Beef cattle are ubiquitous in the bushveld, that subtropical woodland ecoregion idealised by so many South Africans as heaven on earth. Many dream of acquiring some acres here or, failing that, gain access on terms that will allow farming on a scale big, small or minuscule.
A herd in red and black, a little white if it has to be, out there among the trees on good grass is every owner’s pride. The bank manager’s share is completely forgotten on weekend days.
No matter whether the breed is sought after, uniform or all sorts. The laboured breathing of a cow lying down on an overfull stomach at sunset is music beyond that of any concertina, even with ticks still in the listeners socks.
Yarns about cattle, hunting, biltong and rugby outlast many campfires. The ruminations of minds fuelled by mampoer are poured into exaggerated narrations, never to be repeated in quite the same form. It goes slowly, as the chewing of the cud by the ruminants waiting unwittingly to be eaten.