LAMBS LOVE AND LAUGHTER - The Book

Postscript to "Lambs Love and Laughter"

2008-08-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

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"

2008-08-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-25T11:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-25T07:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Chapter 6. Hellfire and Brimstone

2008-08-25T07:52:00.000-07:00

Bulklip Rock after which the farm was named

We progressed slowly for some considerable time undertaking most of the heavy work ourselves with assistance from two labourers who came to work on a casual basis. However, there came a time when it was just no longer possible to manage and we employed a married couple to give a hand. The standard of Jacob’s work was fairly good, but his ability to lay into his wife was too much to cope with, and after having seen her departing in a huff twice in one week, we decided that the best thing would be for her to set up home closer to her mother who seemed to have some control over the situation.

This couple were replaced some months later by Stephen and Angelina, and their three small sons, Joseph, Kolani and Patrick. They arrived in a truck that appeared to be held together with rope, laden with the contents of their previous home, and in no time they had rebuilt and enlarged the staff house allotted to them and they settled in for the foreseeable future.

Kolani aged six had obvious plans of earning his keep as the mechanic around the farm, and it became essential to remove the keys from all the vehicles lest he decided to either drive it or strip the engine. Patrick endeared himself to John by asking for "Pom Pom" which had originally derived from the French “Bon Bon”. He dearly loved to drive the wheelbarrow and was a cheerful little soul with an ever-ready grin that would light his face. Poor Angelina laboured endlessly for her household of menfolk, sorely missing a daughter with whom she could share the tasks, but at the end of a busy week, she must have had an excellent home brewed beer recipe, judging from the laughter and singing that could be heard coming from the staff quarters. They had a large plot of garden allocated to them and produced a steady supply of fresh vegetables, and their collection of broody hens kept them well supplied with both eggs and meat. Sadly their sojourn on the farm came to an end after nearly three years as the distance from the local farm school became too much for the stubby little legs of Patrick and Kolani, and they found employment nearer family and schooling. I missed the bright appearance of Angelina who wielded the Basotho grass broom and a duster with great effect and could bring a gleam to the old English silver that it never saw in its' previous history, and probably has not seen since!

It never occurred to me how conscious one becomes of the weather conditions when you farm. If the wind is blowing, there will be water lifted by the windmill; if it is a still calm day, you must check that the troughs haven’t run dry. If the sun burns down too strongly, young plants will perish and if the rain beats down too hard, seedlings are washed away and dongas (erosion furrows) created.

Farming seemed to revolve around the weather forecast, and this often came, not in weighty words from the Met Office reports on the TV but in creaking knees, the opinions of wise old men down in the town and wisps of cloud which appear over the ridge. People would tell me of flowers in their gardens which had not bloomed since the last big rains. I heard of birds that only sang prior to a downpour; I learned about cakes flopping because of falling barometric pressure and mostly I learned about drought.

Years before when growing up as a child in England, drought was a word that occurred in exciting books about far away places. In England it rained at least twice a week and normally spoiled something you had planned to do or soaked you on your bicycle on the way back from school. Now drought had become a very real enemy and it was tightening its grip not only on us, but on the whole of Southern Africa. We began to see the farm dam slowly ebbing away and the grass staying crisp and brown far longer at the end of winter. The fountains in the farm did not rise as strongly, trees shed their leaves sooner and day after day we awoke to clear blue skies and the promise of yet another hot dry day.

With no build-up of storm clouds to break the heat of a summers day and no grey winter rainfalls, month after month went by with no sign of rain. The water reserves on the farm became dangerously low and bathing was something that you did in a shallow puddle of water which was then carted out and thrown on the shrivelling rose bushes. A cleansing shower was anxiously timed by those awaiting their turn for a "spit and polish", and the idea of leaving a tap running while you cleaned your teeth was completely foreign.

In time, it became apparent that we were no longer going to be able to survive on the water lifted by the windmill, and so, hitching up a borrowed trailer which was loaded with a large empty tank and a pump, John and I would head for the Municipal dam some ten kilometres away. Here we would stand up to our thighs in brown muddy water and pray that this time the pump would work, the tanks wouldn't leak, the bungs had not been lost and that the vehicle would have the strength to drag the load back up the hill to the farm. On one heart-breaking occasion, we got the three thousand litres of precious water to the front gate of the farm whereupon one of the tanks burst and its contents spilled uselessly down the driveway. That evening, we sat with our heads in our hands and wondered what had ever made us think we could farm. But on we went, day after day, hauling sometimes three loads up for thirsty cattle, trying to keep man and animal alive on the dwindling supplies.

It was at the height of this battle that the very real danger of veldt (grass) fires arose. By now, the grazing on all the surrounding farms was tinder-dry and it only took a bolt of lightening from an errant cloud, or the casual stupidity of a farm worker who threw out a pan of hot ash into the long grass, to do untold damage. Great plumes of smoke rising from behind the hills of the farm and the urgent ringing of the party line, would tell us that once again it was time to load what little water we had, take as many wet sacks and branches as we could lay hands on, and set out to help with the large contingent of fire fighters that seemed to meet three times a week on varying farms.

It was comforting to see how, without the slightest hesitation, farmers would leave their beds in the middle of the night, or abandon their work during the day, and appear at any given time with a full compliment of staff and fire fighting equipment. Such was the ongoing danger that increasing numbers of farmers purchased state of the art fire fighting gear and water tankers mounted on trucks became a common sight. It was not uncommon to find that town-dwellers had also appeared to give a hand. More often than not, they were connected to the farms by family, or in the case of the Bank Managers, by large debt.

One night, the phone rang as we had been watching a distant blaze and we were informed that the wind had shifted and it was headed our way. One only knows true fear when everything that you have worked for is threatened by something over which you have no control. Taking the farm truck, John and I drove out into the smoky black wind blasted night and in desperation blew the hooter repeatedly, and called to our cattle somewhere out in the dark hillsides. On the advice of friends, we had performed this action since they were youngsters, always rewarding them with a few sheaves of lucerne but we had never tried it under these conditions. To our complete amazement, out of the smoke and the wind came our entire herd and we led them to safety on the previously burnt half of the farm.

It then remained to pack up what little there was of real value and place it in the concrete block cool room which had been hosed down to give it maximum protection and then we waited and watched as the flames came closer and the smoke billowed around the house. Whatever great power there is, decreed that we should be spared that night and the fire rampaged past the buildings and continued its deadly path on down the valley, killing at least one farm worker from a neighbouring farm, and burning terrified stock trapped in its path. We awoke the next morning, having slept fully clothed and ready to run, and looked at each others blackened faces and reddened eyes and went to inspect our scorched veldt wondering yet again why we ever thought we could cope with this new life.

Chapter 5. Noodle and Friends

2008-08-25T05:20:00.000-07:00

Becoming self sufficient - except we never learned how to make gin!

It was time for the serious side of farming to be approached and this we undertook with the purchase of some twenty head of young newly weaned heifer calves. John had travelled back to France to tie up the final loose ends and I was the one elected to go to the famous Green Weaner Sale over at New England in the Barkly East district.

Cattle breeding, especially of the Hereford strain, was first rate in this area, and with friends in the farming world to turn to for advice, I thought it a good place to find the youngsters that would form our breeding herd, Once again, it was the kindness and freely given knowledge of the farmers present that decided my selection, and in time our chosen weaners were duly delivered to the farm and I spent what seemed to be hours leaning on the gate gazing at them. The following morning found me leaning on the gate straining my eyes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of just one of our newly acquired cattle. Not a sign of a single animal was to be seen and I knew that stock theft had struck and our as yet unpaid for cattle were all gone. A frantic phone call to my long-suffering neighbour had him in fits of laughter.

‘Not gone’ he chuckled, ‘merely grazing on the hillside above my farm’.

With great relief I and two assistants rounded them up and bought them home and then spent the next few days strengthening fences and gates. John re-appeared from France with a marvellous pair of binoculars to help me in my search for missing stock and in time, these diminutive calves were to grow into beautiful adult cows, each one presenting us with healthy offspring every Spring.

We soon learned that if we were going to run a herd of cattle, there were a certain number of precautions that must be taken if we were to avoid such horrendous things as Contagious Abortion and the dreaded Black Quarter Disease. John was incredible when it came to fixing the windmill and keeping the generator running, but when it came to needles, he would turn a grey/green colour and sweat profusely. It soon fell to me to learn how to inoculate cattle and with the welcome addition of a head clamp to hold them steady while I aimed and fired, we could get through the whole herd in pretty quick time.

However, feeling ones way in the dark is not always the easiest thing, and we lost one cow through our own complete stupidity. "Learner fees" the Vet told us and tried to offer consolation by informing us that a distant neighbour had lost no less than ten cows that week. September we discovered is known as the killing month. The new shoots of green growth are up after the brown dry grass of winter, and the cattle rush headlong from outcrop to outcrop, using up valuable energy and not gaining enough in food to maintain their already somewhat weakened winter condition. If not checked and fed extra nutritives, the cow will sicken and die very quickly unless one is aware of what is happening. John and I paid our dues very sadly and went on to become wiser and more observant farmers.

We then decided to spread our wings and embarked on sheep farming on a very small scale. A friend had been getting rid of a group of elderly rams that had finished work and four of them found their way to the farm. One by one they continued their journey into the deep freeze, but one likely looking character was given a stay of execution and allowed to run with the eight ewes that had also been bought for slaughter. Possibly in the interests of avoiding the drive down to the town abattoir, he would insist on taking his newly acquired harem and disappearing for days at a time giving us much cause for concern in case the jackals that roamed the area had attacked them.

Having held off for nearly eight months and having seen no sign of lambs and very little of the ram and his ewes, we decided to send him on his way to join his brothers. The deed being done, we released the ewes back into the veldt where, two weeks later, they all began to give birth to a series of fine strong lambs, several of whom appeared as twins. The ram was firmly in the deep freeze and his progeny were leaping about the farm, a sharp lesson to us to invest in pregnancy testing!

His off-spring lived on Bulklip for many years and his successor was a fine ram called Nelson, having been purchased at the time of the first Elections. Nelson proved to be every bit as fertile as his predecessor and almost all of the ewes produced twins. In fact on his famous namesake's birthday, our only black ewe named Winnie, produced one black and one white lamb. A truly democratic birth!

It was during the early stages of our sheep experiences that we found an orphan lamb who had got itself tangled up in a wire fence while its mother lay dead a few metres away. Instead of wisely consigning him to the shed outside, I sat in the warm kitchen picking the scraps of dried after birth from the little woolly coat of this pathetic scrawny baby who curled up on my lap and bleated pitifully as I tried to get it to suck on a milk moistened rag. Once you have let a hansie (orphan) lamb into your home and your heart, you are doomed. The floor is continually covered in puddles or chocolate drops, milk purchases increase drastically, waking hours are filled with cries of "merm, merm" and all this time, the lamb no longer knows that it is supposed to be a sheep but has joined forces with the dogs and begins to behave just like one.

The first thing to do was to fix him up with some form of nappy. This problem was solved with a plastic shopping bag with the bottom two corners cut off for his back legs. Under his tum would go a thickly padded towel and the bag handles would be tied neatly around his neck with a piece of baling string. This meant that he could spend more time inside the house on my lap and less time out in the cold night air.

We soon discovered that he loved watching television, and although he would fall asleep during party political broadcasts, he was on the edge of his chair during any sort of “skop, skeet and donner” (a shouting, shooting and hitting) movie . “Noodle” as he became know, would race down to the gate along with our ferocious guard dogs and stand sentinel while they barked at any interloper, and would jump onto the back of the truck and let the wind blow his ears around with Klippie the sheep dog on one side of him and Mr. Dumpy on the other.

As he grew into a teenager, he became particularly enamoured of Klippie and one farming neighbour who watched him in amazement as he repeatedly mounted the sheep dog was heard to say "I think you’d better put me down for one of the pups".

On one occasion, we had trouble with a young calf and it was necessary to rush it down to our local Vet for an injection. Whilst loading the calf, the two dogs and Noodle also jumped into the back of the truck, and not having time to spend arguing the toss, we left the entire bunch of them on the back and headed for town. Once the vet had done his job, we proceeded to the Post Office where we parked and went in to collect the mail, and on returning to the truck, we found a bemused friend standing staring at the vehicle.

‘Now folks’ she said ‘we all know you have started farming and we appreciate that it must be great fun, but the basic idea is that when you come to town, you leave the animals on the farm’. There, leaning out of the back windows of the canopy, was the calf, two dogs and a sheep all eyeing the passing population. I chuckled and wondered what she would say when she saw us going for a walk on the farm, accompanied by four dogs, two horses, one sheep and a buck and, in time, the addition of a couple of ducks and a turkey.

Chapter 4 In Vino Veritas

2008-08-25T05:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Chapter 3. The Milagro Beanfield

2008-08-25T05:09:00.000-07:00

Bulklip's answer to a tractor and plough

As the idea took hold in our minds, we were only vaguely supposing that any of this could have real meaning, but enquiries in the local town led us to a lawyer who knew all the ins and outs.

Yes, the farm was owned but not farmed. He doubted that the owner would sell, and if he did it would be for a high price, the property being a compact unit of only 300 hectares and therefore in demand by people such as us who wished to farm but did not want vast acreage.

Once again John and I travelled out to inspect our find and this time, there were signs of activity. A room had been cleared out near the sheds and a small dog was tethered by the door. The sheep manure had been scraped off the veranda and an effort made to prop open the front door. Mysterious but interesting! The lawyer was being evasive and it was time to take matters into our own hands and track down the owner. From a chance enquiry we found that in fact he lived on the neighbouring farm and had been watching our comings and goings with amusement. In that tight-knit farming community, I imagine that he had already been notified by the lawyer that our interests lay in the direction of possibly purchasing the farm, and a date for further discussions was made. I knew that not only would the nuts and bolts of the actual sale come under the spotlight, but also whether or not John and I were deemed to be suitable neighbours.

‘Whatever they offer you to drink, accept it with good grace’ I said, tweaking his collar straight and brushing some crumbs off his shirt front.
‘But what if it’s tea?’ he queried in worried tones. ‘I don’t think I could ever drink tea’
‘Look, this is no time to be French and difficult. If tea is what’s on offer, then that’s what you have to drink’.

And so it was that John sat poised on the edge of a large armchair coping with a cup of tea and a plate of home made sponge cake trying hard to hide the grimace on his face. At least I managed to get our hostess to pour it black, weak and without sugar, or I doubt that the deal would ever have gone through. We must have passed inspection however, and the farmer said he was prepared sell to us and to come within range of our price and on the understanding that he grazed his sheep on the property until we had paid in full, we could take possession as soon as the papers were signed.

So, here we were at a crossroads in our lives, deciding whether to cease our safe and gainful employment as an Accountant, and a Sales Rep, in order to become what we would laughingly call "Farmers". But the seed of the idea had been planted as surely as if we had thrust it deep into the moist soil of the lands, and we signed on the dotted line, formed ourselves into a Company and took possession of "Our Farm". Oh the joy, the elation, the fear of the unknown but the deep determination that the road on which we had set our feet was the way ahead. It would take much untangling to free ourselves of the lives that we had led. Decisions had to be made, resignations handed in from jobs that had provided the security of large and regular pay checks, and finally we each made the difficult but firm decision to turn our backs on what had constituted our lives previously.

Bit by bit, we carved out a corner where we could set up camp, and began to spend wonderful weekends sloshing around with paint, and scraping and digging out infrastructures that emerged from their coating of manure and dirt. Once the rooms had been cleared and the paintwork freshened in the cottage, it was possible to lay our heads down on camping mattresses and to start to spend the occasional night despite the chilly wind blown conditions. We even managed to gather sufficient damp wood to start a smoky fire over which we cooked a warming mutton poitjie stew, As we settled down to devour it by the light of one flickering hurricane lamp, we planned future meals to be eaten "al fresco" under the shade of the weeping willows whilst looking out over our immaculate gardens. A blanket hung over the empty window frame keeping out the worst of the wind and rain and we slept the sleep of the exhausted, filled with dreams of life on the farm.

Up until this time we had needed a four-wheel drive vehicle to enter and leave the farm which was based in a hollow of surrounding hills. Wonderful falls of rain soaked into the ground and filled the farm dam to overflowing, and we started to eye the section of arable land situated below the old orchard.

‘Beans’ was a suggestion; ‘sheep don’t eat beans’.

And so began the Milagro Beanfield War which was in time to give its name to that section of the farm. The thick wet earth of the land clung to our boots, to our spades, and to the feet of my Weimeraner dog called Mr. Dumpy who plodded about like a skittish cart horse with great clods of earth stuck to his paws. Differing views abounded on how to get the seed into the ground without the back breaking business of bending down to insert each one, and in no time, we had devised a method whereby a length of towel rail was held in one hand and a fistful of seeds in the other. Having enrolled the help of a couple of staunch friends, one walked ahead with a spiked stick creating a hole in the ground, while the next one followed, placing the open ended piping on top of the hole, and dropped the seed down the tube. The hole was then closed by the third member of the team doing a sort of inverted duck walk up and down the line, and bit by bit we managed to get ten rows of beans into the ground. Great was our joy when a week or so later, we were rewarded with signs of green shoots appearing. Still the rains blessed us and in no time we had a respectable stand of bean plants; but then the sheep struck and disproved the theory about not eating beans. They not only devoured the leaves, but dragged the roots out of the ground and gobbled them too. So much for bean farming while still acting as host to our neighbours' sheep. In a way it was good because it spurred us on to make the final payment to the previous owner, and true to his word he removed his bean filled sheep and we could settle down to planning our next crop.

For ever in search of ways to finance our venture, we decided that potatoes were always in great demand and reckoned that if we could just drag open a furrow, we could drop the seed potatoes in and have a wonderful crop both in time for Christmas, and for delivery to the local supermarket. In our minds eye, we sat down to steaming bowls of new baby potatoes, glistening with butter and sprinkled with the fresh parsley that would be growing in our vegetable garden (as yet unplanned and unplanted). We had no plough, we had no tractor, but we had determination, and after a visit to our local friendly wholesaler who provided us with a single blade plough which we hitched behind the four-wheel drive vehicle, we were ready for action. Slowly the truck moved off, towing the plough behind it, but we soon discovered that care had to be taken not to drive too fast or the operator guiding the implement would be hurled around corners with the plough share clear of the earth which in turn would result in a spate of colourful language of a non-agricultural type. The team was then formed up and, line abreast like some biblical scene of old, “we ploughed the fields and scattered" dropping our seed potatoes into the furrows. Once our crop was safely in, we called on the assistance of my son who by this time was fast becoming a water-skier of note. Manfully balancing his weight across the top of the three cornered rake on which we had mounted a concrete lintel, and hanging onto a ski rope attached to the back of the truck, we dragged both him and his implement up and down the field closing the furrows over, leaving the potatoes to settle in to the warm moist earth.

The first official harvest from Bulklip was honey. We had tried all sorts of methods to cope with the bee infestation under the boards in the back bedroom but in the absence of a skilled apiarist, we finally gave up the unequal struggle and blasted them out with spray. Once the mounds of carcasses had been shovelled out, we lifted the boards and found rack after rack of dripping combs which we enjoyed enormously with our breakfast toast.

At about this time, the old orchard decided to show us what it was capable of. Having spent the past ten years without the benefit of either pruning or spraying, a vast harvest of peaches, pears, plums, nectarines, apricots, quinces and apples was forthcoming. We invested in a ladder and engaged a couple of young lads from the neighbouring farm to give us a hand, and I imagine that they ate their own weight in fruit, but it was better than seeing it go to waste. The harvest was gathered and having been carefully graded, the fruit was laid out in empty beer boxes begged from the “bottle store” as the off-licence was called, and from there, it was transported to town to be sold in return for funds that would help with the purchasing of such necessities as petrol to keep the trucks going and wine to keep us going.

Each trip to civilisation became something of an exploration. Having lived relatively close to the little border town of Zastron for many years, but only ever having used it for trips to the doctor and dentist, and to produce my two children in the little cottage hospital, John and I began to discover hitherto untapped delights such as the farmers Co-operative, the Silos and Grain Store, and the Country Shop which rendered up all sorts of goodies. Once we learned where to look, we could purchase seeds, tools, fresh cream, eggs, gallons of milk and pots of jam. There were remedies for everyone and everything from sore feet to sore udders, and most of the time, service was given along with a cup of tea and a dissertation on how and when to plant, reap, shear and calve. I soon learned to drink the tea and hold my peace, whilst absorbing as much of the information as possible.

On passing by our neighbouring farm, we were more often than not hailed in to drink yet more tea and to be laden down with boxes of fresh vegetables and fruit. By now they had grasped the idea that the French only drank coffee and a special brew was always prepared for John, and the teenage children would sit spellbound while they listened to his accent. I was already something of a rarity coming from England, but to have someone as exotic as a Frenchman sitting in their home must have been like having a Dalek dropping in. The hospitality and kindness of the Afrikaner which up until then had been a totally unknown quality, was making itself evident and we were blessed with neighbours with open hearts and minds.

It quickly became apparent that one of my first priorities should be to embark on a swift course of basic Afrikaans, and casting aside my French language books which were making very little impact on my broken school girl efforts, I changed my "Oui's and Non's" for "Ja's and Nee's". I limped along doing irrevocable damage to the language, and on one occasion while watching the neighbour’s children fill a large basket with fresh green beans for me, realised that instead of getting them to stop, I was urging them on to greater efforts. It was like the sorcerers apprentice who wouldn't stop filling the buckets! I was forever offering to buy things instead of sell them, and to spend money instead of save it, but the patience of my neighbours and the townsfolk, and the ability of my staff to converse using very short simple words gave me a certain shaky confidence.

Chapter 2. An Accidental Discovery - 1990

2008-08-25T05:02:00.000-07:00

The Bulklip Farm garden when we first saw it

We 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’.

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.

‘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.

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.

Chapter 1. I'll Be Back In No Time November 1968

2008-08-25T04:47:00.000-07:00

It’s June 1968 in the Home Counties of England, and I can still see myself, just nineteen years old and desperately pleading with my parents as I hold out a consent form for them to sign.

‘It’ll only be for a couple of years; I’ll be back before you’ve had time to miss me’.
‘But it’s so far away dear and the political conditions are not at all ideal’.
‘I don’t care about politics, the sun shines all the time and South African men are so good looking’.

Needless to say I didn’t voice this part of my argument out loud, but probably went on about the environment and how much the experience would broaden my horizons. I was determined to go to South Africa, and all it needed was the consent of my parents, and I could pack my suitcase, collect my brand new passport and head for Heathrow.

‘I don’t know. What do you think dear?’ My mother turned hopefully to my father, but to his credit, he mentioned that his recent trip to Cape Town had been a terrific success and it was obviously the land of opportunity. Mind you, he also used to say that if I could have been put in a deep freeze at thirteen and removed when I was eighteen, life would have been a far more relaxing thing, so perhaps he could see a chance for regaining a bit of peace and quiet with both of his teenage children flying the nest, what with my older brother heading off to Canada.

I could feel them weakening, and I brought in the big guns.
‘David was only eighteen, and you let him go and join the Voluntary Service Overseas in some place you’d never even heard of’ (‘and he had a ball’ – I added mentally).

My older brother had gone out to work in what was then the ex British Protectorate of Basutoland in southern Africa and had embarked on a programme of building irrigation dams and furrows and generally improving the lot of the downtrodden. At least this was the impression that my parents got. Meantime, I knew he had been learning how to fly, flirting with the beautiful daughters of the local trader and dangling his toes in the Indian Ocean whenever he got the chance. Now it was my turn; I wanted adventure, the feeling of being completely cut off from all those people who had witnessed my slow but steady metamorphosis from a gangly teenager into an independent woman. I wanted to go where no-body knew my name and I could carve out a life for myself on my own terms.

‘I promise to write every second week and join a private medical scheme’.

They couldn’t come up with any other arguments strong enough to keep me close to home and hearth, and four months later I waved them goodbye at Heathrow. I had never set foot on an aircraft before and the furthest I had travelled had been a well-chaperoned trip to Paris when I was fifteen. A nineteen year old, struggling with a large blue suitcase, wearing a smart two-piece dress and coat and sporting a new hair do. I was ready to face whatever Africa could throw at me.

In 1968, the route to South Africa was a lot more arduous than it is nowadays. Flying from London to Frankfurt, on to Lisbon and then Las Palmas, we worked our way down to Luanda, then to Windhoek, finally landing in Johannesburg. En route, fear of the unknown became reality but I did battle with the gimlet eyed German woman who ran the ladies loo in Frankfurt. She was one of those people who, had she been employed at an abattoir, would have felt that a humane killer should be considered an optional extra. But I braved it out and refused to be parted from my hard earned Deutschmarks. Scattering a few coins in the saucer, I made a run for it, followed by some fairly voluble Germanic cursing, but for the time being, I was ahead of the game. In Frankfurt, the plane filled up with tanned super-fit Germans who were headed for South West Africa, and I started to feel increasingly out of place in my smart London clothes while all around me were desert boots, slouch hats and foreign accents.

Having sweated in the sodden night-time heat of Las Palmas, we slept and ate our way on down the coast of the great continent to land at Luanda. As the door of the plane opened, Africa rushed in to meet us. Sounds and smells, voices and black faces were suddenly all around and I could see the old Africa hands scenting the air like animals returning home. We circled Windhoek in a whirling dust storm and on the third white-knuckled attempt, we crunched down onto the tarmac. The newspaper hording in the airport building did nothing to instil me with confidence , announcing as it did the recent death toll in an air disaster at the Windhoek airport.

“Is it possible to get a taxi from here to Johannesburg?” I asked some equally shaken co-passenger, but she led me to a map of Southern Africa on the nearest wall and pointed out the distance between the two places.
‘Sorry my dear, we’ll have to grit our teeth and carry on” and after a stiff, and what seemed ridiculously cheap gin and tonic, we tottered back out to the waiting plane.
‘If the plane hasn’t lifted clear within the first thirty seconds after they start rolling, you’ve had it’ came the cheerful comment from the row behind me. I have never counted to thirty so slowly in my life.

Another couple of hours and we began to see the mine dumps of the Transvaal below us and suddenly rising out of the endless veldt, there were the gleaming sky scrapers of Johannesburg.

Here I changed planes yet again and continued on to Durban, and in those days, the South African Government was so ready to welcome settlers, that my only expense was the Johannesburg to Durban leg.

Arriving in November from the grip of an early English winter, the heat took me and squeezed me. Safari-suited Europeans, coal black Zulus, colourfully dressed Indians and endless blue-rinsed matrons filled the canyon-like streets of the city. Durban was airless, humid, burning and exhausting and I quickly learned to avoid the beach and enjoy a midday siesta in the shade. Temporary jobs here and there brought in enough to pay the rent at the little English boarding house up on the Berea, and I quickly made friends and began to spread my wings. I soon realised that Natal was painfully colonial in many respects, and invitations to the Point Yacht Club and the Royal Durban Golf Club failed to show me anything new that couldn’t be found in the Home Counties of England.

My first real adventure came in the form of a skin-diving trip to Inhaca off the coast of MoVambique. Driving through the rolling hills and endless sugar plantations of Natal and Swaziland, for the first time I began to sense some of the incredible variety and beauty of the country to which I had come. The further we drove towards Maputo which was still known as LourenVo Marques, the more marked the comparison became between the civilisation of Durban and the down-at-heel towns and villages through which we passed. Pausing only at the squalor of the border gates of Goba and Golel, we pressed on into the fading light until at last we were rewarded with the lights of “LM” glowing on the horizon. A night spent in the capital was enough for us to see the faded splendour of the grand hotels and boulevards that had once made LourenVo Marques a jewel in the colonial crown of Africa, but the next day would bring us face to face with the realities of Africa.

“Man is like a flea on the back of the dog of Africa” goes the old saying, and it only takes one good shake of the dog to send you flying.

The ferry ride across to Inhaca Island was uneventful. The rickety boat was laden with a mixture of European tourists headed for the only hotel on the island, local African workers who played endless games of cards and dice, Indian traders who bartered and argued their way across the water, and our own intrepid bunch. It seemed that the whole colourful melting pot of Africa was on that boat and my senses of smell, hearing and vision were at full stretch, and for the first time, I was aware of the easy mingling of the races now that we were out of the shadows thrown by the apartheid system.

Once we landed on the island, stage two of the journey began. We arranged the hire of a felucca - the small Arab dhow that nudged its way through the sheltered waters of the island. However, our destination was the far side of the island where the diving was the best, and this would take us out of the lee of the island and dangerously close to what is known as “The Rip”. This current of water sucks out between the mainland and the island, and those who get caught up in it can be carried far out into the Indian Ocean without any chance of reaching landfall. Already it was late and the light was fading but our guides were greedy and eager to be paid.

‘We get there quick quick’ they assured us, throwing our gear into the little boat and bundling us aboard, and not having the funds between us to spend the night at the pricey hotel, nor keen to waste any time camping on the quayside, we agreed.

Sailing eastwards with the setting sun warming our backs, we dangled our fingers in the silken water and downed a bottle of Portuguese beer, and all the while, Africa was a tame beautiful creature, slumbering gently beneath us.

It was the sound of the Rip that began to strike terror into our hearts. As the light faded, we could hear the steady roaring pulsating noise and could see the distant cream of waves breaking where there were no rocks.

‘We’ve got to keep away from it; steer more to port but watch out for the rocks at the headland’. A stiff evening breeze had picked, blowing out of thunderstorms on the mainland, and the tiny sail strained under its burden and pushed us further offshore.

Mercifully our group was made up of at least four who had some sailing experience. As night fell, the locals who owned the boat had given up the fight and were prostrate on the floor of the little craft gibbering in fear. Praying to their gods, as we prayed to ours, we fought to keep the little boat from the grip of the tidal current. The darkness became complete and the taste of fear was in everybody’s’ mouth. Baling out the water that constantly splashed in over the bow, we rowed with whatever came to hand. The sandy beach lay within our reach but we were being steadily pulled out towards that white line of breaking water.

‘It’s no good’ gasped the team leader, ‘We’ll have to swim the boat in. Not you Eddy, that cut on your hand will have the sharks here in two ticks’.

With these comforting words ringing in our ears, we slid over the side and dragged the boat through the breakwaters fighting the suck and thrust of the waves that tried to take us back out again. I can still feel the taste of that wet sand as I laid my lips on it and sobbed out my fear and relief and never had the words ‘Terra Firma’ sounded more appealing.

For five days we lived on the beach, making shelters out of the great banana leaves and turning the colour of bronze. Exotic fruit grew wild and we had brought maize meal and staples with us. Combined with daily catches of fresh fish, and with bottles of local beer, wine and cheap African cigarettes to satisfy our baser cravings, we swam, sunbathed, and explored our own desert island. I learned to dive with just a snorkel, and discovered that it was almost possible to walk on water when I came face to face with a grouper and thought it was a fat idle shark. One of our number was bitten by a scorpion and was saved by a Dutch doctor who just happened to have walked across from the hotel to visit our side of the island. Africa takes no prisoners. Either luck is with you or you leave the party early For the first time, I felt the pulse of that mighty continent beating beneath me, and drifting naked in the shallows of the reef in the velvet warmth of the night under an endless canopy of stars, I began to surrender myself to the irresistible but formidable master that is Africa.

In order to return to the ferry, we unanimously voted against the felucca, and chose to walk back across the island. Bypassing swamps filled with stately pink flamingos that lifted above our heads in a silky whirr of plumage, we slapped at the eternal insects and fought with the long grasses that cut our legs. The heat was intense and the water bottles emptied far too quickly, and we dared not refill them from the swampy mosquito filled pools that we waded through. By the time we reached the other side of the island, we were exhausted, sunburnt, filthy and desperately dehydrated. The ferry wasn’t due for another couple of hours, and to his eternal credit, the owner of the hotel took pity on us. In return for our promise to remain under a large tree on the edge of the grounds and stay away from his smart guests and his pristine swimming pool, he sent out a waiter with a tray of cold beers. I’m not a beer drinker, but that was truly nectar of the Gods.

So this was to be just the beginning of what I had vaguely planned as a two year stay that eventually turned into thirty. I had enjoyed a brief taste of the real Africa and I was hungry for more. Returning to Durban, I found it impossibly English and staid. Too many of the old school had filtered down through Africa, and with the country in the grip of Apartheid, I found the chasm that existed between black and white distasteful, especially when it was being enforced by fierce policemen who shouted in guttural Afrikaans and who used sharp toothed dogs to assist them. Leaving Durban, I took up an unexpected offer of a three month secretarial contract in Basutoland which now gloried in its new name Lesotho and fascinated at the prospect of walking in my brothers’ footsteps and perhaps discovering a few of his old haunts, I packed my blue suitcase and headed for the hills.

I loved the place from the moment I arrived. Steep mountain sides cradled the village of Mohales Hoek on three sides and the valleys and hidden places stretched away endlessly, inviting me to explore. There were only twenty Europeans living in town, eight of them bachelors, a few seconded from Banks in the Republic, some representing old trading families who had been there for the past eighty years, and the usual mix of missionaries and teachers. The country had only recently been granted its’ independence by Great Britain and the road towards a politically stable future was proving to be a bit rocky. That wasn’t the only road that was a bit rocky, and I was soon to discover that all the little towns – or camps as they were called, were linked by atrocious potholed corrugated dirt roads that shook the hardiest vehicle to pieces. Light aircraft ruled here and what had hitherto seemed like a very elite form of travel became an everyday occurrence. Whoever said that pigs can’t fly never sat patiently in the back seat of a Piper Tripacer with a snuffling little pink pig in a box next to him. Pigs, chickens, dogs were all regular passengers, and the villagers in the high mountains of the interior relied totally on visits from the flying doctor and deliveries of desperately needed goods when the winter snows closed the passes.

A little social club formed the nucleus of the town, and here the European population gathered each evening, and from the single storey building incorporating a pub, a hall and a snooker room, operated the golf, tennis, bowls, shooting and fishing clubs, along with any other form of peculiar entertainment that we thought up.

Within the year, surrounded by incredible scenery and enjoying a great social life, I became engaged to one of the European traders, and shortly after I settled happily into married life with my handsome husband, security, a large comfortable home complete with household staff, an aircraft, swimming pool, cars, horses and dogs. A year later, I become pregnant with my daughter, and barely a year after that, she was joined by her brother. Faced with the prospect of a happily married daughter and two grandchildren, my parents gave up all hope of me returning to life in the Home Counties, and began saving for air tickets to come and visit.

It is at this point in the narrative where I must be forgiven for taking a huge leap forward to 1990. The intervening years are filled with a wild and wide variety of episodes, some hilarious, some agonisingly sad and some downright dangerous, but they will make an appearance in another book. Somewhere along the line, we coined the phrase “Never look back over your shoulder unless you enjoy the view”. An Irish friend was planning to go back to the old country and have this printed on thousands of tea-towels in the hope that she could retire on the profits, but for the time being, I am letting the view settle into some sort of order before I judge which bits I enjoy looking back at. *

Sadly, my extraordinary way of life was to take its toll and the handsome husband along with all the trimmings didn’t last and twenty five year later, it was time to move on. Although it wasn’t a long journey in terms of miles, it was light years away from the lifestyle that I had enjoyed. Turning my back on the little mountain kingdom, I moved across the border with my old blue suitcase, three dogs, one horse, and a new partner in life. We had found a hiding place from the world, and its’ name was Bulklip Farm.

* Kate has completed the biographical account of her years in Lesotho entitled "From Cannibals to Croissants" and it will appear in Blog form - eventually!