When did we stop bringing Ouma on holiday?
When I was small, my Ouma never went anywhere without padkos. Not even to town. This was already the time of Shell garages and little convenience stores on every corner, but that made no difference to her. She packed sandwiches, boiled eggs, salt and pepper folded in neat little parcels. And always, always, a small bottle of red cordial. Rooi koeldrank, we called it. I still don’t know what its proper name is and I don’t really want to.
On the longer trips we’d pull over next to the road and have a picnic out of whatever Ouma had packed. Nothing fancy. Just there, on the side of the road, with the cars going past.
She also knitted clothes for my Barbies. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Today I can’t stop thinking about it, and I wish so badly that I’d kept even one little dress.
I think most of us have an Ouma like that somewhere in our memories. Or a moment like that.
When I look back at our family holidays, I can’t find a single one where my grandparents weren’t with us. They’re in every photograph (although my mother misplaced the box when I was looking for a photo to share while I was writing this post). They just came along. That’s how it was.
And I’ve been wondering lately when that changed. When did we stop travelling together like that, all the generations in one car, one house, one long table? I know people live further apart now. I know more of our parents are divorced, and that makes things complicated in ways it maybe wasn’t back then. But I think we’ve lost something there. Something that matters.
Because honestly, I don’t want to go on holiday without my children’s Oumas. I want them to have what I had. And selfishly, I want what my parents had too, that moment where you sit back a little, coffee in hand, and watch your children being loved by someone else.
So this month I’m doing a small experiment. I’m taking the Oumas away for a weekend. Not far. Just to the Manor House, the house I grew up in, where my mother raised me. We’re going to do the holiday things. The long breakfasts, the walks, the slow afternoons. I’ll tell you how it goes.
If you’ve ever thought about bringing your own parents along next time you come, please do. The Manor House was built for exactly that. A whole family under one roof, with room for everyone at the table.
What's been happening at San Gabriel Homestead
Simonetta was finally born. She’s seven days old as I write this, the most beautiful little donkey with ridiculously long legs and a funny little fringe falling over her face. We love her to bits. Isabella is not entirely pleased about having a rival for cutest on the farm, but she’ll come round. Probably. It’s that time of year where everything is being born at once. Sebastopol goslings, with more geese still sitting on their nests. Lambs, kids (the goat kind). Every day another little chick pecks its way out of the incubator. The garden is looking magnificent, everything is starting to bloom, and you can feel the season turning.
We also have a new sausage dog. Her name is Heidi and she is adorable. Nahla is not impressed. There are a lot of quietly jealous animals around here at the moment.
We made our very own little Narnia Door
This is my favourite thing we’ve done in a while. We’d run out of two-bedroom spaces, and I kept thinking there had to be a way. So we connected Willow and Riverside Cottages with a door. Through a cupboard. You open the cupboard, and there’s another room on the other side.
My boys think it’s the best thing that has ever happened. I suspect your children will too. And it means that even when our two-bedroom cottages are full, a family can still stay together, side by side, with a secret door between them.
We need a name for the two together. Help me? Send me your ideas.
November Wijnklas
Every week the table gets a little fuller. People from all over the world, sitting together, children running in and out. It brings us so much joy. If you’ve been meaning to book and haven’t yet, please don’t wait too long. We only have a few small openings left this season.
Wijnklas is back next month. The dates is Saturday 14 November at 13:00 and if you want to bring the kid’s Mercy will be playing with them in the forest while we will learn the art of pairing food and wine. Drop us a message or send us an email if you would like to join.
My Granny Dot’s Teacup by Next Lives Vintage
Nostalgia is a feeling, not a thing: difficult to describe, but let’s try.
My Granny Dot loved English tea, always served with milk and 2 sugars by my Grandpa Fred (she never made it herself). She frequently complained about not being able to sleep; out of earshot, my mum would whisper that it was because Gran drank 7 cups of tea a day.
Gran had a favourite cup that held all 7 of those daily teas for 30 years. I can remember the sound of that empty cup clinking against its saucer.
Dot passed away when I was about 10. My mum kept her teacup, and when I moved out in my 20s, it came with me. Today, it is my favourite cup too.
Looking at it brings Granny Dot back to me: her warm smile, and that constant feeling of being safe and loved. I might love tea even more than she did, though I never drink it after 5:00 PM, just in case.
For a lucky few, nostalgia is reaching back for that childhood feeling of comfort and safety, perhaps the very thing we miss so much and crave as adults.
Until next timeThat’s all from here for now. Go call your Ouma. With love from the farm, Shanè
