For the last ten days I have stayed away of the mainroads, always riding on lonely backcountry dirtroads, sometimes not more than a jeeptrack. They lead you up fantastic mountain passes and down through colourful canyons, passing extensive bushland and green fields. The farm houses are quiet far apart, many of them abandoned, and traffic is scarce. Some days I barely come across anybody, and just get passed by one or two cars. But you're not alone, everywhere you go, you'll find some sheep. Especially on the grasslands up the mountains they're plenty.
One late evening I was riding through the "Golden Valley" and starting to look out for a place for the night, spoilt for choice as there were to many great options. Do I climb up that little hill and enjoy the vista? Or should I camp over there under the trees, protected from the wind and allowing me to make a fire! Or right beside one of these windmills, providing me with fresh water? Suddenly I got another possibility, a car had stopped and invited me to spend the night on their farm. Just as well, I could need a proper shower and do some laundry.
The farm of about sixthousend sheep is managed by Allen and his wife Denise. Some of the stock are mutton sheep and hold for the meat but most are Merino's and once a year need to get sheered. They going to start the next days and I like to witness this interesting event, not knowing much about where my shirts are coming from. The sheep need to get sorted and organized, not an easy task with this dumb creatures. The wool is about ten centimeters long and cut by the old fashion way by some skilled Africans who travel the area for that job. Then it get assorted to quality and pressed into compact bales before send to Port Elisabeth to the auction.
