to cut the head in two and at this point, I chickened out whilst John, my partner in gastronomic crime did sterling work with a pruning saw. For those of you who are of a delicate nature, I suggest you turn to the following page, but for those made of sterner stuff, believe me that the next few hours were a mixture of delicious smells, sticky fat, small bits of gristle and bone, and eyeballs that seemed to keep on turning up in the mixture. Finally however, the brawn was ready and we were rewarded the following day by two loaf tins filled to the brim with a firm shining delicious tasting Paté de Tête which sliced in the most obliging way and was accompanied by crisp freshly baked bread and home grown green salad. To my knowledge, no-one was confronted with those two glaring eyeballs, and despite being told otherwise, I firmly left the ears and the snout out and kept quiet about it. After all, a cook is allowed a few privileges of her own.

By now, people were starting to give me cook books for Christmas and birthday gifts, and I was determined to venture into unknown pastures. For years I had been spoiled by the services of an excellent if somewhat plain cook but now that we were going it alone, I was free to experiment to my hearts content. A holiday in Provence awakened my sense of purpose and wondrous cook books containing mouth watering pictures of both countryside and food covered the kitchen table. Tenderly I nurtured the small cocktail tomatoes, mange tout, tender new beans and mouth watering little courgettes that came from the vegetable garden. Thanks to John's ingenuity in maintaining both drip and spray irrigation, the little water that we could spare was used to great effect on our small patch and the rewards were tremendous.

On one occasion, we had a visit from an august assembly of Professors and men of books and learning, who had come to inspect not only the Bushman paintings and the strange outcrop of rock that gave the farm its name, but also to wonder at the extensive collection of West African artifacts that arrived at the farm when John had finally unpacked and settled for good. John’s museum had became one of the local places of interest to visit. He had spent many of his earlier years in Liberia, and during that time, he had begun a collection of masks and statues and ancient carvings.

When I first saw them, I was horrified at the gruesome countenance on some of the figures, but once I had begun to photograph and catalogue the pieces and do some in-depth research on them, I discovered a fascinating world of strange beliefs. Since our intentions to use the cool room for large numbers of slaughtered animals seemed to have fallen short of the mark, John decided to turn the room into a museum. I was banned from the site and I left him to create to his heart’s content, until a few weeks later he summoned me to inspect his work. It was already late in the evening and the light had all but gone. Approaching the cool room, I could hear the faint sound of African drums and as he opened the door, wisps of smoke escaped, curling around the lamp that was suspended above the door.

‘After you’ he offered, but there was no way that I was going in first.
‘No it’s OK, you lead the way’ I said, backing away from the half open door.

In we went, and the effect was tremendous. John had found all sorts of bits of wind-twisted wood, feathers, odd pieces of cloth and stones, and in amongst all this he had positioned the masks and the artefacts. Lighting produced the eerie effect that some of them were actually looking at us through reddened eyes, and all the while the insistent drumming wove its spell around the room. I had handled these pieces for a few months out in the cold clear light of day, but here they seemed to take on a power of their own and I could begin to understand something of the grip that they exerted over the people who believed in them.

We had a lot of visitors who came out to the farm to see the collection, some of whom had travelled considerable distances, and it was a privilege to be able to display so many pieces that would have been lost forever in the troubles that beset Liberia in later years. Many of the pieces now reside in museums in South Africa or in private collections, but I still have my beautiful miniature passport mask and the handsome antelope Chi wara horns. Tucked away safely is the Kissi stone that dates back thousands of years and our little Ibeji twins still act as wonderful conversation pieces.

Having allowed our guests to first have a good scramble over the rock accompanied by Bokkie and assorted dogs, and then to gaze in fascination at the collection of strange masks and statues, I brought them in out of the cold to gather round our large farmhouse kitchen table. A large tureen of home made vegetable soup and fresh bread started off the proceedings, followed by pates, brawn, home -cured ham, and minted lamb. For the vegetarians, there were quiche made from the great cep mushrooms which we found in fairy rings on the farm, and for everyone, there was a large dish of ratatouille and new potatoes covered with parsley, gleaming under a coating of melted butter. Home made cheese cakes and farm cream followed and we rounded out the meal with Roquefort cheese flown in from France accompanied by excellent vintage red wine. I did not envy them the two hour drive back to Bloemfontein, knowing that all the time they were on the road, we were gently snoring off the effects of lunch under a duck-down duvet. The washing up was tomorrows' problem and we could eat green beans and drink water for the ensuing week.

With the enthusiasm of baking, bottling and conserving everything that nature in its generosity gave us, I discovered by mistake that I could turn ordinary peaches into a very acceptable peach champagne. It seemed to go into the bottle in a very calm unexciting fashion, but by the time the corks were firmly in place and the bottle laid down to rest, a distinct fizz could be seen developing. One had to treat the bottles with great respect and caution before opening them but the contents were usually clear and sparkling if somewhat inclined to give the drinker a rather heavy head the following morning.

One day, we were sitting peacefully on the stoep enjoying the winter sunshine and congratulating ourselves that the recent and unpleasant security problems that had beset some of the farmers in the Northern areas of the country didn't seem to affect us, when we were jerked to our feet by sounds of gunfire. A loud report was followed by two further bangs. My first thoughts were ‘Where are the gunsafe keys and why don’t the dogs bark?’ The sound was coming from behind the kitchen and I thought we would still have time to run for cover behind the sheds. However, John proved to be made of sterner stuff and insisted on discovering the cause of the noise. The cool room door stood ajar and as he passed, my gallant protector came under immediate fire. A cork shot past him followed by a sticky spray of peach champagne and on closer inspection, he found the floor of the cool room was covered in broken glass, corks and sticky liquid. Gladly we realised that we were not to become statistics in the recent crime wave, but sadly bad farewell to the remains of the Peach Champagne.