Bumbling along the dirt road, and glancing through the dust streaked window of the car,
I found myself holding my breath, as a vast, elegant emerald carpet of vines, was rudely interrupted by an enormous tract of even deeper green Lucerne. Set against a backdrop of rolling hills and valleys the panorama looked like the almost impossibly perfect ones you see on cake tins! Well ok then, maybe a good puzzle on a rainy day.

Inside the car fingers were pointed, uncertainties questioned, dimensions of the farm confirmed, an excited babble, questions posed with urgent requests for answers. A kilometre from where we had begun the ascent of the hill signaling the neighbour’s farm, our attentiveness was absolute.

A sharp left turn in the road put a driveway square in front of us. Peach pips crunched beneath the tyres bringing us to an immacualte farmhouse and farm.

“Now this is more like it!” my shoulders eased a little in relief.

“Everything is so organized” Vincent nodded appreciatively.

Our uncomplaining negotiators obligingly suggested we alight from the car, and look around. Almost immediately we were met by an enthusiastic welcoming committee complete with handshakes, welcoming gestures, an exchange of names and introductions in an unfamiliar tongue! The response was so genuine, that the language barriers didn’t matter somehow, as they took pains to make sure that we were comfortable. Our lady real estate agent apparently had strong family ties with these farmers too, and I felt a brief if unwelcome twinge of apprehension, wondering if this was to be a remake of the classical movie Deliverance. As they chatted away, the farmer’s wife motioned to me to stroll through her house. Grateful to be left to my own devices, I thanked her and made my way through the sliding door.

The home was every bit as immaculate inside as the exterior with long, wide, passages. The only flaw was the single bathroom near the end of the passage with no en-suite bathroom in the master bedroom. Bummer! Having completed my tour I returned to the chit-chat outside. Already at 5.40 pm the orange African sun was sinking low in the western sky as Vince and I thanked the family, and drove through the lands to gain a sense of the size of the place, as well a firsthand look at the produce, vineyards, peach orchards, and Lucerne.

Bumping up and down like unseasoned horse riders we made our way through the quagmire of terrain in the vineyards up and down drainage furrows. Within a short while I began to wish I had strapped myself to the seat with duct tape. It didn’t help any that my bladder had recently been tampered with and it was beginning to signal its disapproval rather pointedly. It was clear that the surgeon’s instructions to ‘take it easy’ might indeed have had some merit. Ten minutes later I heaved a sigh of relief as the tortuous journey came to an end. I know my face told everybody how I felt, even though I did my best to not be the proverbial pain in the ass, having already bitched about having to see this last farm at the end of a long day of ‘farm viewing’

All four of us concurred that we had certainly seen what had been advertised. Vince and I would go home, and discuss it further. The farm was great but it was just that too far from Cape Town. The furthest we wanted to be was 2 hours max, and this was just on 2 hours. It was time to leave. The last vestiges of daylight were fading as the sun took its place at the back of the Riversonderend Mountains casting a somber ending to a superb day.

I sighed, there was still a long drive ahead of us.

“Karin that is exactly what I had in mind, the gravel road to the farm, not too long, and the vineyards, the land , just everything I would have wanted!” Vince burst forth as soon as we were out of an earshot. “What do you think of the house?”

I inhaled deeply blinking rapidly a few times to gather my thoughts, and then exhaled noisily.

“All I can say, is that it is NOT what I had dreamed of, certainly Not what I would have liked -”

“Well you are not buying the house really but a going concern, the farm” Vince interrupted enthusiastically.

“I know, but shit, it’s so …Afrikaans”, I said frowning.

“We can change all that, but the basic structure is there, and you know you love a challenge! You can do so many things”

“Yes, but it costs money you know, and being the tickey tight arse that you are it will take years to get it to be where I would like it!” ( I was negotiating, already sensing where this was going)

“ Rome wasn’t built in a day”, Vince replied almost sarcastically.

“Crap, and neither will Buitensorg be,” I muttered before my conscience kicked in.
How can you be so negative I took myself in hand firmly, this is what Vince wants. It’s not really my style but to burst his bubble right now would be most unkind. Patting myself on the back, I fixed a smile on my face and let him just babble away, offering an odd ‘uh-huh’, or a nod of the head, silently digesting my own reactions. I suppose upon reflection, I was tired. The first olive farm had been a disappointment, We’d been tossed around in a wannabe 4 x 4, and then taken an extra 30 km’s out of our way…… and that the entire day we’d spoken our version of Afrikaans, not our mother tongue. My enthusiasm had temporarily taken a beating.

I put in a strong effort to be optimistic by adding my favorite features. I agreed that the vineyards were magnificent and the valley in which the farm was situated was picturesque. The vistas were superb, infinite rolling hills staging their moulded profiles ahead of the humungous mountains in the distance. It was certainly hard to resist the miles and miles of striking colors and settings that unveiled their magnificence in a series of Kodak moments. That was what struck me. The problem was that we were supposed to be buying a bloody farm and not the spectacle that I had reminisced about for goodness sake!

The road home via Worcester, and then the Hugeneot Tunnel was dreary, dark, and dismal. I knew that we had rushed through the last two farms yet each seemed to have left a clear enough impression of homeliness to be unsettling.

I telephoned our daughters to cancel a dinner arrangement. It was late, and I desperately wanted a hearty home cooked meal and a hot shower. By the time we reached Paarl, conversation had come to a standstill. I am sure Vince was having difficulty in
shuffling his mental notes in order of financial, logistic and preferential needs.

Approaching the slopes of what had become ‘our mountain’ when we arrived and settled in Constantia, I felt secure once more. It was dark when we pulled into the garage grateful to be home. The first step had been taken.

As the hot, soothing water rushed over my head and down my back, I reflected on the day’s viewing. ‘What on earth are we getting into’ I wondered. The shower door opened and a hand slithered smoothly down my spine.

“I have an ice cold Savanah waiting for you”, Vince announced with more than a usual measure of consideration.

He had me. I’d been salivating at the thought of a satisfying cold drink all day. Hastily toweling down , I pulled on my ‘p.j.’s , shuffled down the passage and collapsed into the armchair. My hand reached out for the glass of liquid gold. It felt like velvet as it slid down my throat quenching my thirst
.
“So what did you think…honestly?” Vincent was far from done with the subject.

“I have a lot to digest,” I resisted weakly, “But I’m pretty sure I want to farm- I think”, “Does that make any sense to you?”

“Absolutely!” Vince was clearly more enthusiastic than I was. “But I think we need to venture into other areas around the Western Cape and just make sure we’ve satisfied all of our needs and wants. ( This was Vince’s attempt to sound practical)

“OK, but we ought to agree on the distance from Cape Town as well as a budget and what we want on the farm.” I couldn’t believe what was coming out of my mouth

“I totally agree.” Vince agreed with what looked like a suspiciously smug look on his face.

And so our course of action began to take shape.

We decided to keep a tight lid on our intentions, not saying a word to close friends or family pending confirmation of the purchase of a property. Our girls were aware of our objectives scoffing at the lack of home comforts I would have to tolerate. I’m pretty sure they believed that this would be a passing fancy and that once our curiosity had been satisfied, life would resume its status quo.

Monday morning arrived with an early call from the agent. After listening to our feedback regarding the properties we’d been to see the day before, she let us know that another farm in the Nuy area had suddenly come on to the market. She had obviously done her homework too and checked if we were serious buyers, or just Sunday afternoon bored city slickers imposing on her valuable time.



A welcome diversion reared its head. Weeks ago I had arranged a ‘Mom and girls’ getaway for this coming weekend. It had required copious amounts of planning to make this possible. I desperately wanted to have all three girls together for an exclusive time out. I had sent them an invitation and a list of what they would need without mentioning the destination.

Each daughter was responsible for one meal, the first being dinner on the Friday evening, the second, and the third breakfast on Saturday morning, and the third dinner on the Saturday evening. Each had to bring the ingredients, cook, serve, and clean up and there had to be ‘a twist in the tail’ as a theme. I’d bound a map of our proposed travel, including places of interest of the small towns we would be visiting, plus a surprise call to the Caledon Casino! A house in Greyton with room for four adults would be our final destination.

Leaving Cape Town on a Friday afternoon and heading onto the N1 and the 3.00 p.m. traffic is perhaps the closest thing to being insane. However an earlier departure would have been almost impossible with University lecture times, and both older girls employed.

Soon we were caught up in a snarl of motor vehicles all heading in the same direction, bumper to bumper on the outskirts of Somerset West. The girls were handed their envelope with the weekend’s plans in an attempt to forestall any rising impatience.

Ooh’s and aah’s greeted my choice of accommodation, followed by a less enthusiastic hmm about the dinner plans. Our first stop was the casino. Each daughter received R50. The eldest chose to blow it straight away and gamble, the middle one, bought drinks, and the third one tentatively dropped her coins into the slot, losing all of R10, then deciding it was a mugs game, joined the middle one for a drink! My eldest daughter lost her R50 pretty quickly, and so did I, so we attempted to make the big time by going to a R50 chip table! Why we didn’t just write out a cheque in the casino’s name and leave it with them I sure don’t know, because no sooner had we played the first chip than the game was over. Casino R200 Karin and Robyn minus R200!

We walked out of the private club, feet dragging and made our way back to the car park to make the 25 minute drive to our weekend destination.

Canola fields shone with a yellow splendor against the backdrop of the setting sun. Truly magnificent. We arrived at the property, unpacked our bags, and retired to the sitting room as Dayle disappeared to prepare our ‘meal’. Being a qualified chef, it was no biggie for her.

Vincent called to ask if I would make a detour on Sunday and go via Nuy to look at that dairy farm. The girls all agreed that we would link up with their Dad and view the farm together. We would travel to Nuy via Bonnievale on the Sunday.

After an amazing weekend, where we all got inebriated in style on the Saturday evening, and our youngest daughter provided us with breakfast in bed (her duty) of scrambled eggs on toast, sliced smoked trout with cream cheese, and her twist was….. ugh…. A koeksuster!!!! , we headed home via Nuy.

Our journey took longer than expected. The farm was set in an idyllic location right at the slopes of the Langeberg Mountains . Beautiful, but 25 km’s in from the main road! You know when your gut feel says, oh no, too far from civilization! The gravel road contoured, ascended and then just as rapidly descended. The girls were in their high heeled boots and designer jeans giving the impression of a day at the mall, not a bloody farm.

First impressions count. Do not let anybody inform you differently. Not a great entrance, and certainly a dreadful home. Extremely disjointed with a room added on here, and another there. No flow, and certainly in need of serious reparations.
The family were enjoying a braai, and happily allowed our family to traipse through their home. Between the cow shit and the chicken poo sticking to their heels, came muffled yet uneasy sniggering. These embarrassingly urban born and bred girls of mine immediately advised me that dairy farming was not to be considered. Imagine all the cow pats and the threat to their well being.

“Mom this is not you!” was probably more accurately “This is not for us”.

Nevertheless I was intrigued and fell in behind the farmer, the agent, and Vince as they toured the place. The farmer took great pride in informing us that this was an “AI’ farm.
The cows were artificially inseminated.

”So how does that work?”

The words popped out of my mouth before Id thought the question through and I was even less impressed when the farmer suggested I would need a chair and an arm extension to do what needed to be done!

“It costs R160 odd rand per cow and I import all my semen” he added without blinking.
“We don’t keep bulls on this farm.”

“How many cows do you have?” I enquired, trying to look slightly less embarrassed.

“Over 100”, came the flat reply.

There were a few peach trees, and a small vineyard. Water was a big problem, but he was selling because he wanted a bigger farm. This one seemed big enough to me. A motorbike shot past us with his son in control and friend riding pillion and holding a rifle.

“Where are they off to?” ( Again with my foot in my mouth)

“Oh ja, off to shoot some hares,” he quipped with a snide grin.

Vince was engaged in serious conversation with the agent. I had switched off by this stage. I just wanted to head home. I knew, having bought many homes over the years, when ‘it speaks to you’ that’s your home. This one did nothing for me. Thankfully we soon bade them a polite farewell.

The girls and I drove ahead of Vince, as I had to drop them off at their respective homes. At least I knew one thing for sure. Dairy farming was not it. The conversation at the farm had already convinced me of that. Dairy farming was a 365 day a year occupation in addition to milking twice a day. We certainly did not intend to farm as vigorously as that, most importantly we were going to be new kids on the block and throwing ourselves into an unknown which needed such constant attention was beyond absurd. Then there was the fact that it was so far off the beaten track. Strike that one off the list .