Kersefontein

After leaving Paternoster we arrived early at the farm and fed ourselves out of the back of the Landcruiser, which was still well stocked after 4,700km.

Hungry kitties joined us.

Hungry, thieving kitties who liked cheese.

And a tame, pushy sheep called Lemon.

Very pushy, and smelly. That night the sheep drank beer from the bottle of a blue-eyed boy, ostensibly the farm manager, who sat at his master's right hand at dinner.

This was a strange place. We had decided to stay here on the recommendation of a source I trust. But her experience was not ours.

It would take a better hand than mine to define the source, and describe the depth, of my unease here.

The farm buildings and house are beautiful and old, and have remained - famously - in the family since they were built. Pepper trees and eucalyptus against crumbling whitewash.

That night, at the long antique dining table, set with silver and crystal, and waited upon by Coloured servants - there is no other word to describe their role - there was vegetable soup, beef stew and boiled rice and peas, served to each guest in the manner of a nineteenth century country house by maids who could neither meet one's eyes, nor smile of their own volition.

The bombast, the undercurrents that I could strongly sense, but only guess at, gathered both of us up at that long table, and left Vince as ill as I have ever seen him and me eloquent and cold with rage.

It is a place to visit if you would like to see the relics of an old order. Some more worthy of attention than others.