The scene is a mountain village. Grapes, wine, leiwater, roses and thatch. The day was hot, bougainvillea in brilliant colours shaded broekie-lace stoeps. Roses tumbled across walls and gardens in gay abandon: huge blooms in full summer dress, like Edwardian ladies at a garden party.
A small restaurant, hidden in a lush garden, lured us in over polished clay tiles to a vine-covered patio. It was quiet there, peaceful. Just birdsong and a hidden trickling stream.
The wine arrived light and chilled, followed by smoked chicken salad, mounds of crisp lettuce, cucumber, baby tomatoes all glossy with olive oil, and crusty seed bread.
A French couple sat nearby, deeply engrossed in their aromatic bobotie and sambals