Holidays at "Oorsaak"

There was, in those days, a main road from Rustenburg that led in a southerly direction through Kroondal and on towards Pretoria. A farm road branched off approximately ten miles from the town, to the foothills of the Magaliesberg. This was the road that led to "Oorsaak", where my grandparents Taylor lived and where Billy and I, as small boys, spent numerous holidays. In front of the house, my grandmother had her garden and croquet court. Behind the house there were extensive fowl runs and tobacco sheds.

The mountain provided the farm with a stream of water which eventually became a rivulet, more commonly known as a "spruit".  My grandfather was the inveterate fisherman, and from him brother Billy and I acquired our piscatorial skills.

At the time, Grandpa Taylor was the manager of the "Magaliesberg Kooperatiewe Tabakplantersvereniging" (Magaliesberg Co-operative Tobacco Planters' Association") and went into town by car every day.

Billy and I took to fishing in the "spruit". Granny Taylor was always worried that something would happen to us. Her fears were well founded. There were fish in the spruit, to be sure, kurpers and yellows, but they were not easy to come by and in the stream, that was crystal clear, one could see them swimming about in a tantalising way. Fish are perverse creatures and, unlike humans, tend to fight shy of hooks. We would eagerly watch them swimming round and this excitement would reach fever pitch when an occasional biggish yellow appeared on the scene.

It was a case of so near and yet so far, but this proved too much for me and one day I tumbled into the river. All I remember is that I had no sooner landed in the water than Brother Billy, in a rescue bid, also jumped in. There we stood, two little boys, five and seven years old, the water up to our necks.  Neither of us could swim.

When we eventually got back to the farmhouse we were both drenched, and Granny Taylor was most upset. Fishing meant a lot to us and the thought that we could not fish any more was most distressing. I was always regarded as being the one most likely to land in  trouble and Granny Taylor then came up with an excellent idea. With a hank of rope I was tied  to a tree and our fishing continued as usual.

(A few years later I was subjected to the "rope trick" by my mother when we went on a camping-fishing expedition below Hartebeespoort dam.)

Over the weekends Grandpa Taylor would take us to other spots on the river.  The three of us would set off in his motor car, accompanied by his favourite dog, Boel, who occupied a seat in the car. One afternoon we set off as usual, the three of us, or, including Boel, the four of us. Grandpa had landed a few yellows and things were really looking up. But alas, Grandpa went to the basket where he kept the bait, cooked mealiemeal, to find that Boel had eaten the lot. Grandpa was most annoyed. I recall him calling us, telling us to get in, slamming the door and driving off. Boel was left to find his way home.

When Billy turned nine, he was given a pellet gun by one of his uncles. It was a BSA #1. This was of course all very exciting and fitted in nicely with our holidays at Oorsaak. So we arrived on the farm, complete with airgun, for a holiday.

In his own way, Grandpa Taylor was a bit of a disciplinarian and no doubt was quick to recognise that the airgun introduced a new hazard. But he was loath to do anything that would dampen the spi-rits of his young grandsons. We were given permission to use the pellet gun in our minor shooting expeditions, but on no account was it to be used in or about the precincts of the fowl run.

Seen from our point of view, there was a snag. The poultry was obviously fed with mealies in some or other form and it was not only fowls that liked mealies, but also pigeons, or doves as we used to call them. In the surrounding bushes they were not easy to come by. The fowl run seemed to teem with them but this was "verboten" territory.

One Saturday afternoon Granny and Grandpa were resting. It was very hot and there was little to do. Billy spotted a dove in one of the fowl runs, walking among the fowls, and beset by an irresistible impulse,  decided to give it a go. Whenever we went shooting, he would walk ahead and I was always four or five paces behind him. Well, he went up to the fence, put the airgun through the wire and took aim. As he fired, a young rooster put his head up and instead of seeing a dove lie dead in the run, we saw a rooster jumping around with a pellet through his head. I ran away

 Grandpa was furious when the news was brought to him by Granny.

There was always a friendly atmosphere on the farm and Granny and Grandpa used to do all sorts of things to amuse us. That night was a terrible night. Neither Billy nor I wanted to have any supper and did not know which way to turn. On Sunday morning things were much the same.

However, Granny knew her man. When we came in for midday dinner, Grandpa was still looking very stern. That is to say the Sunday midday dinner. The maid came in with a huge plate with golden brown potatoes and in the middle of the plate was the rooster, prepared to a turn. Then followed an icy silence. Grandpa Taylor was a corpulent man and to say the least he enjoyed his meals. In no time, everything had changed and Grandpa was his usual self.

After tea that afternoon, as was our custom, we had a game of croquet. I partnered Grandpa and Billy partnered Granny. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. It was business as usual. The trouble of the last few days was forgotten but really gone and forgotten was the rooster.

Our cousin, Alfie Pitman, used also to spend holidays at Oorsaak. He was a good deal older than us and in a manner of speaking a smart young chap. When Grandpa, Billy and I were out fishing, he would come with us on the trip, but instead of fishing, he would lie under a tree, either sleeping or reading a book.

We noticed that although Grandpa was always friendly and affable to us, there were times when he was a bit offish to Alfie. He appeared to have a soft spot for his barefooted grandsons from the "dorp" (village). We could not quite understand this. After all, Alfie was the son of a Judge of the Supreme Court of South Africa, he had matriculated top in the Transvaal, wore long pants and was about to enter the University to follow in his grandfather's footsteps as an accountant. In modern parlance, things were going for him, yet he did not appear to be persona grata with his granddad.

This worried Billy so much that he one day asked his granny why Grandpa was always so cross with Alfie. Granny's reply was: "Well, you know Grandpa likes fishing and Alfie never fishes."  Apparently Alfie had stated, in grown-ups' company and in the hearing of Grandpa, that he thought that fishing was a fool's game - a major indiscretion.