An abundance of water isn’t what the Karoo is renowned for, but ice rain, muddy roads, snow and flooding rivers turned Martin Coetzee’s plans for a restful long weekend on its head.

If you plan to go anywhere in the heart of the Cape winter, you better give it some serious thought. Right up to their departure to a farm in the Sutherland area, Martin Coetzee, his son, Marnus, and a friend, Wehahn Geldenhuys, followed the weather forecast with a hawk-eye.

However, as far as the weather gurus were concerned, there was nothing to be worried about. Although they did forecast rain, none would fall at Sutherland. Moreover, there was no mention of snow.

Early one midwinter’s Thursday morning, the unfazed party left Cape Town, where only a few dark clouds were hanging heavily in the sky. Martin picks up the story.

DAY 1: Granddad’s ominous words

With the Land Rover Discovery Td5 packed and the trailer hitched, we set off.
The plan is to drive via Ceres to a farm in the Ceres Karoo, stay overnight and drive over the Ouberg Pass to Piet Moller’s farm, Noudrif, near Sutherland the next day.

Things go hunky-dory, with only light showers here and there. As we enter the Ceres Karoo through the Hottentots Kloof the rain stops and the Disco starts kicking up dust, leaving a long brown trail over the deserted landscape behind us.

However, ahead of us the picture is somewhat different: an ominous darkness on the horizon towards Sutherland and large white plumed clouds racing in our direction.

My late granddad used to say when such white plumes are hanging from a dark cloud mass, big trouble is on its way. Granddad’s words echo in the back of my mind and I get an uneasy feeling, because he was usually right. Fortunately, we are driving in a Disco with new mud tyres, I try to reassure myself.

We arrive safely at the farm Pienaars¬fon¬tein, about halfway between Ceres and Sutherland, before sunset. After a hearty meal and cup of coffee at the warm coal stove, we head for bed. I crawl in under an eiderdown on a bed dating from 1910.

At 2 am a horrendous Karoo storm rudely rouses me from a deep sleep. In the 18 years I’ve been visiting the farm each winter I’ve never experienced anything like it.

The windmill near the house is spinning like the missis’ hair dryer on its express setting. It feels like the wind is about to pick up the roof and drop it miles away. The trusses creak; the thick old stone walls groan.

Then it starts raining, but it isn’t the soft Karoo rain I love so much. It sounds as if the heavy drops are exploding on the corrugated sheets, and I wonder whether we aren’t caught in a Highveld storm.