Get your kicks on Route 62*

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Founded in 1853, Robertson (named after the Dutch Reformed Minister Dr William Robertson) lingers in the long shadows of the Langeberg mountains, gently persuading the Breede River to share in the bounty of the land.

Today, Robertson is a sleepy little town by night but as as the largest of the neighbouring towns of McGregor, Ashton, Bonnievale and Montagu which all fall in a 160km radius of Robertson, supplies are mostly collected from Robertson.

I was invited to join Mira Weiner from McGregor Country Getaways for a boutique breakfast at the very stylish and excessively upmarket restaurant under the watchful eye of Chef Reuben Riffel (see Masterchef) situated at the Robertson Small Hotel.

The area in which breakfast was served was beautifully lit with natural rays. Servers ready to provide you with your every need and a smile. I had a salmon omelette which was very tasty, but the flapjacks were the item that made everyone around me order the same.

Rich in colour, light and fluffy and beautifully presented. The most photographed flapjack of the day!

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Robetson Small Hotel

Robertson Small Hotel won the “World Luxury Hotel award” in 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2014. Think intimate, private, plush, pleasurable, stylishly being spoiled and pampered.

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I was delighted to get a tour of the rooms. My favourite being the accommodation that opened up onto the pool. A slice of heaven, literally just sliding into refreshing blue water.

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I could curl up with my book and let the hours pass me by in the luxury that surrounded me. Beautiful scenery, Inviting smells of freshly baked goods and friendly staff…

I wish you enough,

Be The Change

Email: reservations@therobertsonsmallhotel.com for reservations and do sign up for their newsletter as they do have regular specials.

*Robertson Wine Valley forms part of the longest wine route in the world, Route 62.

A name, I call myself…

Dear friends and other interesting creature,

My parents shared they were desperately wanting a little girl when they were pregnant with me.  Which is awesomeness cause I never wanted to be a boy.

As I understand it, my almost 20 year old father went to register me and decided Christine, the name they had chosen, after my Ouma Chrissie is not for me. See, he clearly already understood me them.

My mom tells me that my father was very much like my son Liam James. Charming.  Good looking. Always busy with a budding business idea.

My father and the lady behind the counter decided Christel is a gorgeous name. My father thought my Oupa Mike also needed acknowledgement and added Michel. ( … a Beetles song I’ve had both sober and drunk men sing to me. #bless) Having dyslexia, my father did not go for the usual spelling of either name.

It was the age of the double barrel name, and when the lady behind the counter suggested it to my father, he could probably just hear how fanTy that truly is.
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Christel-Michel is one name. One initial.  Its not Christel.  It’s Christel-Michel. Force yourself. The people behind my father in line is owed at least that.

Wenchy is who I am or who I became as life happened.  If you love me and can’t imagine your life without me, then it’s Stel. I’m am Afrikaanse boeremeisie at heart and its Aunty Stel if you remotely younger than me and I am very old. 

I do love the name my parents gave me. I do love Wenchy because it holds very dear memories for me. Most of all I just love how you say my name as if it’s just been born.

I wish you enough,
Wenchy

He traveled very far, over land and sea…

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

I wanted this child so very much. I prayed him down from heaven, including asking God that please,  I do not want a boy with red hair! Have mercy. I never found out the gender,  but I was having a boy. My boy.

I wanted to give him the world but my ruby slippers were dusty and instead, life dished us a bone-crushing of a white picket fence.

My Kev was there for every happy and very sad… Every sunshine and every rain,  every peanut butter sandwich and everyone with cheese.  I cringe with heartache when he casually shares what he remembers. I wish he didn’t.

Not long ago I was once again apologising for something I felt I could have done better in his life.  He looked at me with empathy (which he reserves for few, mind you) and said :

“Nancy,  thank you for leaving my father. If it wasn’t for your bravery I would never be where I am today. Those experiences made me who I am now. I am grateful. Thank you. You did good. “

Besides that, I still don’t know why the kid calls me Nancy… I cried. What do you say to that? Sure? Anytime!? Twice on Sunday?

None of my biological or adopted by heart kids are wallflowers. They are all opinionated.  Loud in happiness and sorrow. Very me,  but don’t tell them.  They all want to be their own people. #dammit

Be Kev’s principles right or wrong… or at very least extremely questionable,  you can forget about him changing his mind.  Wonder where he got the stubborn streak from?

Kev did not mention his intention,  nor the design of this tattoo with me. I stumbled across it on Instagram in the middle of the night and looked at it for a long time,  a lonely tear falling down my cheek.

The bear paw (an easy nod amongst to the Gay community) Kev got in remembrance of his Daddy Brian (the second in my long list of husbands – which sounds less exciting than it is, but the father my children deserve), who came into Kev’s life when he was four years old. You do not need DNA to be a Dad.

The butterfly inside the bear paw is for me.  I have a huge butterfly on my right arm representing my kids which is why Kev decided upon the butterfly. Skin colour,  no ink. Thank you, Kev. It means so much to me.

Kev did laugh and say he was thankful we were at least both born in 1973!

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Love is patient,  love is kind and love never questions another man’s ink.

I love you, my boy.

I wish you enough,
Wenchy

One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving.

This blog came up on my Facebook timeline today, and one I would like to share with my loyal readers.

I wish you enough,
Wenchy

The Nocturnal Wenchy

On the banks of the river I sat near the house, under a tree. Close to the water, but not close enough to get wet. I watched Oupa Mike with an old, dirty hat shielding him from the sun on a canoe, chipping green paint in colour,  drifting in the middle of the river as he fished.

The sky would change colour. occasionally he would shift position.  He sat in that tiny canoe for hours and I would observe him and smile. It was wonderful and he was beautiful to me. Even as a child I appreciated solitude and bored was not a phrase I connected with. I never really gave much thought to my sitting watching Oupa, it is just what I did. I was safe, happy and we were alone – but together. Eventually as night came, he would make his way to the bank. I would help him carry his gear back to the house and…

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Friday.

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Long ago,  in a land far away where the sky were less blue and colours were faded, Fridays were hell.

There was a small family living in a pretty house with a little pool and green grass. It seemed peaceful and kind, but on Fridays the colours ran down the walls into the earth. The grass started dying.

A young mom would hold her breathe while smiling to her children assuring them that all was well in the land far away on Fridays.

The mom was naive and held on in hope of change. Hope never visited the land far away with faded colours.

The brown bottle would come on Fridays. It ate colours and stole hope.  It broke promises and told lies. It was not a magical brown bottle. It only did what it’s master instructed.  It showed no mercy to the mom and her children.

For many years the mom lived in fear of Fridays. It stopped her heart by lunchtime as she waited and wished against hope for colour to return.

The colour never came. Only dread.

One day in the land far away with faded colours, the mom decided that her children deserved to see colour,  the smell of the earth after rain and sunshine. It was a difficult and painful choice.

She left Fridays

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I wish you enough,
Wenchy

Posted from the galaxy of Samsung from the second cloud on your left.