I have friends who are dairy farmers.
Dairy farmers in Malmesbury. Regte, egte boere who stride around the plaas in PT broeke and gumboots, come rain or sunshine.
This past Saturday, us city kids piled into my little Tata and trekked up to the farm for a bit of R and R. It was perfect.
There were six of us. Myself, @MrBrasilCPT, @_darlingclaire_, Claire’s son (D) and the farmers @FaanFairlane and @Hoerboer.
Carelessly, I left my camera behind. So all images are courtesy of Claire and my rubbish camera phone.
We went shooting (an item off my list!). I splintered a pole, knocked a can off a cinderblock and gave myself a black eye. Claire took home a Black Label can with a perfect, round bullet hole and her son has a pocketful of rifle shells.
D inspected Bismark the pup closely and then asked Claire, “Mom, where did you shot him?” For the record, no animals were harmed in our shooting adventure. Only Black Label cans, a cinderblock and a fence pole.
We drove up the mountain and looked out, from Malmesbury, to Table Mountain.
We chased calves around their pen and watched how the cows were herded into the milking stall, sterilised and milked.
We drank fresh, hot (pasteurized in a machine) milk from a jug.
We went to visit the pigs* during feeding time. The screams could be mistaken for a riot. They eat a foamy pink mixture of chicken guts, fish guts and rotten vegetables. I don’t blame them for screaming (although they were remarkably eager to eat it).
We stroked horses, who rested their heads on the stoep where we were braai’ing and nibbled our feet.
We braai’ed chicken and boerie and pork chops, from pigs bred on the farm. Fresh bread and cheese, made by Faan’s aunt from milk from the farm’s cows.
We took a drive up into a high field after supper. Faan stayed behind with Claire’s son, fast asleep in front of Kung Fu Panda.
The four of us had a sleeping bag, a bottle of champagne, a few loose beers and a box of cigarettes. We lay on the back of bakkie, spooning for warmth (and to all fit under the sleeping bag). We laughed ourselves silly. Els discovered pantslessness and reenacted, perfectly, a Trevor Noah act. He spotted two shooting stars, Claire found one.
An hour later, maybe two, the champagne ran out and then the beer and we drove back down to the farmhouse, Brasil and I bouncing around the back of the bakkie like it was a jumping castle.
We squeezed up on the couch and watched funny Youtube videos of comedians and pranks and talking animals until two in the morning. Bismark the puppy slept on his back in the crook of my arm, pressed against my side.
I laughed harder that night than I have all year.
We woke up early and went for a tractor ride around the farm. D sat on Els’s lap and took us on a bumpy ride. Claire and D, who hadn’t seen the pigs yet, took a walk through the pens. Claire lasted two minutes before the smell forced her outside. D and I were distracted by the piglets.
Lunchtime engagements in Cape Town forced us onto the roads far sooner than we liked. One night on the farm is equivalent to a week of brain rest in the city.
Just, the best weekend.
Thanks to all involved. You guys are my favourites.