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Justin Bonello’s Cederberg hideaway — an escape from the madness in the ancient Red Karoo

Justin Bonello’s eccentric way with a one-egg omelette. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

11 Oct 2024

Barely a fortnight after spending two days and two nights at Justin Bonello’s Cederberg farmstay, I feel like a homesick boy in a school hostel dormitory, longing for home. Could this ever be home to a mere human? Bonello makes it clear and simple: ‘I will die here.’

Where tectonic plates collided to push up great mountains, in the steaming red rocks below the thermal heights of Verreaux’s eagle and jackal buzzards, and where slinky raptors clad in the colours of other worlds dart into ancient sandstone caverns and out of cracks in the earth, humans gather to hide from the madness of a “real” world that suddenly seems as far away as an undiscovered galaxy.

Humans who have never met until now trek here from all directions to meet and commune with a seer, a guru of food and of life, and be a part of his world, just for a while.

We are deep in the Cederberg, as remote as you could imagine, and Justin Bonello is here to prove that it can be a home. And is. It is his rural home, his escape from the monolithic human-made forms of the city, and he is sharing the irregular beauty and majesty of his borrowed mountain terrain with us.

Bonello is more than, and deeper than, the image you may have of him as a television cooking show host. Baste this, stir that. No — it’s the story of what is being basted or stirred that might be the portal to finding the thing worth knowing. The TV shows are his job, or one of them. This, here in the Red Cederberg, is his life. And it is as rich as the iron ochre of the Stadsaal caves a short drive away, where self-important humans of old scrawled their names and the dates of their visit, so that we can be reminded of their now lapsed existence.

The many series Bonello has produced, and the eight books that went along for the ride, are a part of who he is but not anywhere close to the entirety of this rare human and South African. In person, you quickly encounter a seeker and a searcher who has found his perfect world.

“I will die here,” he says in one of his reveries. He is rich with reveries.

The Long Table in Justin Bonello’s kitchen shed on Keurbosfontein farm. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

The longer I dwell in the Karoo — and this is the terrain of the ancient Rooi Karoo or Red Karoo — the more the mountains call to me. I wonder if the birds that flit and chirp everywhere, in every tree at Keurbosfontein, their song never far, may know my soul or yours. Always greet a bird, I tell my children and grandchildren. They are our friends. Strangely, Justin and I talk about just this, in a quiet moment of introspection, looking out at his luxuriant domain.

Birdlife abounds, both wild and domestic. Weaver/finch nests, right, and a very cheeky chappy called One-Eyed Jack, left, whose father pecked his eye out, prompting ‘Jack’ to put him to death, swiftly and violently. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

While writing this, I share this experience with my true brother (in reality in-law but life has made him more than that to me), Gerry Kuhn, whose archaeological and geological knowledge has been helpful in crafting this piece. Gerry tells me that the Cederberg has the highest number of protea and especially pincushion varieties anywhere in the world, and up to 4o fauna species. The valleys that you course on winding graded roads are specked with rooibos tea bushes, saltbush, and the ubiquitous thick thatching reed that explains its use on farm roofs. The tracks you drive on are layered with hematite dust which is spread by the wheels of rumbling 4x4s.

In our family, we have no tradition of camping or hiking. But there is no basic camping involved here, no tents, no pegs knocked into the ground. There are rooms in old farmhouses and outhouses with decent beds and basic comforts, but no electricity, so you don’t need to bring a hair dryer and your cellphone will be neglected. It is a total escape from all of that.

Bonello is Lord of all of this, inasmuch as a mere human can presume to have command of anything as profound as this high mountain terrain that thundered and shifted into place when tectonic plates collided long before tiny humans painted themselves in slaked lime and mixed red daub to leave their mark in elephant shapes to show future humans of their time spent here.

Here, and you may hope not to encounter one, roam Cape leopard, of which about 78 have been logged and registered here and in the Piketberg ranges. At lunch on the first day of our Red Cederberg Escape, Justin shows us a few archeological samples. Tiny seashell shapes in rock 1,200 metres above today’s sea level. A yellowed slab showing proof of glacial flow. A plastic tub holds clear evidence of a fossilised leopard paw print.

Fossilised proof of former life and movement, from left: evidence of glacial flow, leopards (which are still there), and marine beach life. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

But, as ever, I’m here for the food, even though it quickly becomes the punctuation of a weekend of diversion. And cooking, even up here, is as much a part of Bonello’s life as the vegetables he grows in his hand-built tunnel and Sascha the sweet, sightless dog that succumbs to affection whenever she feels a human hand stroke her fur.

The first sight of food is not so much a taste as a story. Justin produces a perfect green leaf and shows it to me. It’s proof of a near forgotten detail of the story of malva pudding, the missing link in the story of a pudding that has become emblematic of rustic South African food. Read my story about malva pudding for a deep trawl of the history of this wonderful dessert, and here we have a very important piece to add to the jigsaw puzzle.

Malva pudding cooked on stones in a potjie, and a malva leaf (inset). (Photos: Tony Jackman)

While his lovely colleagues, Valerie Swartz and Lucinda Williams, are serving a light, cheerful salad of superbly soft calamari and homemade pasta, with tomatoes, black olives and capers, Valerie confirms that in the old days, a geranium leaf (malva blaar) was placed at the bottom of the tin in which the pudding was baked, and its flavour would permeate the pudding. It is entirely credible, passed down in the way that all good food stories come to us: from mother to daughter, father to son. This is evidence enough for me.

This was Friday lunch time, soon after most of us had rolled in after trekking from Cradock, Kenton-on-Sea, Paarl, Constantia and even in one case Johannesburg, some via Ceres, others Citrusdal or Clanwilliam. We had driven on Route 63 via an overnight stop at the Hantam Huis in Calvinia, and ultimately found the Onderhuis at Keurbosfontein Farm, which is home to Justin’s Red Cederberg Escapes and marketed as an exclusive farmstay. Negotiating a narrow road via Algeria, which locals in Clanwilliam pronounced with a rolled Afrikaans “g” with a touch of Malmesbury brei, we finally found the curious settlement of Matjiesrivier, and turned left towards Wuppertal, which is about 20km further on from Keurbosfontein. Valerie later advised us against approaching Wuppertal from this side.

Most enchanting was a roadside lady’s pronunciation of grondpad (gravel road) as we tried to locate the correct road to Algeria and on to Justin’s mountain haven. It’s almost a double brei, in that the “g” is the Afrikaans burr, followed immediately by the French-sounding brei of the “r” — ggg-rrr-ondpad.

Justin holds court while Valerie puts in some elbow grease. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

While Justin is holding court at the long, narrow 10-seater table that is at the heart of this experience, and while Valerie kneads her dough with inspirational vigour, I traipse around this magically rustic space photographing everything in sight.

An old stove and outlandish contraptions on every wall; cooking vessels of many kinds; kudu horns with adjacent canvas sandals. The markers of those who come here now and came here in centuries gone by, to taste the air, smell the greenery, puzzle at the strange redness, and wonder about the small people who were the early human inhabitants and who are here now only in traces of their selves and their times.

An old stove and kudu horns are only two of scores of fascinating things. Everything has a story; point to something and ask Justin if ever you go. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

The following morning, Bonello will take pity on us, the Foodie’s Wife and myself, while he sends most of the group on a five-hour hike to the top of what will be a very cold, windy mountain when they finally reach the summit, and meet a cold front in a hurry to blow them down the mountain again. While they endure this invigorating madness, and are ultimately blessed by views that cannot be paid for and irreplaceable memories, we are given the comparatively easy task of exploring StadSaal, which honours my new iPhone 13 Pro with its aeons-old sandstone caves and alien outcrops.

The pictures say it best…

Justin alights from his Red Cederberg Escapes Land Rover and welcomes us to Stadsaal at the start of our mini hike. Right: C Louis Leipoldt, top, and DF Malan, on the walls of Stadsaal cavern. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

Another view from the magnificence of Stadsaal cave. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

Justin Bonello and Diane Cassere silhouetted in Stadsaal cave, while ghostly signatures of dead prime ministers lurk in the shadows. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

A short drive away from Stadsaal cave is this eyrie where the drive home can be admired through a rocky ‘window’. Left, a captivating crevice seeming to hold ancient secrets. (Photo: Tony Jackman)

But first, there is the Friday night supper and commune at the table and by the roaring fire. As the sun dips below the near mountains to spend a night in commune with ocean vastness and awaken other realms of the Earth for a new day, Justin sets the night time scene in his eccentric man cave. Candles are lit all along the table and on shelves. The fireplace warms the humans settled in armchairs. A small sea of candles flickers on a round table next to an antique gramophone.

Justin lighting candles for dinner, and his light display alongside the old gramophone. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

Justin cleans a series of 78s and places one on the turntable, winds it up and… it’s Nat King Cole, When I Fall in Love. It’s the late 1940s, goosebumps shiver up my arms, and I’m transported to a recording studio in Los Angeles where a strange, long-haired man is standing nervously next to the singer, having brought him a song he hoped he would record. The man is eden ahbez (no capitals, they offended his humility) and the song he was giving, not selling, to the famous singer was Nature Boy. I have written about this extraordinary man and you can read it here.

For supper, Bonello and his left and right arms Valerie and Lucinda have made a delightful two-tone risotto. “It’s yin and yang, sweet and sour,” Justin explains. One half of the dish is green with sorrel, spinach, mustard leaves and parsley, the other orange with sweet potato, carrot and naartjie.

Justin in his self-made vegetable tunnel. A second larger one is under construction. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

This is how good meals are made. What do we have, what are we growing; let’s take a basket to the vegetable and herb tunnel (he’s building a second, larger one) and come back to cook with your spoils. Everything is homegrown, locally sourced, guilt free, real. In time, the meat of the farm animals will find its way to the table; this is only three years old now, and much more detail to come. In the morning, meat goes into a potjie while humans hike to a mountain eyrie. A previously happy and well fed chicken is cooked for lunch.

And boots are on (not necessarily appropriate ones; last evening Justin had glued one hiker’s shoes back together and clamped them overnight) and we lucky ones are taken to Stadsaal, this “city hall” made of mountains once heaved up by nature’s most muscular forces. Here is the great C Louis Leipoldt’s scribbled signature, and here is the complex sign of a young DF Malan who visited here in 1919, long years before the word apartheid was first spoken. Other politicians once signed their names on the cave wall opposite.

The afternoon is whiled away with a visit to nearby Cederberg wines, whose supremely delicious chenin and sauvignon blanc are blessed with the crisp freshness of mountain air and curious terroir. Cellar guide Robin Farmer is a joy to learn from and she and Justin are clearly great mates.

Justin and cellar guide Robin Farmer messing about at Cederberg winery, the country’s highest vineyard and cellar at more than 1,000m above sea level. Yet, once there was sea here. I also bought their extra virgin cold pressed olive oil for R149 a litre. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

Back in the kitchen-dining room-shed, in this space that defies simple description, aromas waft while your feet are allowed to recover at the fireside. Wine is poured, stories are told. This is life, this is living. When I wrote the eden ahbez/Nat King Cole story referred to further up, a colleague from decades past told me that I had somehow managed to suss out the meaning of life. I looked at Justin Bonello that night and knew I was in commune with a man who has learnt how to live. And that it has nothing to do with material wealth.

The convivial fireplace and lounge, left, and Justin in his kitchen element. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

On the second night we are joined for supper by the farm’s owner, Justin’s landlord and friend, Johan van der Westhuizen, a far-seeing man whose eyes tell the stories of his life. The sort of man it’s a good idea to sit down at the fireside and keep filling his glass while he tells you stories. He sips his muscadel and tells me that the table is made of scaffolding planks sourced from a friend from Mossel Bay who took his own life. Justin made the table by hand. This poignant insight recalls the Neil Diamond lyric:

Morningside

the old man died

and no one cried

they simply turned away;

And when he died,

he left a table made of nails and pride,

and with his hands he carved these words inside:

‘For my children’.

The turntable spins us into an evening of laughter and deeper sharing. Friendships and alliances are formed, presumptions are cleared up (“no, he’s with her, not me”), bowls of curried cauliflower and sweet potato soup and wraps of subtly curried lamb are consumed, followed by malva pudding cooked in tins on top of a pool of stones in a potjie. Justin pulls me aside and shows me how he cooks a whole chicken in a potjie: spiked on the narrow centre of a Bundt cake tin, with the potjie upended above it. I tell him about my signature ginger chicken roasted in a potjie.

Clockwise from top left: The calamari salad for lunch after we arrived; two risottos on one plate; roast chicken, and the curried cauliflower soup from the second night’s dinner. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

For breakfast next morning, Justin has promised us his famous way with an omelette. Coffee in hand, I invade the kitchen to find out what and how. “One egg,” he smiles, holding… one egg. I’m not sure if he’s kidding. He’s not. A single egg is whisked, a drop of milk added. A flat carbon steel pan is rubbed with butter the way you would grease a cake tin. On the heat, the egg is poured in and he swirls it like a pancake to fill the pan. A film of egg. Meanwhile, Valerie and Lucinda are cooking sliced mushrooms, chopping spring onions and slicing chèvre.

Justin Bonello’s eccentric way with a one-egg omelette. (Photos: Tony Jackman)

Justin piles some mushrooms in the middle of the egg and adds spring onions and bits of goat’s cheese. Then he brings the egg in from the edges, folding it over from all sides. Finally, he flips the little omelette and garnishes it with edible flowers. A mini masterclass in a mini omelette. “I can make more if you like,” he says as if I might disapprove.

Who could disapprove of such art, especially in this ancient little corner of a troubled wider world? Justin Bonello’s Red Cederberg Escape is a break to soothe the aching heart, and from the heartbreak of a world gone mad. Life is being lived here. On occasion, I might join him in that, for succour and for what it really is.

Escape. DM

More at Red Cederberg Escapes online.

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