Elliot and Francis, our two boys, immediately gave it a new name: Weird Farm.
It was July in the hilly scrubland south of Willowmore in the Eastern Cape. A sleety rain fell, and it felt like dusk even though it was midday. We’d left the highway and we’d been following a bumpy dirt track for nearly half an hour, wheels slipping on stone, opening and closing wonky gates, past farm equipment rusting in furrows, through camps of scraggly goats. Now we’d arrived at the “cute farm cottage” that I’d booked on Airbnb.
It was the only accommodation on the two-week road trip that booked. My wife Jess had taken care of the rest, as she usually does, with her uncanny eye for affordability and
