Chapter 4 In Vino Veritas

My mother with Bokkie - a not altogether welcome addition to her daily walk

There was only so much fruit that we could sell during the annual glut, and I realised that the baskets of produce that were not only being plucked from our trees but also delivered to our door by the neighbours, were going to be sadly wasted unless I took action. The gift of a wine making kit at Christmas had me all fired up to experiment, and into the bubbling buckets went mulches of peaches, pears and nectarines, combined with such chemicals as would hopefully turn the contents into vintage wines of such fineness and clarity and bouquet as to solve our farm Co-operative account problems in one go. Weeks past as I thrust the hydrometer into the seething mass and tried to translate the readings. The gasses escaping from the tubes and bubblers led me to believe that I had my feet on the right path, but "in vino veritas".

In time, the mysterious racking off began. The day that we attempted this happened to coincide with the first country-wide referendum to be taken during the dismantling of apartheid. As each vote came in reflecting the willingness of yet another region of South Africa to take the brave step into the unknown and put the sad bad days behind them, we felt it necessary to raise our glasses in a toast, and between us we felt as though we were floating on the winds of political change. There was always a bit extra that wouldn't fit into the bottle and which found its way into a glass and John and I found increasingly that one glass tasted like two and the third had us snoring gently out on the stoep as we learned to call the deep shady veranda. Strict instructions in the manual told us to let it mature for at least a year. Like some of the early Rhodesian wines, "Not a drop was drunk until it was four hours old" and I have to confess that the bulk of it was drunk before the corks even had a chance to soak and swell. For a while our trips to the loo increased and visits to the bottle store decreased and there were times when we farmed with a somewhat glazed expression and eventually it was decreed that home made wine should only be drunk at lunchtime on Sunday when the rest of the day could be spent supine sleeping off the effects.

By now we were ready to receive our first official guests. The front wall of the old kitchen store had been knocked out and new French Windows installed, creating what we call "The Breakfast Room". To start the day here savouring freshly baked bread rolls, home made marmalade and steaming hot coffee while the sunshine filtered in through the ivy which draped the veranda was very pleasant. The dogs lay outside soaking up the early warmth, waiting in hope for the last crust to be tossed out of the open doorway, while plans were laid for the day's duties. A large window had been installed in the kitchen as I felt it my right to have a decent view while washing up, and there were great plans afoot for a rose garden and bird table outside that particular window which would considerably enhance the prospect of scouring greasy frying pans and pots. The bathroom was now useable with running water both hot and cold and we were even the proud possessors of a six foot long bath tub . A shower had been installed and judging by the dirt attached to the noble fellow who had spent a hot day up in the roof installing the electrical systems it was high on the list of jobs requiring urgent attention.

We had managed to move out of the small cottage where we had camped while the main house took shape and became habitable, and we were ready to show the farm in its new light. Invitations were issued and guests arrived bearing gifts ranging from kitchen utensils to a farm truck loaded with canna cuttings. Surprise and praise greeted our efforts and a happy time was spent enjoying the warmth of a summer's evening out on the stoep, while overhead the canopy of stars glistenened and the full moon appeared from behind the great rock to throw its silvered light over the garden.

Supper that evening consisted of four large legs of mutton that had been cut into pieces, and a assortment of fresh vegetables, French herbs and thick wine stock. All this had been placed in an enormous black cooking pot which stood like some great black-bellied toad crouching over a bed of coals, and the steam that escaped told of the delectable promises within. The meal was rounded out by great wheels of "Pot Bread" baked by our neighbour, and large slices of milk tart provided by the local farm stall. Why does everything taste so much better out of doors? The dogs eyed the cooking pot the following morning somewhat dolefully but there was hardly enough left to pour over their pellets for breakfast.

One thing that we became increasingly aware of was that the absence of rain. High temperatures and hot dry winds scoured at the garden and we soldiered on bearing buckets of water to try and keep our new plants going. There was a reservoir up behind the house and this was fed from the windmill some way off. We seemed to spend an awful lot of time digging up lengths of pipe and fixing endless leaks, and the most worrying job was lifting the hefty manhole cover on top of the tank and peering into the depths to see what reserves we still had.

John was not to be beaten however, and set about installing a slow drip irrigation system in the newly established vegetable garden and to our delight, a crop of beans and peas turned out to be record breaking. Packets of them disappeared into the deep freeze and our pride in our efforts knew no bounds. It was the beginning of the dream to be self sufficient here on the farm. Would there come a day when we could produce our own meat, milk, bread and vegetables? If only we had the recipe for gin! The coffee table in the lounge groaned under the weight of what became known as "R.T.F.M's" Whenever there was a problem ranging from electricity, plumbing, repairing the roof, installing the new fireplace, destroying the greenfly, mulching the roses and generally keeping the systems going, the answer was to be found somewhere on the coffee table. When the cry went up "How on earth do you.….?" the reply would come back
"R.T.F.M." (Read the flipping manual")!

It was around this time that "Bokkie" made her first appearance. Driving back from town, I realised that tripping along behind the truck was a delicate hornless and apparently homeless roe-buck. Thinking that it would lose interest and turn off into the veldt, I ignored it, but to my surprise, there it was when I drew into the garden. That day just happened to be Johns' birthday, and I proudly announced that I had brought him a gift. Bokkie had found a new home and a few local enquiries established that she had been orphaned at birth, dehorned, and then banished from the farm where she grew up, due to her rather unpleasant habit of buffeting small children. Since we had none of the latter, we decided that if she found us acceptable hosts, we would do nothing to deter her. And so it was that we could look out through the open doors of the Breakfast Room on a fine summers morning to see four dogs, two horses and now Bokkie enjoying the shade of the large trees in the garden, and on occasions, her head would be poking around the corner of the door with as much enthusiasm as her canine companions.

For a few years she was a great conversation piece but was the scourge of ladies who visited wearing voluminous skirts. She just loved to get her head entangled in all that flapping cloth much to the concern of the wearer, and when she couldn't find anyone to entertain her with their own apparel, she would stand next to the washing line with a look of ecstasy on her face while the sheets blew around her ears. She proved to be handy for anyone in training for the local rugby team as her great delight was to engage in head to head shoving sessions like some four legged scrumming machine, and her affection for Klippie the sheep dog was boundless. The two of them would race across the open veldt, first dog chasing buck, and then buck chasing dog . But Bokkie came to a mysterious and sudden end, A search of local farm huts rendered up a suspicious amount of fresh biltong - (dried strips of meat), and I hope that she gave them indigestion and blunted their teeth for she was a delight to have around and was sadly missed.

Throughout the years I had lived in Lesotho, I was never without a horse, but following a severe fall while engaging in the unlikely sport of tent-pegging, my riding career had come to an end. However having all that land meant that horses were going to be a natural addition to the menagerie that was slowly building up. At one stage there were eight of them, all belonging to our neighbouring farmer, but eventually we settled down to having just the two. Of these two, only one was truly ours and she represented the end of my love affair with Lesotho.

Lady Grey had been found by the stock theft control unit just inside the border of the country whilst I was still resident there. Stolen from a farm in the Free State, she had been beaten and abused and her injuries were so great that she had been left on the street to die. She no longer had the strength even to nibble at the grass verges or stumble to the water trough, and it was evident that she was going to be hit by a passing taxi before long. Having been cruelly hobbled with wire for several days while she was driven cross-country, her lower legs were now devoid of flesh, but our marvellous Vet from Zastron was not to be deterred. Packing the wounds with granulated sugar, he then bandaged them and having given her a massive injection of antibiotics, told us not to remove the dressings for at least two weeks. Once the maggot infested stinking bandages were taken off and replaced, we had to continue this pattern for the next few months as slowly and miraculously, the tissue began to reform and the skin covered the wounds. The itching and irritation must have been dreadful for her, and occasionally she would bite the bandages off and destroy weeks of healing as she removed the scabs, but we soldiered on, determined that she would regain her health. Slowly but surely she became more confident and she learned to associate the medical kit with its accompanying bag of carrots and apples, and would stand patiently as we re-dressed her wounds and salved her scars.

As evidence in a stock theft case, she had to remain at the behest of the Magistrate but in the meantime, a year of consistent care and medication had transformed her from a skeletal mass of sores and scabs into a fine well fed horse. At the moment when she was sufficiently recovered to have been of use, the Magistrate called for her to be presented at the courtroom as evidence, and on enquiring as to what her fate would be following her appearance, I was informed that she would be shot and eaten.

Time was of the essence, and a few swift phone calls and the usual greasing of palms had her into a horsebox and out of the country to the safety of Bulklip which we had recently purchased. As I unloaded her, I promised that she would never leave the safety of the farm and never again would she feel the weight of either a man or a whip across her back.

She settled in under the willow trees and was shortly joined by Charlie who was a retired pure-bred Arab horse who had been kindly donated by our neighbour. Such was the friendship that grew between these two that on the rare occasions when they were separated, Lady would stand by the gate with her head hanging down and a look of unbearable sadness in her eyes. On his return, Charlie would be met with much whickering and whinnying, as she rubbed her neck against his and whiffled in his ears in an expression of pure love.

All the time we were there, they come to the fence each morning and Lady would call out for her carrots, bread and apples. The scars will always encircle her legs where the wire cut into her and she will be forever wary of men, but she slowly learned that on Bulklip she was safe and loved and our reward was the sight of her and Charlie galloping side by side across the high fields like two teenagers let out of school for the day.

We had a variety of dogs on the farm. There was Mr Dumpy, my large grey Weimeraner who sported a pair of bright yellow eyes and who definitely instilled fear into the local farm workers. Quite honestly he was a bit of a wimp, but he had a heart of gold and would stand between me and any stranger and rumble deep in his throat. Word must have gone out because we never experienced a break-in or uninvited guest the whole time we were there. Then there was Klippie the sheep dog. He was actually an Australian Cattle Dog and would tend to push the sheep rather than round them up, but he was brilliant at ducking in between the cows and avoiding the horns and heels of the nastier ones. Klippie lived in awe of Mr Dumpy and would prostrate himself at his feet, and even put up with a severe roughing up if Dumpy thought he had overstepped some imaginary line.

Muffy was a little snowball of a dog. Being a Maltese Poodle, she was forever in need of a haircut to avoid the thistles and sticky grass becoming embedded in her fur and she often bore witness to my appalling hairdressing skills. We had rescued her from the rather over-enthusiastic attentions of the children who belonged to our African staff, and once shampooed and de-wormed, she was a most attractive and intelligent little character. In addition to this menagerie, there were also a selection of ducks, a turkey and a few geese that came and went, (usually via the oven I am sorry to add), and the two hundred or so chickens that gave us a bit of cash flow, but they certainly couldn’t be regarded in the same bracket as pets.