Picking roses not a cut above ordinary
INTO every holiday a little rain must fall. Literally and figuratively.
Sometimes things fall a little short of expectations. Last week Mom and I hopped into the convertible a la Thelma & Louise and cruised up to Chart Farm in Wynberg to pick roses. This is something I’ve wanted to do for years.
Unfortunately it was a bit of a disappointment.
Sure, the farm is very pretty, with a stunning view of the Constantia mountains and valley. But it’s not the best time of the year for the blooms.
Most of them are already fully open, spotted and tatty. Here you want to harvest tight buds, which are few and far between.
According to their website, they supply secateurs and a bucket for you to gather your flowers. When you arrive you’ll see a sign which says to bring your own shears, which is a bit late. Also, if I live in a flat – or am visiting from elsewhere – what are the chances I would own such an item?
“Oh, that website is so out of date,” said the lady behind the counter. “But here, you can borrow these.”
Thus armed, we headed to the rose garden. Not an ideal situation since we both wanted to pick but could not do so at the same time. There was a bit of healthy competition as we vied to get the best roses. Which, by the way, are quite vicious.
Some varieties have more thorns than others, and I stabbed myself many, many times and swore colourfully. “You should have worn gloves,” said Dad, rather unhelpfully after the fact when we got home.
Pretty as the mixed bunch was that I picked with bloody fingers, I hated them by the end of the day. Furthermore, they are not cheap at R4 a flower.
They live fast, die young, and leave a messy corpse of petals all over the floor within a couple of days. And not all of them have that deep, delicious scent you’d expect from being grown outdoors instead of in a hothouse.
All in all, not highly recommended except perhaps on a Sunday when it’s half price.
There is a restaurant there, and you can buy jams, preserves and chutneys to take home. Oh, and compost, rose bushes, ready picked roses at R5.50 each, and the last of the season’s cherries.
The pale yellow ones are slighly cheaper but not as delicious as the deep red ones which dribble their juice down your chin.
After that we decided to check out Rhodes Memorial, somewhere I haven’t been for decades. I don’t think much has changed except for maybe a few landmarks on the horizon. Like the absence of the Athlone cooling towers which have been gone for more than two years now.
The memorial to Cecil John Rhodes, allegedly modelled after a Greek temple, was designed by Sir Herbert Baker and completed in 1912.
Built from granite quarried on Table Mountain, with eight bronze lions flanking the 49 steps (one for each year of Rhodes’s life) and a bronze statue of a horseman looking out to the northeast, the memorial is now part of the Table Mountain National Park and the start or end point for various hikes.
With his ardent colonialism and master plan for the British Empire to rule the world, Rhodes is not a popular figure with everyone but as a businessman, politician and mining magnate you can’t really argue with his place in South African history. Besides this memorial there are many roads (sorry) named after him, as well as Rhodes University, a monument in Kimberley, and the cottage in Muizenberg where he died is a national monument.
Heck, there was even a country named after him for a while.
Of course, not to forget Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden which, while it does not bear his name, is part of his legacy.
A visit to the memorial is not particularly exciting but there is an amazing view.
Behind the memorial is a restaurant serving breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea.
The memorial is open October to April from 7.30am-7pm, and 8am6pm May to September.
Entry is free.