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.