More recent travel related episodes​ (chronological)

1. Karoo pub crawl - 2016
2. Scottish Serendipity - 2019
3. Around South Africa in 144 days in the time of Covid - 2021/2022
4. Three venerable jollers hit France and Spain - 2022
5. Random day trips
   1. Lacock
6. South African road trip 2024 (would-you-take-your-friends-to-south-africa-introduction.html)
   1. traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-1.html
   2. traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-2.html 
   3. traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-3.html
   4. traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-4.html
   5. traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-5.html
   6. traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-6.html

Above: Nothing wrong with the sunsets on the Weskus[1]. Rather fitting for our last full evening in South Africa.

Fortunately the sour preceded the sweet. Having had four weeks' traversing this spellbinding country and its hospitality that had been hard to beat, it would probably have been spooky if there hadn't been one bad egg.

We probably should just have stayed one extra night in our lovely Tintagel Guesthouse on the Tamboerskloof/Gardens border but I had made the decision to spend at least one day with an outlook over False Bay in the kinda Bohemian nook of St James/Kalk Bay. A bit of seawater swimming not quite as freezing as the other side of the Cape Peninsula where the Benguela current charts its course from the Antarctic to the Equator.

Our day started with morning coffee and a swim. There is a pleasant walled pool between the two communities at Dalebrook. It is fed by the False Bay tides and we had our delicious swim having waited an inordinate amount of time for coffee at what was to be our home for the next 24 hours or so. Admittedly we had arrived very early and we made allowances but the restaurant was open to non-residents so it shouldn't have been problem. The place looked nice, though, and we consumed our fast-cooling condiments philosophically.

We were joined by friends, Viv and John, for the swim and a light lunch and spirited conversation in the vicinity and after they had to leave took in the interesting cornucopiae of Kalk Bay. We eventually returned to our Sonnekus "Boutique Hotel and Bistro" at a time that should have been acceptable to be admitted to our room. Upon our arrival we were informed that there'd been a flood on the first floor where we were to be housed and that the carpet was having to be replaced as a result.

Shit happens. We were ushered into a small lounge area for "about half an hour". A couple of hours and some erratic excuses later we were admitted to our rooms. I think Sián's and Roger's was OK but ours had nothing to recommend it. Apart from the fact that the hall carpet was still being replaced, which required incursions into Shan's and my room every time we thought it was safe to use the facilities, it became increasingly obvious that the "flood" had been a fairy tale. The carpet in our room was stained and sticky under foot and there seemed to have been no intention of replacing that that day.

Worse, though, were the facilities. I am aware that it seems de rigueur in some establishments these days to have some degree of open plans to the bathing and sleeping arrangements but it was de trop for Shan and me, especially with that degree of openness! It might be mildly titillating to catch a glimpse of one's beloved through the frosted glass of a shower but there are, as we all (well most people I know, know anyway) know that there are some ablution sequences that can be less than sociable or titillating. There is a photo below of the extent of the gap into the bathing area and of the close proximity of the bed to the lavatory. One wouldn't want ...

On a lesser note, the bathroom fittings were tatty and some were broken.

We departed with some relief to our chosen dinner destination, the Brass Bell in Kalk Bay. It was fun and we had a hoot being observed eating our seafood under the close observation of a seagull. Fortunately there was glass separating us, otherwise he'd have had a feast.

Above: (top to bottom, l-r) me doing a spot of crawl across the tidal pool with Roger checking on his wife; our lav in full view from the bed; cocktails overlooking False Bay at last; seagull envy.

We returned from the Brass Bell for a reasonably peaceful night albeit with one partner or the other having to leave the room and stand on the landing on various occasions. In the morning we'd decided to put it all behind us and relax over breakfast before heading off for our last destination.

After all we'd had a fabulous holiday and one bad egg wasn't going to spoil the feast. 

But no. It wasn't to be. We'd travelled the length and breadth of South Africa having booked mainly through Booking.com with the payments being handled adroitly and often on departure. Always slick. Always underlining the hospitality ethos that exists just about everywhere. But no. The Sonnekus had decided to use a different payment method and then got aggressive because we hadn't paid in advance. I immediately proffered my credit card, thinking that would resolve the issue but, no again, they'd have to get confirmation that my credit card was OK. Their system demanded it. No other system in SA demanded it. At this point the "manager" retreated, never to be seen again. We just wanted our breakfast and to continue our wonderful adventure. 

Eventually a manager's proxy appeared and was aggressive towards us but, having heard our story, came around to our way of thinking so I'm sorry she got caught up in this. But I'm also sorry that Siân, Roger and Shan ended up with an hour-late cold breakfast. It was small comfort that the breakfast was provided on the house, insisted on by Shan.

That was our only experience of the kind. We still had a fab interlude to follow ...

​Leaving Cape town

The spectacular (all but unique) Cape Town scenery with its the juxtaposition of  mountains and sea always leaves one with a pang when bidding farewell. Dinner in the Brass Bell had allowed us the penultimate angle on the panorama and we paused in our 45 km circumnavigation of the city and its suburbs for an emotional peroration ...

Above; (l-r) The mountains crowding the sea on False Bay in the moonlight as seen from Kalk Bay; Looking back from whence we came with Devil's Peak, Table Mountain and Lion's Head in a familiar landscape that epitomises the Fair Cape ... although a telltale plume of smoke from the Head was a reminder of the dryness and heat typical of a February Cape experience.

​So now we're on our last leg, a petit detour up the West Coast to show off one of the last reasonably preserved[2] whitewashed fishing villages in the country ...

For some reason Paternoster has become a bit of a watchword for excellent restaurants. Of course Wolfgat[3] has put the cherry on the top in recent years but there are quite a few others, including Die Gaaitjie, The Noisy Oyster, Voorstrandt and Wolfgat's predecessor Oep ve Koep, all of which pre-dated Wolgat by quite some time in providing haut cuisine to the seaside town's lucky visitors.

Sadly the cherry's international status and its tiny size has made it almost impossible to obtain a seat at the table and we were unlucky this time. Although I, at least, had been lucky enough to sample Kobus's cuisine on two earlier visits, sharing the occasion with Shan on the first of those.

Above: (top 3) our first visit to a van der Merwe establishment in 2014; (middle 3) this time in 2016 with Federico Tibone at Wolfgat; (bottom l-r) No room in the Wolfgat inn in 2024; at the Voorstrandt where the food was a little more basic but the view was equally stunning. 

Our accommodation in Paternoster was a short walk from the Voorstrandt restaurant and was a fitting venue for our last couple of nights. Close to the beach with plenty of space and tastefully decorated our only complaint was that the cooking facilities were too posh for us to figure out properly ... none of the 4 of us had ever come to grips with Miele electrical appliances before. Not that that was much of a problem given the surfeit of decent grub in Paternoster's dining establishments.

And Sián got a proper swim in the sea for the first time on the trip on our all but private beach. Even she didn't stay in for very long, though, with no wetsuit and the brass monkey temperature of the Benguela Current. Roj stayed on shore to protect his block and tackle.

Paternoster tranquility

Above: (clockwise from top left) a sunny nook in our spacious accommodation at Bougain Villa; our path to the sea; Sián's private beach; Gaaitjie - the restaurant that got away - if only we'd had another night;

​​Of course Paternoster is not entirely a re-pristined resort and does still retain some of its fishing legacy which is a source of income for locals and of delicious plates for visitors.

While we dined we entered into a pre-nostalgia phase. The holiday was coming to an end and we began to ruminate on what now seemed to have whizzed by. The inevitable questions came up. Had there been any low points?

Honestly there really hadn't been apart from our recent one night in the crappy hotel in St James and resolved that even that hadn't been so bad as Sián's and Roger's room had passed muster. So we'd spent 4 weeks in a country that often draws a bad press from inside its own borders, and a little less so from the outside world, and we'd had a ball. We were sad to be going home. We reminisced over our highlights and pretty much came to a unanimous opinion of what the top two had been, the ones that had stood out above so many other enjoyable adventures. And there were also the other places we'd missed out on and the wine-provoked conversations of what might still be to come.

More of this conversation will be revealed after a quick pictorial roundup of Paternoster and a thoughtful meander back to Cape Town airport for our flight home.

The business end of Paternoster

Above: the day to day activities of the real people in Paternoster

Alongside: It did come to my notice that my good mate, Roj, had developed beer envy while we were in Paternoster.

Meneer Starr had taken it upon himself to place a few proprietary fingers around my pukka pint when the camera came out. Presumably in the hope that he wouldn't be copped drinking what South Africans deem as a beer, i.e. Darling Brew in a half-sized container.

​Of course drinking fizzy pop was perfectly acceptable in the sunshine but there were the occasional artisan beers in the remoter parts of South Africa that invited attention and this particular one was genuinely quaffable.

Our last evening took us to the Noisy Oyster, which was Shan's choice over Gaaitjie. A good choice it was too and I must confess that the children's pies were particularly tasty when consumed in concert with some really rather fancy South African wines. Apparently our Friday evening repast had been uncharacteristically quiet owing to some sort of festival that night at Tietiesbaai 7 km away. We dared not ask.

Above: hopefully the top two shots speak for themselves; in fact the moonscape probably does too although I seem to remember we were a day off a completely full orb.

Our final day was a little subdued. Maybe the wine contributed but we weren't really ready to go home. We chose to have a slow meander back to Cape Town airport with a sneaky fillip in Darling, home of Pieter Dirk Uys. Pieter's alter ego was Evita Bezuidenhout, ambassadress of Bapetikosweti, the chimeric existence of an ephemeral "Bantustan[4]". His satire was much enjoyed during the years that South Africans were trying to shrug off Apartheid.

​Actually Darling was a little surreal and had made the best of the artiness that survived Uys's sojourn in the town. We found the delightful Old Forge where we enjoyed a desultorily drawn-out delicious lunch over a few hours before commencing the final 130 Km to Cape Town International Airport. Our pace back was as fitful as the weather as we diverted to the splendid Jordan Wine Estate where, out of respect for the driver (yours truly), we confined ourselves to coffee while contemplating the beauty of the surroundings and our own thoughts of the 4 weeks past.

Heading home

Above: (l-r) perhaps the weather at the Jordan Wine Estate was a harbinger for what we would encounter on our return; what we did encounter on our return ... at the lovely Gatwick Airport.

When you return from a fabulous holiday with the dearest of friends nostalgia takes over and wistful conversations occur in which future plans are discussed and liberally toasted. Maybe something will take place again one day, maybe not. South Africa again? Or maybe Southern Africa. Or maybe Spain, Italy, Scandinavia or Greece? Only time will tell ...

Contemplations

So we did contemplate some sort of reprise that got at least as far as an informal poll during a splendid meal in Oxford ... the outcome was unanimous. The highlights of a varied and much enjoyed road trip had been:

• Nieu Bethesda - https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-4
• Fugitives Drift - https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/traversing-south-africa-by-road-part-2

But the whole trip had been almost unremittingly splendid, between the four of us and with the friends and relatives we spent time with along the way.  But maybe we just ought to be spicing up any future visits with destinations that had been omitted from our 2024 sortie. None of us is getting any younger.

But where? Well, the following may be few locations to conjure with:

• Okavango
• Deadvlei
• Lesotho
• Transkei/Wild Coast
• By 'eck petal, there's a long list when you think about it ...

Coming next

I guess that's the end of a holiday so perhaps a tale of three[5] 2024 elections ... or maybe not? In the mean time there's a reprise below of the lekker picture from the beginning of this series[6]
​
[Endnotes]:

1. Afrikaans name for the West Coast
2. Actually there are a lot of preserved buildings in Paternoster and also a lot of new ones and the latter almost exclusively follow the original vernacular.
3. It won a "best restaurant in the world" award for its owner, Kobus van der Merwe, in 2019.
4. Essentially an extended black ghetto in the Apartheid years, euphemistically referred to as "Homelands" during those years.
5. France was on the brink when "going to press" so maybe 4. 
6. Setting out ... https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/would-you-take-your-friends-to-south-africa-introduction

Above: Classic shot by Shan of the view from Table Mountain across the city to Robben Island.

Actually, "pottering" is probably the wrong word. The schedule was full, seeing the sights and catching up with various dear people. Not just Shan's and mine this time, Siân and Roger also had old acquaintances to catch up with in Sea Point. But first things first. Table Mountain. And make that early to avoid the traffic.

Table Mountain

I'd been up this mountain several times over the preceding half-century and a few things had changed.

First the cable car is arguably a lot less scary. Certainly less flimsy. Today's cable car is a large round bubble that revolves so that its occupants get a 360 view; from the bastion itself, looming above, to the grand Lion's Head and further to the city below with Robben Island in the background.

Then the lower station has been modernised and much enlarged.

But most of all, the hordes of people. Happily we were staying just down the road in Gardens and managed to beat most of them to it. Even so, parking was only just doable. There is a picture below illustrating this. We had to park seemingly miles away and walk back to the lower station where it was obvious they catered for much much more voluminous crowds than were there for an early start so, luckily, we were ascending in almost a thrice, the upper station looming like some Gothic fortress.

Once you're up there the area is so large that crowds disperse in various directions and it is perfectly possible to contemplate the grandeur in relative solitude. First of all the retro-view looking back from whence we'd come, depicted in the banner photo at the top of this blog.

Above: [top to bottom l-r] the view on the way up with the intrepid walkers like ants below - we pitied them, the day was already getting fearsomely hot; the overflow parking on road below - our car was on the extreme right; the mountain top is famous for its flora, the first is a lesser orchid of sorts; then a blue Disa orchid - sadly we didn't get to spot the fabled Red Disa Uniflora this time; two pictures of plonkers - more about them in the text below; a back view from Table Mountain down to Camps Bay; there is something almost biblical about Roj reaching out here to Siân; pictures of Siân and Shan reflecting on the visit on our way down.

As mentioned, the substantial plateau on the top of the mountain allows for a network of pathways with a good circular walk which takes visitors, eventually, back to the cable car and rewarding them with vast views of the Atlantic. On the city side there are some smallish parapets but most of the area is bounded by plunging cliffs with and without barriers. Going over the edge would be easy and sudden and result in certain death. 

So back to the plonkers. This lot was taking it in turns to stand right on the edge to pose for photographs and abounding with braggadocio. Happily none of them went over ...

By the time we got back to the bottom of the cableway the queue of people had exponentiated and stretched down the road to the East. They were going to be standing in the heat of the middle of the day for hours. Rather smugly we found our car and set off for Kirstenbosch.

Kirstenbosch

Most visitors to Cape Town will visit Table Mountain at some time or another. I suspect, despite its popularity and status of botanical world renown (and this might be cause for debate), not quite as many visit Kirstenbosch. A lot do, but its global impact is even more significant than the mountain behind it.

If Kirstenbosch has a raison d'être, this is it in a nutshell for me:

Above: [top to bottom l-r] this sign just captured what Kirstenbosch means to me - not just cycads but they are symbols of the philosophy of the place; a "forest" of cycads; cycads and a gentle stream; the boardwalk across the forest canopy is a thrill; peace in the forest.

It is also cool in the shade.

That aside there is an extraordinary collection of plant species, both indigenous and from around the world, cultivated in formal gardens and in areas of natural forest and open fynbos. This excerpt from the South African Natural Biodiversity Institute (SANBI)[1] about Afromontane Forest particularly grabbed my imagination of the call of Kirstenbosch:

"Afromontane Forest, meaning mountain forest of Africa, covers about 0.5% of Africa and occurs in isolated pockets, like a series of forest islands, in the mountains of the Western Cape, up the east coast through the Drakensberg to Limpopo and through Africa to the Arabian Peninsula. Forests need rich soil and high rainfall, which is why they are usually found only in well-watered kloofs (ravines) and south-facing slopes. Afromontane forest is dominated by evergreen trees that can reach up to 30 m in height.
​
"At Kirstenbosch forest is found in the kloofs and on the slopes below the highest peaks. The oldest and largest trees can be found between Skeleton and Nursery Streams. Thousands of trees were felled for timber in the late 1600s and 1700s, then alien timber trees were planted, reducing the forest even further. The Kirstenbosch forests have been protected since the Garden was established in 1913. In the 1960-70s alien species were eradicated and the forests left to regenerate and recover naturally."

​And now for a joll[2]

​Cocktails and dinner in Gardens/Tamboerskloof - we'd felt guilty enjoying the Kloof Street House cocktail bar without Shan the evening before and were determined to repair there after a revitalising nap and shower. What a great decision, following which we segued up Kloof Nek Road to the Miller's Thumb, a delicious seafood restaurant owned by one of Shan's oldest friends, Jane, and her husband Sol Solomon.   

Suitably replete we retired to the Tintagel for a regenerative kip in preparation for the next day of our Cape Peninsular-in-two-days sojourn.

Above: Cocktails before dinner at the Kloof Street House.

Cape Penguins and Points

The Western Cape province is home to two shore-based penguin colonies, one at Stony Point Nature Reserve next to Betty’s Bay in the Cape Overberg and the other at Boulders Beach next to Simon's Town on the Cape Peninsula. Another place I'd visited more than 5 decades ago when it was all pretty informal and you could just kinda wander about[3].

Now it is an industry with boardwalks and ticket offices and all the accoutrements of modern tourism but you can't take it away from the penguins, they are fascinating creatures and are seemingly imperturbed by the phalanx of paying guests admiring them from the walkway above.

Above: [l-r] I say, Penelope, fancy a dip ... nah ... Patrick how about a race to the rocks ... too much hassle, mate; Sián and Shan discussing the habits of penguins.

I think I identified my friends' aunt's old house at Boulders but I couldn't be sure. There's a whole industry going on down there these days.

So off we went to Cape Point, another popular tourist stop. When one gets there it is easy to believe that it's sitting at the extreme Southern point of Africa but we'd already been to Agulhas, which is nowhere near as grand and dramatic. Siân and Roger walked about as far along the point as is practical and took in the vast stretches of the Atlantic Ocean which is a pretty much uninterrupted seascape until it reaches the shores of Antartica 4,200 kilometres away

Above: [l-r] The Cape Point lighthouse showing distances to far away continents; Siân glancing around from a 4,200 km stare.

When you travel in South Africa you expect to see the biggest concentration of game in the North-East. We'd promised our Faringdon friends all sorts of things in abundance so it was a tad ironic that we got to the South-Western point of the continent before spotting a few special beasties. Actually we had seen a couple (literally) of moth-eaten ostriches on the east of the Breerivier near Malgas but it wasn't until Cape Point that we saw them in any quantity or putting on any antics like the chaps below.

​An Eland also chose his moment as we were driving slowly past.

Above: [top to bottom l-r] Ostriches can be artful comics and here were two of a flock putting on a bit of a show; Eland, too, the world's biggest antelope, had been hiding from us but here they were, one of them extremely au naturel, as we were completing our journey; Bontebok are a little rare but there we were bumping into this (rather scrawny) fellow in the Cape Point Nature Reserve; heading up Chapman's Peak Drive towards one of the open-side tunnels holding up the rock as you pass under it; from the top a view down to Hout Bay; Shan in almost the exact same spot getting on for 45 years previously.

What was really weird was an almost dearth of baboons wherever we went in SA. We'd regaled the Starrs with "baboons everywhere" tales of hordes and antics​ and they just never materialised. Not in any numbers, anyway! The whole way around South Africa! Our friends were disappointed.
 
It was fitting to head back to Cape Town via Chapman's Peak Drive with its splendid vistas and rich history including being the nemesis of many a cyclist in the world's biggest cycle "marathon'. The event, which draws around 30,000 participants is still referred to as "the Argus" despite having been renamed to the anodyne Cape Town Cycle Tour. And "Chappies" is the high point in terms of the challenge with its 144 curves over 9 km ... with energy-sapping climbs on the way up and death-defying descents on the way down. The "Drive" was constructed 100 years ago and since then has provided Capetonians and visitors alike with breathtaking views of its vast panoramas. 
 
We were lucky to take the drive on a relatively quiet day and were able to stop at the top to take in the view of Hout Bay and the Ocean beyond. Our stop provoked a memory of an outing on the cusp of 1979/80 when Shan and I first traversed the route together. The romance of it was enhanced by the fact of our first trip away from our Durban home together. It was before we were married and my gorgeous now wife of almost 44 years had only been allowed to make the trip because there were not one but two chaperones in the form of her sister, Kerry, and of my own sister, Sue, both of whom allowed us a lot of latitude.

Last night in Cape Town

For the first night of our month-long trip the Starrs and Harrisons went their separate ways; Roger and Siân to friends in Seapoint and Shan and me to meet up with the son of friends who, at 25, was resuming his pursuit of a PhD at UCT[4]. We hadn't really got to know Finn (Kinnear) as we had lived on opposite sides of the world all his life. But the sad demise of his Dad, one of my closest friends, Tony (A.K.A. Norman or Spike) from cancer a few months earlier had meant we'd spent a fair time together, a fair bit of it engaged in philosophical banter, occasionally lubricated by some of the finer wines South Africa has to offer.

​We met at Maria's Greek Cafe on the opposite side of the Gardens suburb of Cape Town for a pukka Greek meal and my dear wife, as is her wont, set the atmosphere of friendly intimacy immediately. Conversation alternated between amusing trivialities and some meaty serious stuff. It was over all too soon and needs a replay before long, possibly in the UK. Finn's Mum, Camilla, might even beat him to it ...

*Hermanus to Tamboerskloof via Franschhoek ​

Above: the world's tiniest label - on a magnum ... answers on a postcard (blog comments will do).

A big chunk of this snapshot in our 4,500 km journey was to indulge moi in sharing some wine with Francois. Saturday was dedicated to heading over to Paarl from Franschhoek to revel in a bit of bacchanalia.

This had been supposed to be to thank Francois (Haasbroek) for his generosity the previous time we met at his temporary (winery) home at the De Meye Wine Estate near Klapmuts.

He was generous with his time accorded to a couple of wine lovers with few credentials. When I say time I mean half a morning and a good deal of an afternoon. And in that time we tasted a dozen wines. Not just a whiff and a sip but a decent proper go at each one, a proper slug. But two people[1] having a proper slug left most of the 12 bottles, to all intents and purposes, full.

So then, just as Shan and I were about to drive off, Francois appeared bearing a large box. In it were the remains of the 12 bottles; at least 8 litres of very fine wine indeed. He insisted we take it and we delighted our relatives in Hermanus for more than a week with his generous gift.

We then conducted a protracted intermittent conversation about acquiring a proper consignment of his 2017 Syrah that was soon to be bottled. However, even once it had been bottled, there was an issue with the labels. Apparently these had to come from some wizard in Oz and there was difficulty with the shipping. So I managed to get him to agree that I could make up a label just for my bottles so that I could transport them to the UK.

Having been labelled and photographed a mutual friend let it be known that, in her opinion, the labels cheapened the wine. Perhaps that was true, and you can be the judge, but Francois was quick to make it known that I could design his labels "any time", bless him.

Above: [l-r] a picture taken by Shan at De Meye in November 2021; one of the offending bottles, now in the UK, waiting be drunk along with some perhaps more soberly labelled bottles from Francois' cellars.

Getting to Paarl

Shan was really keen that we travel via Sir Lowry's Pass to Franschhoek where we'd be staying for the two nights on either side of our Paarl excursion to Noop[2]. The obvious way to make the journey from Hermanus was via the Franschhoek Pass, which was my preference, particularly as it's one of the most beautiful passes in Southern Africa.

"But I want Sián and Roger to experience the view over the Cape Flats to Cape Town as we crest the mountains at the top of Sir Lowry's," she argued. Shan won. The flipping roads department had only closed the Franschhoek Pass for the whole of February, hadn't they? They must have known I was coming!

Of course I have to concede that the view from the top of Sir Lowry's is pretty spectacular the first time you see it. I think Siån and Roger were suitably impressed.

Franschhoek, as with many other destinations in South Africa (and indeed the world), has changed almost beyond recognition in the last few decades. Not always for the better to my mind. Traffic is rather hectic for starters. Fortunately we could ditch our car at our Guest House and reach the centre of town via a reasonably gentle walking route.

The centre now has restaurants and shops galore. While there are pretty decent places to buy stuff, there are also serried ranks of shops selling "South African" artefacts, many (if not most) of which are made in the Far East. As I said, there are exceptions but the place does have a bit of a Disney-esque feel about it, right down to the Wine Tram, itself not an unreasonable addition to a town dedicated to wine and drinking but  ...

Above: [l-r] Groovy Kloof St complete with plastic proteas; retiring from the fray; we're just as bad; beverages for the evening - some of them a tad quirky.

... the first picture above kind of epitomised things for me: the everlasting mountains as backdrop to an elegant piece of Cape Dutch architecture, in turn providing the background for a chap sitting in his SUV, windows open with a phone call turned up full blast on the sound system and with the driver shouting to be heard, while a forlorn vase of plastic proteas tries valiantly to epitomise the Western Cape.

In fairness to the pretty town, the others seemed to really enjoy it: "It's really buzzy," Shan approved.

And so to Paarl and Noop

Francois had recommended Noop and jolly fine it was, too, particularly priding itself on its wine list. As mentioned above Shan and I wanted to thank the man for treating us so royally in 2021.

While confirming details that day before, he suggested he'd raid his cellar and bring a few interesting wines.

"'er Francois, this is our treat."

He seemed to accede but turned up with three bottles anyway, including the magnum with the tiniest label. There were 5 of us for lunch (sadly his wife was unable to make it)! In the end we were only allowed to contribute the Vin de Constance that we are seen sipping in the pic below.

The Noop food was indeed special, though: memorable dishes included crispy free-range roast duck followed by tonka bean créme brûlée and pine nut brittle ice cream with cacao nib soil finished off with a brandy snap. I guess we'd have to return to Paarl to repeat that sublime dessert.

Salut, Francois - next time maybe if we can lure you out of your neck of the woods we can also provide the vino ... 

Above: [l-r] Vin de Constance creates a warm haze at the end of our meal; uplifting shot at Boschendal by Roj.

Let's see if Roaminations' small coterie of aficionados can name the world's smallest label wine in the comments below. There are a few readers who might rise to the challenge ...

A gathering of the clan

Another quiet post-prandial evening in Franschhoek followed, going over preparations for our upcoming assault on Cape Town.

But, before that we were to take part en route in an Eriksen family gathering  at Blaauwklippen[3], a wine estate near Stellenbosch that holds a very well attended "family market" on Sundays. Shan's mother was an Eriksen, you see, and there's a fairly formidable clan around SA, even when a good number of them are, of late, dispersed over a Norwegian/South African diaspora splattered around the globe.

​For those 20-or-so who could make it, chairs were set out on a beautiful lawn in the shade of an oak tree and clan-members scattered into the market to procure victuals and libations while recent experiences were shared until, all too soon it was time to return home to diverse destinations in the Western Cape.

Above: Where's Wally Dodger ... only just over a year ago it would've been 4 generations with an actual Eriksen matriarch, the much revered Judith[4] in attendance. Sadly the 2024 gathering was down to three but they were a handsome lot.

Finally we get to Cape Town

Shan and I were returning to the Tintagel Guesthouse in Gardens (bordering on Tamboerskloof) and hoping that Siån and Roger would feel at home there as much as we had the first time around. I think they did. It's a little gem in the metropolis and walkable to many of Cape Town's delights.

Above: [l-r] a charming outdoor patio at Tintagel looks in on a more formal dining area; one of its sympathetically maintained bedroom suites.

One of those delights is a block away in Kloof Street and is sort of comfortably Bohemian in its own way. After a short late afternoon break the Starrs and I were raring to sample the nearby amusements but Shan was tired out after her long squawk with the assembled relatives. While she demurred in the obvious comforts of the Tintagel, the three of us sauntered out to sample Cape Town's fleshpots.

Above: a couple of the more racy establishments on Kloof Street.

We didn't get any further than Kloof Street. Abstaining from the obvious charms of the local dagga[5], we soon spotted THE most delightful bar.  The Kloof Street House's charms are immediately obvious from the pavement below, from the foliage festooned terrace up a short flight of stairs to the tastefully maintained Victorian entrance another short flight further up. And the deeper you penetrate the old house the better it gets.

Only one snag: the rest of Cape Town's also aware of it and are appreciating its charms. Booking was essential except at the central bar, itself heaving but worth a little perseverance. We did manage a cocktail but felt guilty that Shan wasn't present and resolved to return the next day ...

Coming next

We do some justice to the Cape Peninsular and the penultimate chunk of our traversal of South Africa from its game-rich North East to its Winelands and imposing walls of mountains of the South West.

[Endnotes]:

1. Actually Shan, a.k.a. Shelley-ann, only tasted a few wines as she had valiantly volunteered to drive
2. Noop restaurant in Paarl ... https://www.noop.co.za/​
3. Fire on April 7, devastating damage to the 300-year-old Manor House and two other buildings but limited reopening of less-damaged buildings are planned to resume business in May, 2024
4. Remembering Judy ... https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/fputn/judy-never-to-be-forgotten-1929-2012
5. Also known as bhang, cannabis, dope, hashish, hemp, ganja, hash, joint, reefer, roach, weed ...

Above: Roger in a dark cave peering out at the sunlit Indian Ocean.

Shan likes caves and she likes the sea. She also loves skipping over rocks. So it was a no-brainer that our first assignation on our first morning in Arniston would be the Waenhuis Grot (Waggon House Cave).

Waenhuis Grot

I'd been in there on a previous visit and had shed copious amounts of blood clambering on the rocks where Shan would now skip. I waited outside while Shan and Roger forged ahead with Sián looking a little apprehensive.  Sián was the first to return and then Roj arrived looking suitably amazed.

The Waenhuiskrans Cave is cavernous. In fact, it is allegedly named after its space. Apparently early discoverers of this spot had the idea that a wagon and a full span of oxen could turn around inside it. Of course there was no way of testing this theory given the challenges of getting an oxen or cart down there in the first place (unless the strandlopers had access to huge submarines that we were unaware of).

After gingerly making one's way across the rocks, which hug the edge of the cliffs and with rather tentative support for fingers, your perorations will bring you to a small opening beneath a rocky overhang, which takes one into the cave proper. 

​Except that the first chamber one encounters is not actually the cave proper and once inside there is more, much more.There is another, bigger cavern where one's eyes will need to adjust to the gloom, but then the cave's dimensions are impressive. The tide spills into the cave with its floor of rocks and pebbles. One's eyes gradually focus on the magnificent views out over the ocean.

Having completed the internal tour of the grot the adjacent cove is a cornucopia of delights, too, with pools of anemones and fish and it is tempting to dally awhile before embarking on the climb out of the cove, which is more suited to mountain goats and klipspringers[1]. 

Above: [top l-r] the beautiful but ankle-bending rocky cove alongside the Waenhuis Grot; there be little fishies in that pool; [bottom l-r] Klipspringer-in-chief, Shan, has bounded to the top of the ascent to catch us in motion; having gained the cliff top path a mini-grot smiles, tantalisingly, from below. 

Hazing on a sunny afternoon

It was too tempting after concentrated travelling to turn the remains of the day into a lazy, restful indulgence. We'd rushed out to the cave to make sure we got there for low tide as access became hazardous and then impossible as the tide came in. But now we (well the other three) had drunk from its pleasures we were feeling laid back. It had been quite a long walk from the closest place to sensibly park any car other than a Landcruiser or Unimog and we had to retrace our footsteps.

Sián and Roj decided to take the low road along the bonny beaches of the Indian Ocean while Shan and I took the rocky high road reaching the car park before them. Clearly it had been too tempting to tarry a while on the banks and dip their feet in the ocean.

In fact, if there hadn't been such a plague of bluebottles (sometimes referred to as Portuguese-men-of-war) along the water's edge, Sián our water-baby would definitely have dipped more than just her feet and enjoyed a swim.

Above: [top l-r] the Starrs hit the bottom of the low road; and almost the ocean; [middle l-r] a combination of bright sun and strong wind made it an ideal day for drying, flapping washing in the original fishing village; our destination had been Willeens for lunch; [bottom l-r] these days there is sadly a need for stricter security at the fishing harbour; dogs as spectators as their owners swim at Arniston's central beach. 

The bluebottles plaguing the beaches had almost certainly been blown there by a strong onshore wind that had developed during the morning. With bathing on hold we chose to stroll about the town in preparation for lunch.

We parked our waggon outside the BIG hotel[2] in what must've been a picturesque fishing village at one time but had fallen into the debated territory between capitalism and traditional residents. It is difficult to establish exactly what was where in Arniston before that but the hotel appears out of character with its surroundings, dominating the ocean front. Who knows what would have been had small mercies not intervened with a sizeable chunk of the original fishing village, known as Kassiesbaai, declared a National Heritage Site in 1986.

So the delightful Kassiesbaai sits on the North-Eastern edge of Arniston and we were off to experience some proper grub at Willeens on the Northernmost, Easternmost edge of the community. To get to the restaurant we traversed the interstices between the traditional white-washed cottages, the sun and wind seemingly enhancing the ambiance of the dwellings with colourful washing flapping on lines in the small plots in this township. 

The pace of our walk to Willeens was sedate - in keeping with our newfound lassitude and sense of relaxation. Kassiesbaai residents greeted us friendlily and we returned the greetings. Cold drinks and fresh fish for lunch were on our radar. Perhaps Willeens serves fish and chips but the thing to go for is fresh fish and potatoes. Sublime, pukka grub. I think the others may have had a "lovely tuna salad" ... no sense of adventure!

Sadly, there is a disturbing dichotomy in Kassiesbaai with the atmosphere of the village being threatened by the affordability of houses that in some places were becoming desirable B&Bs, perhaps a welcome source of revenue for owners who could find cheaper accommodation elsewhere while letting out their homes to holidaymakers. This is a becoming a worldwide controversy threatening what have been delightful communities.  Parts of Spain, such as the Canaries, have come under the spotlight of the government, which has decided to take action to curb excessive tourism[3]. And Venice, too, has just introduced an entrance fee for day trippers to the city.

Above: [l-r] Kassies Kove, a popular restaurant when this photo was taken for Google Maps in October 2010; restaurant no more in Feb 2022 - reverted to Kassies Baai 1938 Vissersunie saal and looking dilapidated.

​It is worrying that the Kassies Kove Restaurant with its authentic local food and recommended to us in 2022 was no longer in business when we arrived for our first visit to Arniston and continued to look even more dilapidated in 2024. I do hope it is not a sign of a slippery slope.

A low key late afternoon in our B&B allowed Sián to take a dip in a pool before a good but more generic South African supper with a couple of congenial German fellow tourists (now living in Zurich).

Above: [l-r] Readers, please caption this in the comments section of this blog; our new friends, Chris and Dagma enjoying the Blue Sky Arniston Guest House with us - regular readers shouldn't need any introduction to the other 4 in our posse by now.

The southernmost tip of Africa - it had to be done

Our trip to Hermanus required a quick detour to Cape Agulhas ... not particularly attractive but it had to be done. Stretched our legs on the boardwalk to where "X"[4] marks the spot.

Above: [l-r] Sián striding off to Africa's bottom; our heroes have reached the spot.

A bit bizarre that the plaque is only in Afrikaans and English. A few SAN languages, and possibly even Portuguese, might have been appropriate?

Next stop Hermanus

But first a quick pause en route in the village of Elim. In fact the pause was no more than a hesitation to turn right at the main T-junction in the town. A straw poll in the car suggested that the occupants would prefer to press on to our destination, although the neat houses lining the road did draw some admiring glances. Fact is I probably didn't sell the place properly so I'm going to leave readers in the far more capable hands of South African author Roxanne Reid[5] from whom I stole the picture below.

Above: According to Roxanne Reid the stone artefact in front of this splendid pink building in Elim is South Africa’s only monument commemorating the emancipation of slaves in 1834 - read more about it in the link in the Endnotes..

We finally arrived in Hermanus where Shan was reunited with her sister, Kerry, and chins wagged ninety-to-the-dozen over lunch before we repaired to our home for the next 3 days and nights. The home of our dear friend, Emma, whose generosity included the use of a substantial pool for Sián (and even Shan and me) to swim lengths in.

Above: [l-r] Sián, Emma and Roger, having just met; Sián, contemplating her first proper swim of the holiday while standing outside the beautiful cottage Emma had lent us.

What to do in Hermanus?

What indeed? First and foremost, reacquainting with friends and family, followed by eating and drinking (well the first two are not mutually exclusive) and then shopping (more so for some). Our first evening was a cosy affair on Emma's verandah and what better than a pukka braai[6]. This was expertly executed by Kerry (hereinafter referred to as Kinks) and her husband, Tim. Well, the braai was pretty much Tim's doing with a perfectly moist whole chicken but the salad was Kinks's and fully up to the job of accompanying the meat. I may be biased but I cannot think of a place I would've rather been that evening. Pas op[7] for this oke[8] if he ever enters an all-SA braaing (spoilchucker changed this to braiding and it b****y nearly got through! If you've seen Tim[9] ...!) comp.

On the shopping front,  Hermanus is a bit of a honeypot, catering for various strata of pockets. Shan and Sián went shopping the next day. Roj and I were allowed some time off while our partners had some quality time together. A few beautiful garments were acquired, which, thanks to the uniformly crap UK Spring '24, haven't had much of an airing yet. Roj and I did manage to slope off to Wine&Co in the centre of town ... the best wine shop on the strip.

Hermanus has the most impressive coast path, 6 km as the crow flies (it must be more than double that with all the twists and turns) of well-maintained, secure walking joy. It wanders through indigenous bush, almost always with magnificent views of Walker Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Roj and I had a bit of a meander, knowing full-well a repeat performance would be in order once the parallel shopping expedition had been completed. We also needed to get into training for the evening's dinner in a cave. A bit of afternoon reading, and I have to admit to a bit of a kip, too, before heading off to the sea again, this time for some slap up seafood in a cave at the bottom 0f the main cliffs of Hermanus.

Above: [l-r] Roger was busying himself with a shot of the often-splendid sunset lighting up the seaside mountains; when a poacher in the water less than 100m away revealed himself as blatantly as brass.

Poaching on the waterfront

We noticed movement in the water just in front and to the side of the restaurant and were mildly curious about skindiving in the area. Tim, who knows about these things, immediately identified the person as a poacher. Apparently it is quite common that perlemoen (abalone) poachers strip these rocks and load up sacks, prepared to drop them at any sign of intervention, when they become all innocence to the authorities if or when they get there. Tim phoned the relevant authority but didn't really expect a raid, explaining that understaffing meant these incidents rarely resulted in any prosecutions.

We were disappointed but not particularly surprised ... try getting a copper out in time to catch a perpetrator of a crime at this level in the UK!

The following day we woke up to a grey morning and nestled ourselves into a cosy corner of The Rock, a restaurant in the New Harbour. Soon we were treated to the wrath that the Atlantic Ocean can vest on these parts as the plate glass windows facing Walker Bay turned black ... almost as dark as night. There is something simultaneously dramatic and cosy about these storms when one is wrapped in the shelter and eating sublime Eggs Benedict for breakfast.

As is also often the way with such storms they blow away fairly quickly, leaving a strong residual wind to play out during the day. Not really a day for Sián to relish the Hermanus tidal pool then. We bought samoosas and biltong and ate them back at Emma’s; a bit of an indulgence in defiance of (certainly my) gathering girth. A walk was essential and we opted for the cliff path to its Eastern end at Grotto Beach. Continuing along the beach (with attendant blue bottles) we reached the lagoon to find that the windy day had brought out seemingly every kite surfer in the region.

​Entranced by them. Lingered for ages - none of us really wanted to leave. But we still had Piet se Bos, a local nature reserve, to explore before a quiet evening with family ... peri peri calamari in a perfect setting for watching the rain that was now returning. Back home before lights out (load shedding a curiously comforting excuse for 10PM bed time ... again). The next day we were continuing our trip Westwards.

Above: [top l-r] a bit blustery for the beach but near-on perfect conditions for kite surfing on the lagoon; and even out to sea; [bottom l-r] Piet se Bos

​Coming next

Franschhoek and Paarl and an Eriksen family reunion.

[Endnotes]:

1. Courtesy of Wikipedia ... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klipspringer​.
2. A patchy history of Arniston ... https://xplorio.com/arniston/en/about/history/.
3. Reforming Spanish tourism ... https://www.theguardian.com/world/2024/apr/20/thousands-protest-canary-islands-unsustainable-tourism.
4. No, not your "X", Elon. Heaven forbid!
5. Why to visit the Moravian village of Elim ... https://www.roxannereid.co.za/blog/why-to-visit-the-moravian-village-of-elim-western-cape.
6. ​Saffa for BBQ.
7. Saffa for "watch out" or "beware".
8. Saffa for "bloke" ... not to be confused with a citizen of Oklahoma.
9. You will [Ed].

I have been having issues with Facebook refusing to share my story. This has never happened before and I thought it was the URL link but now I've made a new intro to the story and embedded the old URL in the text and it still seems to object but when I ask why it comes up with a Facebook internal error - see screenshots below 

I click on "Let us know" and I get the following response ...

Above: It had to be done ... shirt suits you Roj ... tasteful - suspect Shelley-ann's trying to disassociate herself from this particular shot.

It's always a tug to leave Nieu-Bethesda but we were sneaking past half time on our trip and still had lots to see. Besides we still had to leave a few things to do for the next visit. Climb the Kompasberg, maybe? Besides we were now headed for our first taste of the sea.

This day would be our last ultra-journey of the trip heading through Graaff-Reinet to Beaufort West where we would pick up the N1 for a quick 200 km run down to Laingsburg. From Laingsburg we'd take the road less travelled, crossing the Klein Swartberg[1] into the Little Karoo through the Seweweekspoort Mountain Pass to finally rest for the night just outside Ladismith in the little Karoo. 

Great plan but we hadn't counted on the countless contra-flows ​on the N1, South Africa's premier highway. A sense of humour becomes indispensable when encountering the umpteenth traffic control without any idea of how long the latest stationary interlude will last.

​And there's always the bladder challenge. Ages range from 63-78 and there's nowhere to hide for 450 km. The "low road" via Willowmore, Prince Albert and the Swartberg Pass may have had its consolations!

Above: it's a long way and one has to concentrate; it's dead flat where we're travelling but the mountains continue to brood; and then it's semi-desert for 350 km and 4 hours (there're roadworks on the N1, you see)

Suddenly it all becomes worthwhile

Wees and teas (accompanied by a competent sandwich) while filling up at the Laingsburg Engen ... now there's a relief not to be missed.

For anyone tempted to follow in our footsteps, the turnoff in Laingsburg from the N1 on to the R323 can require some vigilance so make sure to pause the post-prandial lethargy when leaving the fuel station.

And then you're on to an oxymoron: one of the most beautiful stretches of road in South Africa with decent roads and almost zero traffic. After a while of gigantic scenery the route does become dirt-road based but I've done it twice and it's one of the gentlest surfaces in the country. But beware, around 22 km out of Laingsburg the R323 bifurcates rather confusingly. Both options will take you to Ladismith but if you turn right you'll be missing out on the spectacular Seweweekspoort Pass and its sublime approach. This is a gentle road along a valley with verdant riverside pastures and grapevines on the left, fed by a tributary of one of a number of Groot Rivers[2] in the Cape, and the brooding magnificence of the Swartberg on the right.

We were separated by the Klein (Small) Swartberg from our destination at Mymering Wine and Guest Estate, close to Ladismith in the Little Karoo. There is a great sentinel in this part of the mountain range that is visible from our road down the almost deserted valley and then again from Mymering. 

The sentinel is aptly named the Towerkop and from where you first see it you are roughly 13 km from the Wine and Guest Estate as the crow flies. Following the road, the only way to get to the other side is via the Seweweekspoort Pass and the distance becomes more than 80 km. But 80 km of deliciousness. We may have encountered one or two other cars cruising along the well maintained gravel road admiring the gorgeous scenery, but no more.

​A few sample photos follow; editing these was painful in deciding which to omit. 

Above: (top l-r) the Towerkop comes into view  in the top right hand corner; and then becomes more evident as one meanders down the road; (middle l-r) what appear to be vines grace the foot of the foothills; a red roof on an immaculately maintained farmhouse surrounded by fruit trees; (bottom l-r) one of a number of traditional cottages from centuries past; the top of the pass.

And then we descend into the Klein (Little) Karoo through the spectacular Seweweekspoort Pass itself which meanders quite gently through the mountains as opposed to the scary Swartberg Pass 60 km (as the crow flies) to the East and which soars over the top.

​The Seweweekspoort Pass is the cleft in a continuous mountain range made up of the Groot (Big) Swartberg in the East and the Klein (Small) Swartberg on the West. We didn't actually count them but the pass crosses the eponymous river at its floor 23 times in 17 km.

There were two main reasons for using this pass to descend into the Klein Karoo. As mentioned earlier Shan refused to ever go over "that scary" Swartberg Pass again (after one previous traverse illustrated in B&W below) and she hadn't seen the Seweweekspoort before. Actually, there was probably one other reason: the latter is undoubtedly prettier than the former. Just to emphasise this the two passes are depicted below adjacent to each other ... the eastern road being depicted in monochrome ...

Below: (l-r) the road passes through a veritable canyon before narrow dirt roads hover over the canyons and valleys below - in places two vehicles passing in opposite directions require the outer car or truck to hang over a vertiginous drop only supported by the tallest of dry-stone walls; on the north side of the summit are immense views of the Great Karoo - here only slightly obscured by me, our daughter, Kate, and Shan; Kate and me at the summit; the Swartberg Pass winds its way down on the South side to the Klein Karoo.

Above: (top l-r) with love from Shan; meandering down between great walls of red rock; (bottom) the road finds its way in a continuing zig-zag through the craggy monoliths distributed like giant slalom beacons.

End of the day 

It had been a long one! Almost 600 km of highways (with countless contraflows for roadworks), gravel roads and tortuous mountains passes, it was time to rest our weary souls in the sublime scenery that surrounds the Mymering Estate and Wine Farm.

Obviously there was wine with which to contemplate the Towerkop again, this time from the other side, but also for a gourmet meal hosted by the proprietor, Andy Hillock, a raconteur and a retired specialist doctor from Port Elizabeth.

Above: (top l-r) Shan's husband at Mymering sundowners with the Klein Swartberg in the distance; a little later in the evening with Towerkop in the clouds and without the husband; (bottom l-r) even later in the evening with the wives and husbands having enlisted a willing staff member as photographer; the next morning with Towerkop in the morning light.

We had travelled from the North East of South Africa, vaguely following the coast albeit wiggling between < 80 km to > 400 km from the actual sea. So far the journey had been more than 2,500 km and we were to see the sea for the first time after a good night's sleep and a pukka breakfast.

After culture, smut

It had to be done. We connected with the groovy Route 62, South Africa's Route 66. Lots of motorbikes and cherished vintage cars. Well, not "lots" in a British sense but sociably busy.

We were headed for Arniston, an attractive fishing-village-come-resort on the Indian Ocean. We'd been there before and it still retained some of its charm so we were looking forward to some sea air.

But first there were some assorted attractions: an alleged sex shop, a rustic ferry across a middle-of-nowhere stretch of river and a kind of raucous pitstop, again in the middle-of-nowhere.

​So come on Ronnie ...

Actually it's a bit more gimmicky than sexy but I believe Ronnie would be the first to admit that. Certainly on a sunny Sunday in February there was quite a vibe about the place and not just from the breakfast runners that stop by on their superbikes. Apparently some female visitors donate their brassieres and these decorate the inner sanctum. I believe Shan asked him how this came about and his comment was:

​"It only takes one ... ."

Above: (top) Roj hamming up the furtiveness of taking his wife to a sex shop; (middle) big bore bikes and perhaps the roadkill they generate?; (bottom l-r) a tractor and our car = utility; and then the porn that is all Italian - all 1299 cc wrapped up in a shade of red only Ducati and Ferrari can muster, underpinned by its desmo sound renting the Karoo highway.

Pressing on to the sea

Our route continued along groovy 62 through Barrydale (Hello, what else could follow a desert sex shop? Only a Barrydale ...) before turning off on to another spellbinding pass. The Tradouw Pass follows the river of the same name through the Zuurberg mountains that separate the Klein Karoo from the Coastal Region. We had left Route 62 and were heading for the Indian Ocean via one or two more diverting attractions interlinked by more dirt roads.

The first of these was to cross the Breede River at Malgas on a punt that had only recently replaced a hand pulled contraption. But first a strangely embarrassing phenomenon.

The Starrs kept asking us when we were going to get some quality sightings of baboons and or ostriches. You know, like real close-ups in abundance. We kept reassuring them and then even began to doubt ourselves. After all, on the ostrich front, the Klein Karoo was the home of Oudtshoorn, the town built on untold riches from ostrich feathers gathered from farms throughout the region. That was in the 1880s and the value of the feathers has subsided somewhat since then but recently Shan and I had seen plenty on visits to the Western Cape's Overberg region that we were now entering.

Sián and Roger had their eyes peeled ... and sort of "bingo" ... Roger had a sighting and his camera to hand.

Above: (top l-r) was this the last pair of ostriches remaining on the planet?; waiting for the outbound passengers to disembark; (bottom l-r) the metropolis of Malgas from midstream on the Breede River; the gate opens for us to scramble up the gravel for the last lap on our journey to the coast.

​There was one last stop before Arniston and the coast and perhaps one last sighting ... maybe more ostriches??? The stop is a must, a quirky (maybe a bit naff) bar, restaurant, music and dance venue in the middle of the veld. Sort of a bit more polite version of Ronnie's. Actually, "Grunters" was part of a slightly more salubrious Breede River Trading Post and had delicious pizzas and traditional local Castle Lite "lager". Shan and I'd been there previously after a visit to the sublime Sijnn Winery (just a complete standout place to visit  with uniquely brilliant wines but, sadly closed on a Sunday) and had very much enjoyed the burgers. This time the pizzas were the choices du jour and sufficiently fulfilling for the leftovers to be happily boxed up and eaten cold at our destination when we reached it a few hours later.

An hour or two later than anticipated thanks to my personal hubris of "knowing the route" and travelling the long way around. Road signs are somewhat wanting in South Africa and Satnav is always a good plan. Google does a reasonable job but requires that one has (expensive) data roaming switched on. You'd really think the hire companies would have it as part of the standard package on a fairly upmarket chariot!

Above: (top l-r) Shan's contented (some might say smug) face at being in her happy place; Sián took this photo in the Grunter's privy, so we should say no more; (bottom l-r *cheek*) when ostriches roamed the Overberg in 2022, 'onest Starries; painstakingly recording our route so far on a pukka paper plan of South Africa.

All that is left of this episode is for esteemed readers to share a little bit of our mutual work and exercise their own  imaginations ...

Coming next

Arniston and beyond ... yes, Hermanus. Finally.

[Endnotes]:

1. We could have taken a slightly shorter route over the Groot Swartberg, travelling via Prince Albert and the Swartberg Pass but we'd done that before and Shan made me swear never to take her across that mountain road trek EVER again.
2. This one rises near Sutherland in the middle of the Karoo and is itself a tributary of the Gouritz River, which reaches the sea at Gouritz, 30 km as the crow flies to the West of Mossel Bay 
3. Please use the "comments" feature in this blog for your captions.

Above: the Owl House with its sinister overtones might completely overshadow the unique character of Nieu Bethesda were there not so much else going on in this remote Karoo town ... more of the OH later ...

Serendipity slid into the centre of things soon after we slipped into this supposedly sleepy outpost that briefly became the centre of our universe.

It had been a long day​ when we finally slid to a halt outside our chosen accommodation for the next 4 nights. It was my 4th visit to the delightful place and I'd decided on the previous visit that, should I be lucky enough to return, that return would be to the place I'd recently stayed with my daughter, Kate. I was hopefully confident that it would delight Sián and Roger and Shelley-ann (Shan) as much as it had Kate and me. It did, and after the requisite pleasantries with our host, Carla, we repaired to Boeties Pub for quick refreshments before a meal and an early night. It's what one does in Nieu Bethesda (NB). Everyone speaks to everyone else. Except there was this other couple who initially looked as if they would be good material for a chat but they didn't stay long and it didn't seem as if they'd welcome our intervention. We quickly got into the rhythm passing a short time of evening with a few locals.

​Turns out my couple were also staying at The Bethesda as we were to discover the next morning.

Above: (Clockwise from top left) Boetie's Pub's entrance is discreet - you have to know where to find it; happily inside and chatting up the locals; Sián's and Roger's suite; Sián on the veranda outside her suite.

​A gentle prelude to serendipity

After a splendid breakfast in The Bethesda we set off on the Starrs' inaugural walk around the village and soon crossed paths with the delightful couple who own Oude Pastorie, whom Shan and I had missed by a whisker on our previous visit in 2021 when we stayed in Oude Waenhuis at the other end of their garden. I'll leave it to Shan to describe the encounter ....

"[We] wandered around the village familiarising the Starrs ... . Bumped into Fulvio and Albert and chatted to them about their dogs. When asked where they were staying, Fulvio pointed to the Oude Pastorie. I exclaimed and told them we’d stayed in their Waenhuis and how much we loved it and their gorgeous garden and tortoises. I then asked if we could show the Starrs (the tortoises) and Fulvio gave us a full tour of their beautifully curated house. So much to look at. He loves history and had accumulated, amongst so many things, very pricey original Vanity Fair drawings of famous people. So many original things! Accumulated over 10 years. So knowledgeable and interesting." 

Turned out that during our 4-days stay we kept bumping into this delightful couple wherever we went but, for now I need to focus on serendipity to the power of 4.

Above: Elements of collections and the garden at Oude Pastorie.

We were planning to introduce the Starrs to lunch at the "The Brewery and Two Goats Deli" a must-visit place for beer and a casual lunch in NB. But first we repaired to the verandah at The Bethesda.

Serendipity starts to unfold

The feminine member of the couple we'd missed chatting to in Boetie's Bar the previous evening was sitting on the other side of the veranda from Sián, drinking tea. I engaged her in conversation and my KZN-radar jangled and buzzed.  By this stage Shan radar had also kicked in and she joined me in turning into inquisitor mode. In true South African fashion we slipped into "where are you from/where are you headed" mode. She said her name was Heather Fitchet and that she lived in Himeville (which is in KZN). This prompted Shan to ask if she knew an old school friend of hers who lived in the same area.

It turned out that Heather knew Shan's friend, Michelle (Pitman). It also turned out that she, Heather and her husband rented restaurant premises from Michelle. Before moving to Himeville, Heather had spent much of her life as a photographer and writer in Durban.

At some stage in this dialogue Shan and I introduced ourselves and  mentioned that I had had a similar career in my early working life.

Suddenly Heather's expression changed and she jumped up exclaiming, "Are you Banjo?", seemingly with a tear in her eye.

I couldn't deny it despite the fact that I knew that Roger was by this time eavesdropping. I equally knew he would call me Banjo from that moment on[1].  Not that I really minded and anyway I was caught up in this revelation with our new-found friend which led to fevered conversation and, in my case certainly, to a moistening of the eyeballs.

​Turns out she is Heather Fitchet, best friend forever of Camilla Kinnear whose husband, Tony, a.k.a. Spikey Norman, had died from cancer a few months earlier. Spikey and I had been close friends indeed. I'd been to South Africa twice, in the previous October and November as a result.

​At this point Heather insisted on rousing her husband, Martin, from their room in The Bethesda and a whole new dimension was added ... but more of this after our foursome has walked to and from the Two Goats Deli. Just as if to reinforce this new relationship, Martin and Heather passed us in their car as we were nearing the deli and waved furiously. They were headed on some expedition or the other for the afternoon.

Above: (clockwise from top left) the river through NB can be feast or famine, flood or trickle ... the bridge that Sian and Roger are crossing caters for the worst scenario; Roj was smitten by the pair of Harleys at the entrance to the Two Goats and, to be honest, I thought the first one catered pretty adequately for two; waiting for the beer; Cheers, home brew to hand; Alokudu.

A trip to Nieu Bethesda would be incomplete without visiting The Brewery and Two Goats Deli and each time I've been there, with Richard Levitt, Shan, Kate and now Sián and Roger has been worth the picturesque two-and-a-half kilometre round-trip walk to get there via the suspension bridge over the mini-gorge with its usually dry river bed. And be careful how many delicious cheese platters you order because they are huge and tasty and you'll probably be eating somewhere else scrumptious in the evening.

Back to the Fitchets

We'd ascertained from the Fitchets that, also by pure happenstance, we would be dining at the same tiny restaurant that evening. This was turning out to be an extremely busy day!

Where to restart. Our initial meeting with Martin had been pretty emotional as it turned out after I twigged that his full name was Martin Fitchet and that we had been in contact when I'd been researching a series of articles on his Mum, Shan's and my wine mentor, Solange Raffray[2]. Solange had been the doyenne of wine in Durban but had achieved a formidable reputation pretty much throughout South Africa in the 1980s and beyond. 
​
Now Heather and Martin would also be at Bini's and we were relishing the prospect of exploring shared memories further. Including the fact that the Fitchets ran a restaurant in Himeville, by all accounts (latterly gleaned from mutual buddies) superb. As was Bini's[3] despite the fact that one of us stole Heather's lamb shank because she was too selfless to hang on to it.

During the meal the revelations continued, revealing the fact that Martin's cousin was one Vincent Noel, a classmate and heartthrob of Shan's from her Westville Junior School days.

Shan notes, "He then sent me photos of Vincent younger than when I knew him and later when he became a jockey. Lots of wine consumed." 

So the Durban diaspora may be a bit of a cliche but what were the odds of us all coming together in a remote desert village 650 km away from Durban as the crow flies? 

Above: (top left) a picture of Bini borrowed from "Info DT International Academy", after that a fairly sedate pic taken by Sián with Shan, Moi, Heather, Martin and Roger; and then it all became so riotous you'll have to work it out for yourselves apart from the last picture of the tranquility inside Bini's front room which was unoccupied all evening because the rioters had elected to spend the evening outside.

​Sadly the Fitchets were leaving early the next morning but that didn't stop us from having a final fling before retiring that evening, courtesy of Martin, with a bottle of rum liqueur back on the verandah of The Bethesda. We bid the Fitchets fond farewells as they were leaving early the next day.

So some of us are now exhausted

But others were hot to trot to experience some of the other delights of Nieu Bethesda. They started out with the Owl House. I'd already been there 3 times so I left it to Shan to accompany Sián and Roger for their induction into the world of Outsider Art at the town's biggest global drawcard. 

The Owl House is a creation by Helen Martins that evolved over decades in the mid 20th century culminating in her death in 1976. Some of her story is recorded and some of it is conjecture. It seems her father was abusive and the installation in the corner of her Camel Yard pictured at the top of this blog can be interpreted as evidence of this. And why are the camels not facing East? It would be presumptuous of me to surmise any further than that when so many intellectuals and academics have applied their brains and researched her unhappy life. 

Above: (clockwise from top left) Camels facing "East", what can it mean?; father facing in same direction while being fawned upon in a backdrop of topless women; the dry river bed that is the only way I've seen it in 4 visits; and yet I'm picking up floating bottles from the flooded cellar at the Bethesda a few hundred metres away at the invitation of the proprietor; Sián and Roger purchased these paintings from the Bushman museum; from a reformed alcoholic who'd found new meaning in curating the exhibition.

The Bushman museum is an uplifting but deeply emotional experience with astounding art on massive canvasses curated by a committed group of people with a new meaning in their lives. Frame #3 in the collage above is also the place of fascinating fossil "pracs[4]" as part of an archaeological project that goes WAY beyond the boundaries of Nieu Bethesda, South Africa and even the entire continent. 

To me that actually encapsulates Nieu Bethesda. You could drive through it and think "this is a nicely preserved little town, nice unmade roads and a peaceful setting" while there is just SO much going on, spiritually, architecturally and culturally. Each time I've been there I've stayed a little longer[5] and there're so many new and existing experiences I want to participate in.

So is there a way out of this whirlwind?

Yes and no, but a mostly pastoral last day was just what the doctor ordered. We meandered through the woods, bumped randomly into lovely people like the owners of Oude Pastorie, ate over-indulgently well (at Die Waenhuis[6] and once again met up with Fulvio and Albert), bought books from the Dustcovers Bookshop and then allowed ourselves a restful sleep before the next and last long stretch of driving on our 4,500 km odyssey.

Above: the local cemetery and a diverse collection of graves ... 

Every town has a cemetery and some are more splendid than others. Nieu Bethesda's is up there in the splendid stakes but it has an extraordinarily eclectic collection of individual graves. Not too many prizes for guessing which would be Helen Martins' which is kind of in keeping with all the other humble resting places. There is one that sticks out, though, belonging to a man who'd been a rather questionable senior policeman in the area.

Above; NB's water distribution is interesting - there is a dry river bed but an impressive dam and there are seemingly bountiful rills distributing its life-giving properties over a pretty sophisticated network about the town; this is a fond farewell but hopefully just au revoir to this lovely place and its delightful population of humans and animals.

Beware, Carla, we WILL be back!

Late snippet

While finishing off this episode of my blog yesterday, I needed to do a fair bit of research into "Outsider Art". I'd heard the term casually dropped into an argument while in the town and wanted to ensure I grasped why the Owl House had allegedly been rated as one of the top ten installations in the world, thereby attracting American visitors to the remote town. However much I resorted to Google, it seemed a fairly obscure branch of human expression no matter how excited Helen Martins' endeavours had always made me, personally.

Then I'm lying in bed this very morning, reading the Guardian (as is my wont) and thinking about what other details I needed to attend to before putting this story to bed and, in the headlines no less, I read this intro: "Ron's Place: Birkenhead Flat of outsider art granted grade-II listing." 

I read the story immediately, and looked at the pictures. I've often been called a boringly sceptical old fart when it comes to other dimensions and extra-terrestrial happenings, and had been proud of being so, but even I had to admit this seemed kind of spooky. I even had a tiny shiver. Please do have a look at the Guardian story[7] ...

Come to think of it there were rather a lot of coincidences during our time in this eccentric corner of the Karoo. This evening will definitely include a glass of something a bit special ... cheers Heather and Martin ...

Coming next

The last of our long driving days in this NE-SW endeavour takes us to the other side of the Karoo and through a spectacular pass to drop down from the "Groot" to the "Klein"[8] sections of the vast[9] semi-desert.

[Endnotes]:

1. He has done and continues to do so ...
2. I wrote a couple of articles about Solange that can be found at
   1. ​https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/fputn/archives/04-2021
   2. ​​https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/fputn/archives/03-2021​
3. See my review at https://www.google.com/maps/contrib/110808283252109777627/place/ChIJ6fjTw_Nnhx4Re_1fPUjE2vs/@8.815567,11.4918117,3z/data=!4m6!1m5!8m4!1e1!2s110808283252109777627!3m1!1e1?hl=en-US&entry=ttu
4. What we used to call the practical dimension of scientific studies at school and at university.
5. The 3rd visit was a slight aberration because our daughter, Kate, and I were on a flying visit to accommodate as much as possible into her short vacation.
6. Note to self ... must write a review about the two excellent evenings we had at The Waenhuis.
7. ​Ron's place: https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2024/apr/05/rons-place-birkenhead-flat-of-outsider-art-granted-grade-ii-listing
8. Afrikaans for Large and Small (the latter being somewhat relative[9]) 
9. An estimate for the size of the Karoo (it's a little difficult to define) is approximately 400,000 square kilometres (or nearly 100 million acres). 

Above: Looking out from Clarens at 1850 metres (more than 6000 ft) towards mountains in Northern Lesotho reaching up to more than 2800 metres (9280 ft) but first we have to get there from Fugitives Drift ...

You can try as much as you like in South Africa to gain foreknowledge when planning routes. Stuff like Google can help but only up to a point. After that it's down to asking locals. And when I say locals I'm taking about friendly souls who have their ears very close to the ground, preferably someone who's travelled your intended route in the past week or so.

And so it was when heading off from Fugitives Drift in the hopes of reaching Hilton (a matter of 135km as the crow flies) before sunset during daylight that same day. The logical road would have taken us via Greytown, a distance of 205km through some spectacular countryside. The additional 70km would be a small price to pay for the scenic route. I'd done it many times. All tarred. I asked a number of the Drift locals separately; if they'd been standing together there would have been a chorus.

"Go via Dundee and Ladysmith," was the unanimous advice.
"But that's an extra 70 kays," I protested. A certain amount of touching the sides of noses ensued.
"Tugela Ferry on a Friday is a nightmare," someone volunteered.
"Is it dangerous?" I ventured but no-one seemed to think danger was a particular problem.
"The traffic jams are a massive problem," a few of my advisers concurred, "it can take literally hours to get through the market stalls and it's very unpredictable."

​We travelled via Dundee and Ladysmith and it was predictably boring.

Now we're at Hilton
 
We presented ourselves to Shan's[1] brother Patrick and sister-in-law Susie, in the early afternoon. Their house has breathtaking views down the valley towards Pietermaritzburg (a.k.a. Sleepy Hollow). Roger and Sián were delighted that they were to be housed in the Deales' separate cottage which boasted a bath with a view.

Above; (l to r) trees, trees and more trees ... the view from The Edge, the Deale homestead; if a clear day occurs, which it occasionally does, Pietermaritzburg can be seen 9km down the wooded valley.

For those who don't know Hilton, it is an attractive village approximately 78 km as the crow flies inland from the Indian Ocean (Durban is about the closest city on the coast) and is at an altitude of 1080 m (3540 ft). For UK friends, this is almost exactly the altitude of the summit of Mount Snowdon (1085 m) and a mere 265 m short of the top of the UK's highest peak, Ben Nevis. Locally the area is known as the KZN Midlands. It is home to a couple of South Africa's premier private schools. In the village itself is St Anne's Diocesan College, which was founded in Pietermaritzburg in 1877, before moving to Hilton in 1904. The other place is Hilton College, a 9km walk away in its own rural estate. It was founded in 1872. Those who have read Part 2 of this saga will be aware that I spent my secondary school years at this institution, the subject of Doug Rattray's barbed comment, quoted in Part 2.

But this is not a diatribe. I went there from 1965-1968. My laat-lammetjie[2] brother was head boy there in 1983. In my more senior years at the school, when girls were foremost in our minds, we used to walk those 9 km after lunch on a Sunday to spend a few minutes on the St Anne's lawn trying awkwardly to make conversation under the watchful eye of a duty mistress. In theory we then walked back. It was strictly forbidden to hitch a ride but if one's mate happened to have a sympathetic Gran living in the village ... tea and cakes and a lift back to the school gates might have been in the equation.

However one looks at it, however, it was a mission. If we left at 1:00 pm and were particularly fit (which we were) we could probably get there by 2:30 pm (a bit sweaty in full school uniform). And then, in theory, we could spend an hour before departing in order to arrive within the deadline to be back at school.

Why am I telling you all this? Bonds were formed in those callow days. Now, Shan and I were taking our friends Sián and Roger to meet my brother-in-law and his wife, whom I'd first met on one of these hikes 56 years previously. Who knows whether I'd have even met my friend Susie's husband's sister, now my wife of almost 44 years.

Now we were about to sit down to dinner in their Hilton home before exploring the area the next day.

Above: Tucking into delicious oxtail at Chez Deale [the Edge]; Patrick a.k.a. Packet, head honcho of the Deale clan, in a typically expansive and questioning lawyer's pose during a breakfast break en route around the Natal Midlands.

So how do you fit 6 people in one car, albeit a spacious one, for a 120 km circumnavigation of the Midlands? The answer is that you don't because the head honcho has now become a born again biker, albeit more in the tradition of a Peter Fonda easy rider than a Hell's Angel. We headed off in this strange bigbike/SUV convoy, via breakfast, for our first port of call ... to show off the alma mater to Sián and Roger. I believe they liked what they saw and enjoyed meeting one or two of Susie's relatives gathered around the cricket ground, including eldest brother, Glynne (a.k.a.Thug #1[3]), always a brilliant raconteur. 

From there we attempted to keep up with Packet as he thundered up a section of the Midlands Meander on his 900cc Triumph Bonneville to the Brahman Hills Weddings, Event, Hotel & Spa[4]. Apart from a jolly decent lunch, this venue also provided cover from a spectacular thunderstorm, another feature of this area of KZN. Unluckily for our intrepid biker the storm was not as short-lived as many of these regional downpours often are, continuing throughout lunch and all of the remaining time it took to return the 45 km home. We took the N3 Freeway and it can't have been pleasant. Shan, now at the wheel of our car, was beside herself at her brother's predicament but he was typically stoical when we finally reached our destination at The Edge, shrugging the episode off to life's experience.

Above: Statues gracing the extensive gardens at the Brahman Hills just avant le déluge​, the thundery sky announcing its intentions; Packet in a dry African shirt showing off his rain-spattered 2008 Triumph
Bonneville Speedmaster 900 (to accord the beast its full title).

All too soon we had to resume our journey to the Southwest. We had "finalised" our route to Nieu Bethesda in the Eastern Cape province after some faffing about although we would still have to attend to some details once we reached our stopover. We needed to access some of that local knowledge mentioned at the beginning of this blog!
​
Faffing about

Originally we'd planned to travel to the Eastern Cape via theTranskei, circumnavigating Lesotho on the Southern side and spending two nights in the shadow of the mountains at Rhodes. However the purveyor of the accommodation we'd booked and paid for cancelled at the last moment. As this was the second time lodgings had been withdrawn from us in the small town we decided not to tempt disappointment a third time and made last minute arrangements to stay over in Clarens, which borders on the Northern corner of Lesotho.

Lesotho is not known as the mountain kingdom for nothing. One more or less has to go around it unless making a safari out of the experience, preferably in a pretty robust 4x4. Of course, you could also take the long way around on motorways (for most of the way) but then you might as well be anywhere on the planet on a route of mind-numbing tedium.

Above: Two of the more scenic routes ...  which way around? We were more or less forced to choose the top route via Clarens.

Although, even once we got to Clarens there would be decisions to be made. The road into the Eastern Cape skirting around Lesotho had been dreadful for years but we lived in hope that the highways authorities couldn't have kept on ignoring what had become a travesty. If the local advice was negative we could always detour via Bethlehem and Bloemfontein and the afforementioned tedium of the N1.

In the mean time we could travel up the picturesque Oliviershoek Pass and alongside the Sterkfontein Dam to check out the Golden Gate, a small national park that punches above its weight in scenery. Then we could enjoy an exceedingly pleasant time eating, drinking and shopping in the attractive town itself. It's a bit of a mini-mecca for art and things arty and a broad choice of places to eat. Always with the option of pausing for inner thoughts while gazing at the mountains leering out from the Lesotho Malotis. Wine, beer, coffee in hand: whichever might fulfil the happy chance of the hour .

Above: I guess Roger took the first and last of these, the rest are random pics of places that appeared to be attractive and or quirky ...

Clarens is the kind of place where, if you avoid weekends (it's close enough to Johannesburg for quick visits), a group of 4 can occupy themselves jointly or severally in peaceful, attractive surroundings in the town or in the Golden Gate park, which has spectacular rock formations and whose closest "gate" is about 20 minutes away by car.

We chose to veg out for the day. Roj sat in the park and read his book while various permutations of Sián, Shan and I strolled about. Some shopping happened and yours truly succumbed to a gorgeous painting and Shan bought some loud baggy trousers. A few books also called us in the wonderful Bibliophile Bookshop. As mentioned before, it's an arty atmosphere.

​We were staying in the centre at The Highlander so straying back to base occasionally for an appropriate beverage or an afternoon nap were also essential. There were additional benefits, too, as things turned out.

Above: (clockwise from top left) It was impossible to resist this almost Fauvist rendition of the Golden Gate topography in the Addy & Hoyle Art Gallery, painted by Lyn Hoyle. There were some tempting huge ones but the painting had to find its way back to the UK in the passenger compartment of an aeroplane; interesting juxtaposition of signs at this gate; sunset of Lesotho as seen from our home for two nights; a home that boasted an impressive array of Scotch Whisky.

The knowledge, vis-à-vis local travel

Our base in the centre of Clarens was a bit of a local hangout, which revealed the other benefit of straying back there. We still had a decision to make as mentioned earlier in this chapter. Would we have to leg it to the N1 for the next section of our journey the following day or could we risk the more scenic route skirting Lesotho via Ficksburg and Aliwal North?

"The Ficksburg route has got much better recently, ja," a helpful local advised. "Actually there's quite a story about how that came about ... the local farmers and taxi operators [strange bedfellows, historically - author's note[5]] became so pissed off with the condition of the road that they got together to pressure the roads department and became involved themselves to improve the situation."
"So you reckon it's OK?" I enquired, perhaps with a little doubt in my tone.
"Ja, go for it," our benefactor encouraged.

And to a great extent it was OK, much better than falling asleep at the wheel on the N1. Occasionally the odd distraction popped up ...

Above: it wasn't just the state of the roads that caused the occasional need for caution on the journey  ... livestock is an accepted occupational challenge on SA's rural roads

The roads more or less lived up to our local informant's predictions with many many mended potholes causing a slight ripple rather than potential suspension-breaking and or tyre shredding torture. There was a relatively small blip (around 50 km) somewhere between Ladybrand and Zastron where the cabal hadn't completed its mission and had spread sand over the tarmac. This mitigated the effect of the potholes and worked reasonably well for our car that had proved itself pretty capable on South Africa's disintegrating tarmac.

​That being said, it was a relief to return to proper tarmac and one couldn't help wondering what would happen to the sand given one of those dramatic rainstorms that are regular occurrences in this part of the world.

Above: these two similar formations of typical Karoo outcrops seem to form entrance and an exit gates to the 500 km "bit in the middle"  between Clarens and Nieu Bethesda.

Middelburg remained an obstacle beyond the exit gate in the picture above, the town having been a necessary evil to fill up with fuel before the last increasingly attractive stretch to the gates of petrol-free Nieu Bethesda.

Coming next 

Happy days and amazing serendipity in Nieu Bethesda.

[Endnotes]:​​

1. Shan = Shelley-ann, as opposed to our friend and travelling companion, Sián.
2. "late lamb" ... a South African expression for a child born long after her or his siblings.
3. Guy, a.k.a. Thug #3, was a contemporary of mine at Hilton in 1965-68.
4. Rather a mouthful but that's what this splendid modern hotel and gardens with several restaurants has been named.
5. ​Not everyone would grasp the paradox here - it required a bit of general South African knowledge.

​

Above: we're in our eyrie at Fugitives Drift's Umzinyathi farmhouse as a brooding Isandlwana beckons ... for this landscape in its full colour glory, read on ...
 
Rich in its diversity, this stretch of the road trip encompasses our most emotive moments, welcome soothing doses in the bosom of family, our only significant hiccough and a little piece of prurient trivia. Not necessarily in that order.
 
In fact it was in the first of those soothing family moments that our attention was drawn to the prurient piece of trivial information that became our word or mantra for the entire expedition. The word was/is Mashishing.

Yes, it's the name of a significant town and possibly the pothole capital of world. Some locals still prefer to call it Lydenburg.

On Monday, January 29 our foursome had started the day in Graskop and were traversing the rather spectacular and pretty decent R533 via Pilgrim's Rest and Robber's Pass with hardly a pothole in sight. Then we came to the T junction at the R36. This is a fairly major trunk road joining Tzaneen to Ermelo via Mashishing. The only road sign at the junction was pointing back along the R533 to Pilgrim's Rest and we'd already done that. There was no other road sign other than a brown informational pointer to "JOEQUES SPORTS BAR & BRAAI AREA" 22km to the right.

Our initial instinct was to turn right, which we did, ditheringly. A kilometre or two down the road it just didn't feel right and a U-turn was performed, justifiably, and all thanks to Shan. The notorious potholes materialised and my dear wife steered a slalom course the 74km from there to the Walkersons Estate (near Dullstroom) via Mashishing. My cousin (our Dads, Graham and Woody were brothers), Stuart, had invited us to stay with him at Walkersons.

"What's the story about Mashishing vs Lydenburg," I asked Stuart once we'd settled in with a Castle Lite[1]. I pointed out that most of the signage around the town still referred to Lydenburg.

And so it came out that the renaming remained controversial despite being in place for 18 years. 

"There is also the fact that Mashishing, which is supposed to mean 'long green grass', means 'pubic hair[2]' in one of the Northern Sotho dialects," Stuart dropped into the conversation. And so the word became adopted as the mantra for the entire road trip.

But Lydenburg (formerly Lijdenburg) means "town of suffering" and had been christened as such in 1849 by Voortrekkers escaping malaria further North. There is evidence that the area had been known as Mashishing by the existing locals for more than 100 years before that.

For an impartial observer the idea of 'long green grass' might have a more optimistic ring to it than suffering that had occurred a fair way North of the place getting on for 200 years ago?

The joys of Walkersons Estate

Walkersons Country Estate appears like an oasis approximately 44km southwest of Mashishing on the unbelievably severely potholed road to Dullstroom. Shan was a Trojan avoiding the car-eating craters that befell us but the relief was palpable as we turned on to the smooth private road that wound its way down a steep incline to the estate gates. Peace intervened. and we were soon descending Stuart's driveway. He and his family own one of the spacious houses with sweeping views of the estate, which is a small game park in its own right.

Suitably refreshed, we were soon bundled into Stuart's "bakkie[3]" and heading for one of the estate's high points where most of the game resides. There are Blesbok, Black Wildebeest, Springbok, a Sable Antelope, Zebra, Mountain Reedbuck, Vaal Rhebok, Civets, Porcupines, Servals amongst others.

Zebras were the most evident on our foray and provided handy camouflage for some Black Wildebeest. It was uncanny the way the latter seemed to instinctively dodge my mini camera behind the "striped donkeys[4]" who always seemed to behave as if they were on parade.

Above: (l to r) Stuart's house with the mountain in the background; Introductions and plans being made.

Basically the plan was to check out some game up close, i.e. without the constraints of being in a vehicle, and to show Shan and Sián and Roger the "Oinkers' Bench". The bench was a tribute by Stuart to his sister and my cousin, Jane, who'd played a big part in our lives growing up and who had recently died while performing caring work in the UK.

Above: (clockwise from top left) Roger pretending he might be able to lift (and consume) this Methuselah (??? - answers on another postcard to the comments section ...); Colourful salad coming up while Stuart concentrates on the serious side of things; cooking by fire and potjie; fire fairies.

All too soon we had to forge on with our journey ...

Fugitives Drift

Fugitives Drift had been a special request from Roj. Not that anyone was complaining, particularly as we'd also had recommendations from Sue and Patrick Deale who were our main port of call on the Kwa-Zulu Natal (KZN) leg of the journey. Now the Deales were going to have to wait while we recharged our emotional batteries with recounts of the Zulu Wars almost exactly 145 years before.

It was a long day in the car. We spent around 7 hours driving, having started from Walkersons at around 8am.

In the words of my dear wife: "[we] had breakfast at the hotel - delish eggs Benedict. Drove to fugitives drift via Volksrust where we had a stodgy lunch of a sandwich with unknown filling and sausage rolls. Arrived at Fugitive’s drift gate and were told where to go for our house but got lost and went round in a loop through the bush before backtracking to a gate to our house. Amazing, huge house, Umzinyathi, with such gorgeous views including Isandhlwana."

I can only concur about the bleakness of Volksrust and the oasis that Umzinyathi was to become. We were only there for just two nights and it was tempting to stretch out and relax for our sole full day before moving on again.

Above: (l to r) the perfect veranda at Umzinyathi; the vista from the verandah to Isandlwana.

Had we done that we would have missed out on one of the foremost highlights of our month-long trip and certainly the most emotional. But it was tempting. The house boasted the almost perfect balance between original furnishings and appropriate compromises i.e. the comfort of the beds and the bathing facilities, especially the double shower in Sián and Roger's en suite, were a small price to pay.

​We managed to extract ourselves, however, for probably the most delicious meal on tour. Full table d'hôte at a long communal table for guests and staff and featuring, at its pinnacle, the perfect filet steak.

Above: (l to r) Sián admires another vista, this time from the central compound; the fire pit all set for aperitifs; the long table for the communal dinner.

​And so it was that, immediately after breakfast on our only full day at Fugitives Drift, we were introduced to Mphiwe Ntanzi, who was to be our lecturer and guide for the morning's tour of Isandlwana and its surrounds. We drove out into the hills overlooking the battlefield, crossing the Buffalo River in the process. The river was reasonably full, we were told, due to recent rains. At some times of the year it could be almost dry. From stories about that day it would be reasonable to deduce that it must have been similarly full towards the end of January, 1879, making it quite a treacherous approach to Rorke's Drift after the morning's massacre at Isandlwana.

​The basic facts of these two battles are that the section of the British army that had been encamped at Isandlwana was outwitted and routed by the Zulu Army on the morning of the 22nd of January after which the tables were turned at the end of the day at Rorke's Drift, some 12km away as the crow flies.

It would be crass for me to say any more about the details of these encounters because they have been covered in huge academic detail in many historical tomes over the intervening years. The only thing left for the ordinary individual is to experience a scintilla of what went on that day, in situ, and in the company of learned lecturers to hear the stories beautifully told. In our case those experts were Mphiwe, who took us to Isandlwana in the morning and Doug Rattray who took us to Rorke's Drift the same afternoon. Both men are steeped in the details of their specialist subjects and more than capable of creating that aura that transports their audiences for the few hours that the visits entail.

One would have had to be hard of heart not to experience profound emotion in both locations.

Isandlwana

Above: (Clockwise from top left) Mphiwe and 3/4 of our party at the start of the tour proper;  demonstrating how long the grass was in the valley below and would have been in the approach to the British encampment on that fatal day; our first stop was near the top of the mountain opposite Isandlwana and behind which the Zulus had assembled before setting off for their assault; these days there is a fairly substantial settlement in what would have been an open plain in the approach to the fateful outcrop; to this day much of this settlement would have been hidden from the British in the valley at its foot - the valley through which the Zulus launched their attack; there are quite a few monuments at the site - this is the Zulu one which had been recently vandalised.

Mphiwe's style was the less oratorial of the two but contained anecdotes about his ancestors who'd taken part in the battle. He had also discovered, during his research, bones that had found their way to the surface from the mass shallow graves. He had carefully covered these over but knew where to find them again, which he did for us before returning them to just below the surface. He understood how the minutiae participated in building the story

Our indaba[5] took place under a small thorn tree and was part story-telling and part discussion. There wasn't a dry eye at the conclusion.

​We concluded with a visit to the Zulu monument and the heart-wrenching recent damage. The jury was out as to whether the vandalism had been politically motivated or the result of metal theft.

Approximately 1,000-3,000 Zulus were killed at Isandlwana as were 1,300 British (including members of the African Native Contingent). 

Rorke's Drift

​While setting out for Rorke's Drift with Mr Rattray, the subject of my Alma Mater came up. It's not particularly unusual as a conversation opener between people who grew up in KZN. Doug was singularly unimpressed ... 
"How do you know that someone went to Hilton College," he quizzed me.
"I don't know?" I responded, expecting the worst.
"They tell you." Ouch!

Above: (clockwise from top) these days this pretty benign looking scene looks an unlikely candidate for a battle in which 3,000-4,000 people were killed in a day, pretty much in close, if not hand-to-hand, conflict; Doug Rattray[6]; Zulus had crossed the Buffalo River and initially approached open ground depicted here; War monument commemorating the Zulu fallen with a 22/1/2024 wreath from the British government.

Doug's job was perhaps more of a challenge, given the somewhat less prepossessing site, which meant he dug deep for the oratory to illustrate the immense turmoil that took place that day.​ He started out by emphatically requesting that no-one interrupt his delivery of the story. He was completely correct, his flow built a picture of the horror that could easily have been deflated had he been inundated with questions.

In Shan's words: "Another amazing telling of the story in situ that reduced Sián and me to floods. So vivid. Back at the Lodge all we wanted was a drink on the deck to decompress. The Lodge had filled up quite a bit which was disconcerting as we’d cried so much and were still wearing our dusty clothes."

In the mean time I had sat next to Doug on the way back to camp feeling a little intimidated by his earlier put down w.r.t. my alma mater. I soon discovered while seated next to him that he was a man I really would have liked to get to know better. A real human being. 

Doug's and Mphiwe's story had been told very differently but each had been vivid in its own way and together were more than the sum of their parts as the violence of that day sank in.

More than 350 Zulus were killed at Rorke's Drift and only 17 British lost their lives.

Above: as an excuse for some somewhat below par animal pictures at Kruger we promised some kudu and giraffe illustrations from Fugitives' Drift  ...
​
​Sadly neither Doug nor Mphiwe was able to join our last supper at Fugitives and we were setting off for the Deale home at Hilton (the village, not the school) the next morning. And probably to show off the old school to our British friends.

​Last minute changes to our itinerary

​We were supposed to reach the Cape via the Transkei, spending two nights in Rhodes, This would have taken us around the Southeastern corner of Lesotho. We'd already paid for the accommodation at our second choice having been bumped from our original B&B a few months earlier.

But, as they say in South Africa, " 'n man maak 'n plan[7]". The only real option was skirting the Northwestern corner of Lesotho, which we'd wanted to avoid as the only viable route from there to our next destination would be the long, straight and boring mainly N1[8] through the Free State. About 6 hours of dreariness between Bethlehem and Middelburg in the Eastern Cape!

​Perhaps we'd play it by ear ...

[Endnotes]:

1. A tolerable approximation of beer during hot weather​.
2. Some research into the subject revealed that Mashishi is pubic hair ​in the Sepedi dialect and that Mashishing means "in the public hair" ... answers on a postcard (i.e. comments on this blog). It seems the difference between Sepedi and Northern Sotho is that Sepedi is a dialect of Northern Sotho and not Northern Sotho. Sepedi shares similarities with Setswana, another South African official language. It also shares dialects with Sesotho sa Saborwa also known as South Sotho and Sesotho sa Setlokwa which is similar to the Sotho language. Sepedi is spoken mostly in the following provinces: Limpopo, Mpumalanga, North West, and Gauteng. These provinces are found in the Northern parts of South Africa.
3. ​Seffrikkin for a pickup truck.
4. ​Stuart has christened zebras thus.
5. Conference between or with members of S. Afr. ... tribes (Concise Oxford Dictionary Sixth edition. Sixth impression 1978).
6. ​Picture lifted from the Fugitives Drift website.
7. The rather male chauvinistic statement, "a man makes a plan".
8. ​The main South African highway from Beit Bridge (Zimbabwe) to Cape Town. All very well if you wanted to expedite that almost 2,000km journey but we were on a sightseeing odyssey.