Our Lord and Saviour: Wyndford Farm

We were in for a grave disappointment. And Wyndford farm and holiday resort was our saviour! We approached the border with some trepidation, knowing that Shireen did not have her passport, and at the window, she was thoroughly rebuffed with an admonishment of "you must be joking!". A miserable Bean was turned away and in addition I found out that they do not have a working telephone at the border, hence having to travel there to find out that they would not let her into Lesotho. 

So traveling away from the Caledonspoort borderpost, Shereen being the very picture of shrunken misery, we passed a sign for Wyndford Holiday farm. "Go back Bean", I entreated her. So we drove in up the drive and past an elderly couple, the man wearing a navy blue cardigan. This is germaine to the story, because when we arrived everything was like traveling back 43 years into the past and the photos of my childhood at Eight Bells where we occasionally holidayed.

Sited under an imposing sandstone formation looking remarkably like a tortoise, the farm's emblem, emblazoned on the multiple staff members shirts, was source of not inconsiderable friction with the traditionalists when the new owners took over last year and changed the logo from green to blue.

Anyway, we told our sob story and the woman on reception, Denys,  said she can give us accommodation in a room and I said that we would rather camp so she came back with an agreeable price. Shortly thereafter, a mirthful man ran before the car, guiding us, before leaping lithely onto the back of the car. His name was Josef, and he turned out to be the proprietor of the establishment. Having setup the tent, we were just in time for tea and cookies, followed by a guided tour of the nearby hillside. Erard, our guide for the two-hour walk, provided a slew of anecdotes about the trees and bushes, including Afrikaans (vyf-ster-vuur-stok-appel), common names and the history of the farm. We found a variety of mushrooms along the way, but what particularly struck me was the similarity of the vegetation to the Cape Fynbos vegetation. Various ericoid shrubs formed the low canopy including two Erica species, Metalasia densa, Selago, Anthospermum, Passerina and Hebenstretia. The latter is a genus that I've seen on the high mountains all the way to Ethiopia and is one of my candidates for a genetic phylogeny to uncover ancient patterns of migration.

One thrilling moment was when Shereen called me back. "Look, Love", she exclaimed, pointing to the ground where all seven of us trod moments before. There, recoiled and occasionally thrusting in a threatening but ineffective posture was the cutest little snake I have ever encountered, with an orange smile. Erard declared it to be a red–lipped herald snake. After photographing and filming this ophidian delight, my first sighting of this species, we trailed back in the dusk. 

After giving thanks for an enthralling walk, Shereen, who had been wanting to learn chess, and I, played on one of those enormous boards. It was a drawn out game, and after a bell rang, I called it a draw and headed back to our car... past the dinner hall. Unlike Shereen, I knew what that bell meant and that supper had been ordered, so I maneuvered her to and through the dining hall into the lounge beyond. But it was all a ruse and a wonderful surprise when I finally pulled out a chair for Shereen to sit down at.

Set in a dining hall with walls made from stone hewn from local rock, I marveled and balked at the thought of the effort to cut these stones from the rock, chisel them to the approximate dimensions, some being well over a meter in length, then haul them by cart to the house before hefting them into position underlain by homemade mortar. The meal included fresh salad, bobotie (a delicious South African curried meat dish) and a mousse-tricolore. 

What followed was an appalling game of riddles. Not that the presentation was bad, but one Klever-boots Kim, a third of my age, kept guessing the answers after only a few words, exasperating both the guests and the host, who buried his head into his hands. But it was greatly amusing. We went to bed with a full heart and even more pronounced belly.Read more