Babylonstoren

Nestled in the folds of lapping mountains, lies the farm with the interesting name. Babylonstoren. Afrikaans origin and derived from the farm’s original name, ‘Babylon’s Toren’, founded in 1692.

The hillock, or koppie, on the farm reminded of The Tower of Babel and hopefully soon, you shall partake of an extraordinary meal at Babel, one of two eateries, awash with white, close to a sea of lavender.

I have written about Babylonstoren before, and yet find more to say. With every visit, this farm that is more than a wine farm, more than a boutique hotel, a spa or deli, more than a promising day out or an opportunity to study the life of bees, reveals, and steals more of my heart. Babylonstoren is a village of self-sufficiency, filled with happy, proud people. The reasons for her success are too many too single out, facets of well-oiled parts that makes the whole hum together.

My pattern is always the same. It is the leaving in the late afternoon when the mountains change to seashell pink and the light catches the tips of the vines. I want to leave with the sun, when the coolness calms the business, and a sleepy haze descends.

There is lunch. The summer brings the conservatory setting, water mist caressing beneath shade and postcard blue skies. Diners wear hats and drink rosé and speak in different languages and it feels like Provence, but it is right here. Branding of Cape Dutch delft on menus and broken splinters in ponds the children frolic in and adults wish they could, content to dip a toe and giggle for doing it.

Palest of eggs, nestling in indigenous fare, tied with a pretty ribbon.

The Garden salad in a bamboo basket looks like a puzzle of delightful pieces, as bright as the plum cordial in sparkling water. Seasonal hues dictate cuisine and garden colours.

As worst of the heat begins to fade, it is to the garden. Always to the garden. Me wandering through the Patrice Taravalla designed landscape, filled to the brim with shape and structures. Drifts of rosemary, heady citrus, ears of cactus and waterfalls of banksia. Rooms within rooms of guarded produce, calabashes and cycads. The python pebble walk leads to the coolness of clivias, yet to flower and am told the yellow ones have sentimental value to the owner. Soon there will be the yellows, the pinks and the oranges, like tutus blown in a merry ballet.

Throughout homage to history. South African history mingled with European and local stories. Original farm buildings re-invented, new buildings erected in sympathy with them. There is the farm shop, and the deli, the butchery, and the cheese shop, each lovingly stuffed with offerings from the farm.

Wine tasting and the museum. To the perfumery: to soaps, shawls, hand creams and other delights with names like Fynbos, Moss, Clivia and Lavender. Essential oils and salts of palest pink. It will take a long afternoon to fully experience the luxury, yet homeliness of Babylonstoren. A long afternoon of pure indulgence before you gather the wines, the hampers of jams and sourdough. Say goodbye to the donkeys, turkeys and jewelled roosters as you leave with the late afternoon sun. This is a magnificent part of the world, and cossetted by the Simonsburg mountains, she will wait for your return.

My beloved daffodils.

Is it really so?