There is something about old hymns. Nobody likes singing them. With so many new and trendy music to sing, who in their right mind would want to sing:

“When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed, when you are discouraged , think all is lost, count your many blessings, name them one by one.”

And so today, I will sing an old hymn, while I count my blessings, one by one.

One of my biggest blessings is writing this blog. Over the weekend, I wondered about what to do with my writings. Is it maybe getting boring? Have I said every thing that I wanted to say? Is it time to call it a day? Should I maybe keep writing, but change the content? One idea that bounced around, was to start writing about the people around me. The idea was, I would sit down with a person, ask for their story and share it on the Cape Crawl. The first person that came to mind, is a very pleasant man from Malawi. He also lives on the farm, where he is responsible for maintaining the very big garden. Believe me: it takes an entire day to mow the lawn. Great. I had a starting point! I will ask him about his life. The first question would have been: where did you learn to speak the most eloquent English? But before I could dive into this new venture, something happened to change my mind.

For a whole year, living in Botrivier, I would get lyrical about looking out onto rolling hills and mist covered mountains. I would write about the Canola flowers, the green of the grass, cattle and sheep on the distant hills. A year later? I now live right in the center of all the beauty I so often described. 

Sunday morning, sitting out in the garden, we noticed a bit of a Mexican stand off between the three teenage cattle (they are getting too big to be called calves) and the sheep. It involved quite a bit of Mooo-ing and Meee-ing. One of my talents (the ones I was given, and not the ones I hoped for) is to improvise on song lyrics, and in no time at all, old MacDonald had a farm had new words about old MrScotty and his farm. Just as the song was gaining momentum, all havoc broke loose. While Colin and I were singing about MrScotty’s farm, one of the young bulls, who, for the sake of this story I will call Bulletjie, managed to jump the fence. I think his intention may have been to sort the sheep out, but on route, he rushed past Mr. Malawi’s veggie patch and made a sudden U-turn straight into the patch. Mr. Malawi, who carefully tends his little garden ran out shouting and chasing Bulletjie out. A bit flustered at the poor reception he received, Bulletjie stormed off and next thing his eye caught the perfectly mowed and trimmed garden of the farmhouse. It was like nectar to a bee, a light bulb to a moth. Bulletjie could not resist. Mr. Malawi, now comprehending that there is a much bigger disaster unfolding ran for the gate and shut it a split second before Bulletjie could get through it. The story has no end. Last we saw, Mr. Malawi, by now joined by Mrs. Malawi, still in her dressing gown, were chasing Bulletjie down the road, with the sheep cheering on the side lines. In my mind’s eye, I could almost see the sheep doing the Mexican Wave.

Blessing number one: I live in the most beautiful place.

Blessing number two: It comes with free entertainment.

Blessing number three: It was not my job to catch Bulletjie.

On the subject of counting. How many sheep do you think there are, I asked Colin. Too many, he replied. I remember being told as a child, that farmers do not count heads, they count legs. Now that does not make sense to me. Surely it is easier to count 100 heads than to count 400 legs? So, I ask the expert. Aunty Google. She suggests you separate the lambs from the ewes. No. That I can’t do. Once at Heathrow Airport, a security official thought it a good idea to separate me from my infant son in his carry cot. (I suppose he wanted to make sure that it was indeed a baby, and not a ticking time bomb swaddled in a blanket). It did not end well for the security man. Anyway, back to counting sheep. Send the animals down a narrow chute with a gate to slow their pace. Once in the chute, you can then use a clicker, or a pencil and paper to apply the five-hash-mark method.

I can see a few problems here. Such as, what to do when your pencil lead breaks off. How do you get the sheep back into the chute, and do you just pick up where you left off, or do you go back to the beginning? What if you fall asleep counting sheep? What is a five-hash-mark? Should there be a rather rounded lady sheep, and the chute is a tight fit, are you allowed to mention to her that perhaps she needs to eat less grass?

Blessing number four: I am not a sheep counter.

But, in conclusion, to get back to the sort of questions I was going to ask our Malawi Gentleman, apart from his command of the English language, I would have asked him:

Did you ever dream of becoming a sprinter? I doubt Usain Bolt could have reached the gate in the time it took Mr. Malawi to get to it.

Please translate into your perfect English the words you were yelling in Chichewa (the native language of Malawi), as you were running behind Bulletjie.

I would have asked him, when you finally did get hold of Bulletjie, what did you do to him?

When your wife finally got hold of you (and Bulletjie), what was she yelling at the two of you?

Blessing number five: I share this journey with the most amazing husband. The one who makes me whole again. The one who nearly chocked on his coffee, when Bulletjie jumped the fence.