African paintbrush.

So the weeks fly by.

We spent some time working at a mystical house on the coast. There are Khoisan shell middens close by and the wild birds in the garden all have pet names.

Then off we trundled to my favourite farm.

I had forgotten that pigs were so soulful.

So inquisitive. So hairy.

Roosters pick their way through marguerites and yarrow.

The silkies have Easter card chicks.

The cats and the dogs are as lazy as ever.

Closer to home, I found another golden orb spider - on her golden web.

And at home, even though Autumn approaches, magical flowers bloom.

Other people's laundry, continued.

Cotton Candy Land.

Oh that farm, how I miss it. The people, the animals. The quirks that make it a world apart from the city.

Put it together and take it apart.

We left the farm in dribs and drabs... shooting a little ways down the road, near the single lane bridge.

We'll go back to polish the floors and clear the yard. But for now, we are headed for the hills.

There is an easy camaraderie on film sets. Sometimes it's years before you see someone again, sometimes never. Moments that catch at the heart, the surprising kindness of strangers. Someone walks up to you at sunrise and it looks as if they're on fire. A brawny man with tattoos tells you about the health benefits of celery and reminds you to drink water. The stray dog will always find a home. It's passion and lethargy, gatvolness and laughter.

We put it together and then we take it apart.

By the time I arrived, they were already leaving.

Hester Mathys.

The lady who sweeps.

Bashful and sweet, she told me this morning that she was born on this farm and has lived here her whole life long. When I asked her how old she was, she said: Ek kan self nie sê nie...

(I myself can't say.)

Spiderman on Tuesday.

These names by the roadside are now familiar: Keert de Koe, Botterberg, Capaia, Mesech...

Children wait for the school bus. The mist lies in the lowlands. Every morning a little old lady sweeps the dust around the laborer's cottages with a Bluegum branch.

Always, the washing line beckons. On Fridays there are rows of blue overalls, empty arms and legs flapping in the breeze. Today we dressed the shack of a character who, on Monday, will die in a tree-felling accident. There's a dog who lives in a rusty oil barrel and a small boy who never, ever smiles. His name is Marius. God of War. But they call him Janneman.