The Bulklip Farm garden when we first saw itWe hadn’t been on the farm all that long when I had to crank the handle on the old wall mounted telephone and ask the operator to put me through to the technician.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ she asked, fascinated as always by the doings of the strange couple who had arrived in the district.
There was nothing for it but to confess and tell her that there was a lamb on the line.
‘Do you wish to phone Mr. Lamb?’ asked our ever-helpful operator.
‘No’ I replied, ‘I have to report a lamb on the line, could you send the technician’.
‘Is this some sort of interference that you are experiencing on the line Madam?’
‘Well yes, I suppose so. We have a dead animal draped over the telephone wires’.
A somewhat heavy silence followed this and she ventured ‘Are you telling me that you have a real lamb on the 38 line?’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact we do’.
‘No’ I replied, ‘I have to report a lamb on the line, could you send the technician’.
‘Is this some sort of interference that you are experiencing on the line Madam?’
‘Well yes, I suppose so. We have a dead animal draped over the telephone wires’.
A somewhat heavy silence followed this and she ventured ‘Are you telling me that you have a real lamb on the 38 line?’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact we do’.
The latest addition to the Free State farming fraternity had struck again. We had a newborn, sickly lamb and rather than take a risk on any chance he had of survival, John and I tenderly scooped up the little scrap and raced off to our nearest farming neighbour to get his advice. Unhappily, the little fellow did not survive the trip and died before we got there. There was no point in bringing the carcass back for the dogs to get hold of, and we felt that the best plan was to hurl it into the thick undergrowth and let Mother Nature gather it to her bosom once more. However, the gentle hurl became something of a windmill action, and before I knew it, the corpse was sailing through the air and coming to land across the party line.
How come, you may ask, that instead of running a clothing agency and operating the accounting side of a large foreign construction company respectively, we were standing here, unwed, unsure of each other and of ourselves, and poking at a dead sheep on a live telephone line?
There is a tree that grows on the very pinnacle of a conical hill near to the road that runs from Zastron to Sterkspruit. For years it has been a landmark and from a distance we had often remarked on how and why it would grow there with little or no access to water apart from very intermittent rainfall. Stories about the tree abounded. There was a much embroidered tale told of how the tree was planted to protect two young lovers; real Romeo and Juliet stuff. Their families farmed neighbouring properties, but over the course of time, enmity had sprung up and the son and daughter of the opposing factions were forbidden to have anything to do with each other. However, life being what it is, they fell in love, and discovered that the safest place to meet was on the boundary fence of the two farms, which was marked by this high lonely peak.
Whether they planted the seed of the tree or nourished a sapling that they found growing there, I know not, but the tree flourished in these strange circumstances and the story goes that only love could make a tree grow under such harsh conditions. Be that as it may, I think the real story is that an old dear who used to travel from one farm to the other to meet her distant relations, planted the tree as a shady respite from the days' journey, but personally I prefer the first story. The only sad postscript is that the tree failed to survive the cruel drought of recent years, and having reached its' 99th year, it is now left standing with its dead arms reaching up waiting for the next large bolt of lightening to strike it. But when the piece of bark where we carved our initials fell off, we saved it among our collection of strange feathers, dried flowers and grasses, in memory of those who had gone before us, and who, like us, had loved each other beneath its dappled shade.
Whether they planted the seed of the tree or nourished a sapling that they found growing there, I know not, but the tree flourished in these strange circumstances and the story goes that only love could make a tree grow under such harsh conditions. Be that as it may, I think the real story is that an old dear who used to travel from one farm to the other to meet her distant relations, planted the tree as a shady respite from the days' journey, but personally I prefer the first story. The only sad postscript is that the tree failed to survive the cruel drought of recent years, and having reached its' 99th year, it is now left standing with its dead arms reaching up waiting for the next large bolt of lightening to strike it. But when the piece of bark where we carved our initials fell off, we saved it among our collection of strange feathers, dried flowers and grasses, in memory of those who had gone before us, and who, like us, had loved each other beneath its dappled shade.
‘But what has the tree got to do with anything?’ you may ask.
We hoped that it would prove to be the secret of lasting happiness and not a day went by when I wouldn’t look up at the hillside with affection.
One Sunday, while sitting at a nearby lake where we would spend delightful weekends water skiing and windsurfing, we were speculating about what type of tree was perched on that distant hilltop, and finally curiosity got the better of us, and we went to explore. A difficult drive up an old track found us at the base of the hill, and a hot scramble in the early summer sun gave us access to the summit. The tree turned out to be an old gnarled gum tree, its limbs twisted and turned in the prevailing winds, its roots forcing their way down amid piles of loose boulders. The view from the top of the hill was spectacular; the Maluti mountains of Lesotho lay spread out to the North, the peaks of the North Eastern Cape mountains rose along the skyline to the East and the great Free State plains spread away to the South and West.
Having enjoyed the view, we noticed that nestling down in the immediate valley which spread away from the hilltop, there lay a seemingly deserted homestead. Corrugated iron roofs no longer glinted in the sun, but lay heavy under the tarnish of rust. Large trees obscured what appeared to be a rock and rubble filled garden, and the gates at the entrance hung drunkenly on their hinges. It was time for another spot of exploration and we found a track that led to the farm. We were unsurprised to find that there was no sign of habitation and windows and doors stood open in order to admit a procession of pigeons, sheep and cattle who obviously wintered in the shelter of the old houses. Evidence of their occupation was great both inside and outside the dwellings where a carpet of dried manure lay a foot thick. Two buildings made up the living area of the homestead, one a small cottage with what had been large glass windows facing north and the other, an elongated house full of broken floorboards and spiders. The soft humming of bees from the back room told us that we were the interlopers, and having given the place the once over, we withdrew.
But the magic of the place caught at our sleeves and made us pause at the front gate and look back. The afternoon sun slanted across the garden softening the lines of the house and throwing the worst of the dirty paint and piles of rubbish into shadow so that they became less predominant. It was as though we were looking at an elderly woman who, once beautiful in her youth, was suddenly caught in the soft light of evening, her beauty so long hidden becoming evident under the lines and ravages of time. We closed the gate behind us feeling somewhat proprietary about our find and drove away in deep thought. It was only as he closed the last of the farm gates leading to the property that, in shutting the gate, John realised that he had closed himself in on the farm side - almost unthinkingly creating an image of ownership.
As we drove back across the border to Lesotho, we wove dreams of how life could be if we were to live in such a place. Was it feasible that we could give up everything that had gone before and which represented a secure lifestyle, and leave it to come to this ramshackle unknown destination. Our relationship was in its early stages and we both faced the collapse of our previous marriages. John’s project in Lesotho was drawing to a close and it was being suggested that his Company planned to offer him further work in Nigeria. He had already spent seven years there and was loath to return, but the prospect of returning to France was not filling him with delight either. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that my time in Lesotho was coming to an end, and with my children reaching adulthood, the day was fast approaching when I would have to strike out on my own once more and create a new life.
Having enjoyed the view, we noticed that nestling down in the immediate valley which spread away from the hilltop, there lay a seemingly deserted homestead. Corrugated iron roofs no longer glinted in the sun, but lay heavy under the tarnish of rust. Large trees obscured what appeared to be a rock and rubble filled garden, and the gates at the entrance hung drunkenly on their hinges. It was time for another spot of exploration and we found a track that led to the farm. We were unsurprised to find that there was no sign of habitation and windows and doors stood open in order to admit a procession of pigeons, sheep and cattle who obviously wintered in the shelter of the old houses. Evidence of their occupation was great both inside and outside the dwellings where a carpet of dried manure lay a foot thick. Two buildings made up the living area of the homestead, one a small cottage with what had been large glass windows facing north and the other, an elongated house full of broken floorboards and spiders. The soft humming of bees from the back room told us that we were the interlopers, and having given the place the once over, we withdrew.
But the magic of the place caught at our sleeves and made us pause at the front gate and look back. The afternoon sun slanted across the garden softening the lines of the house and throwing the worst of the dirty paint and piles of rubbish into shadow so that they became less predominant. It was as though we were looking at an elderly woman who, once beautiful in her youth, was suddenly caught in the soft light of evening, her beauty so long hidden becoming evident under the lines and ravages of time. We closed the gate behind us feeling somewhat proprietary about our find and drove away in deep thought. It was only as he closed the last of the farm gates leading to the property that, in shutting the gate, John realised that he had closed himself in on the farm side - almost unthinkingly creating an image of ownership.
As we drove back across the border to Lesotho, we wove dreams of how life could be if we were to live in such a place. Was it feasible that we could give up everything that had gone before and which represented a secure lifestyle, and leave it to come to this ramshackle unknown destination. Our relationship was in its early stages and we both faced the collapse of our previous marriages. John’s project in Lesotho was drawing to a close and it was being suggested that his Company planned to offer him further work in Nigeria. He had already spent seven years there and was loath to return, but the prospect of returning to France was not filling him with delight either. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that my time in Lesotho was coming to an end, and with my children reaching adulthood, the day was fast approaching when I would have to strike out on my own once more and create a new life.
All that week, the farm reached out its tentacles to us and we were unwilling to let the dream go. The following weekend, we returned to see if the image had been merely in our imagination or was in fact a reality. There lay the farm, nestling in the hollow where it had been carefully built to avoid the brunt of the fierce biting cold of the south winds. The great monolith of rock that swelled out of the nearby hillside cast its morning shadow down towards the garden as if standing over it in some kind of protective blessing, and the day lay ahead of us, leaving us free to explore and to dream once again of living here.
This time we turned our backs on the layers of sheep manure that piled up in what had been the living room, ignored the rotting planks in the dining room, the frenetic buzz of bees from the back bedroom and the army of spiders that inhabited the old blackened storeroom. It was time to visit the great rock and to see what treasures lay under its overhanging sides. We were rewarded with the discovery of small but beautiful Bushmen paintings, and found pieces of flint obviously used by roaming tribes in years gone by. The deep dew ponds held cool clear water which reflected the blue of the sky above, and once again, the view amazed us. From here we could look down on the farm buildings knowing that should we venture into this undertaking, the work load would be enormous but the rewards as great. For what seemed hours, we lay with our backs against the sun warmed rocks, ate our bread and cheese, drank our wine and daydreamed. The two or three hectares of arable land lay below us, aching for the feel of the plough and the planting of seed. The long grasses of the grazing camps rippled in the light breeze, and we imagined our herds of cattle and sheep contentedly filling their bellies. It was there for the taking, but where to begin; how to find out whether it was abandoned, owned or just left to lie fallow.
No comments:
Post a Comment