“Big Skies” I mumbled, as a striking silhouette traced the skyline and the lacy, sweet, mint-like scent of fynbos hung for a fleeting moment in the air. In the final twilight minutes, immediately before darkness envelops the Swartland completely, when the deep fire-red glow of sunset wanes under the pressure of the heavy inky-black sky, the old wind-battered, scraggy arched trees that dot the mountain top morph into being, high above the Paardeberg vineyards below.
