Ryan O'Connor


Father’s Day, in my mind, starts with one thing: a slow, indulgent breakfast with mountain views and zero dishes. Cue Grande Roche in Paarl – peaceful, classy, and just far enough from home that it feels like a cheeky escape, but not so far that the kids can’t tag along.
My wife Karen and our two daughters, Faith and Erin, would join me – though if I’m honest, the real star lately is our 8-week-old Rhodesian Ridgeback, Roxy. She’s a hurricane disguised as a puppy: cute, energetic, and permanently surprised by her tail.
Post-breakfast, we’d roll into Franschhoek (because Father’s Day calls for wine country logic) and take a slow walk through the village before popping into Le Franschhoek Hotel & Spa, where I swear there’s always a room with my name on it – even if I’m not staying the night, it just feels like home.
From there, a relaxed lunch – somewhere dog-friendly, kid-friendly, and ideally nap-friendly for Dad. Maybe Haute Cabrière or a cheeky picnic-style affair. Roxy would steal half the charcuterie board, and I’d pretend not to notice.
The afternoon? A drive back over Helshoogte Pass, some bad karaoke from the back seat, and one very sandy, sleepy puppy. Then home, pizza, a family movie, and me nodding off halfway through Toy Story 3, mid-slice, mid-sentence.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not quiet. But it’s mine – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.