Wine in this Valley wasn't always as ubiquitous as it is today. A strange statement to make? We are after all talking about the extended Hemel-en-Aarde Valley? Walker Bay, maybe?

If one takes the liberty of extending the valley to its logical extremities, i.e. Grabouw on one end and Stanford on the other, there's a lorra lorra wine producers there these days. Richard Kershaw, Oak Valley, Paul Cluver, Elgin Vintners, Shannon, Lothian, Almenkerk, Paul Wallance, Ross Gower, Charles Fox, Highlands Road, Spioenkop, Iona, Rivendell, Luddite, Beaumont, Gabrielskloof, Wildekrans, Benguela Cove, Whalehaven, Southern Right, Bartho Eksteen, Hamilton Russell, Bouchard Finlayson, La Vierge, Bosman, Cap Maritime, Newton Johnson, Restless River, Storm, Spookfontein, Alheit, Ataraxia, Creation, Kat se Snor, Domaine des Dieux, Seven Springs, Tesselaarsdal, Boschrivier, Raka, Stanford Hills and Springfontain comprise an (finger in the air) incomplete list of the wineries gracing this strip of the Western Cape.

Some might argue that the valley can be shortened to the strip from Hamilton Russell to Tesselaarsdal (the bit that looks like a pukka valley on the map, below). That would deny the unifying factor of this region i.e. the cool and often wet climate, induced mainly by the breezes blowing up from the Antarctic-influenced Atlantic and also by the altitude of many of the vines.

​There are certainly dynasties developing in the Hemel-en-Aarde valley itself and the makings of an epic novel cannot be denied. Tomorrow's Gone With the Wind, maybe? Well, perhaps, but it wasn't always thus. And Walker Bay wine is not going, it's coming. I suspect that two of the people to interview on the subject would be Berene Sauls of Tesselaarsdal and Carolyn Martin of Creation. I started to scratch the surface with both of them but I probably left it too late for our most recent trip. They were both eager to help but are extraordinarily busy people. 

A follow up (and more diligently organised) visit awaits before justice can be done to Came with the South-Easterly c'est ne pas?.

A wine journey

My own wine journey started in my parents' dining room, probably about 55 years ago. A brief summary of things that progressed from there is in an earlier blog. The first time I formally visited a wine estate was in 1974 when things were most informal indeed when Sydney Back came out to greet a strange yellow car in his driveway.

Enough of that, though. Having visited quite a few European wineries, and at least one Australian one, I was amazed to discover, while on a visit to Hermanus a few decades back, that wine was being made in the Walker Bay Area. I believe this was in the last gasp of the 20th century. A colleague and I were doing some work at Sanlam in Bellville and slipped out early on a Friday afternoon to visit my outlaws, Billy and Judy Bosch, in Hermanus. I refer to my in-laws as outlaws as they were constantly up for a prank (Judy still is, aged 92). Sadly I cannot find the picture of Judy blocking out the M in HERMANUS at the town's entrance while Billy and she drove us on a whistle-stop tour of the town. It had to be quick as the sun was just about to drop below the yardarm and there was wine and biltong to be consumed. Ross and I had stopped at a butcher, probably in Kleinmond, to forage for sundowner snacks en route. We couldn't resist some lurid orange shark biltong, much to Billy's disgust. That was when he informed us that they were making some posh wine at Hamilton Russell, which was more-or-less at the entrance to the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley proper.

It must've been Anthony Hamilton who welcomed Ross and me to the picturesque little whitewashed building beside the dam the next morning.  We sipped happily in the sun before buying a couple of cases of Chardonnay. It had seemed expensive for South African wine at the time but it was delicious and we had spare luggage allowances on our Business Class tickets back to the UK that evening ...

We did notice the Bouchard winery next door as we were leaving but we had a plane to catch and a couple more wineries to go before we did that, namely Boschendal and Spier. Boschendal's house and grounds are the stuff Cape Dutch legends are made of but neither of the wines were to Hamilton Russell's standard. We had chosen wisely.

Richard Kershaw MW

Between then and now and thanks to Angela Lloyd (recommended to me by Erica Platter, an ex-colleague and friend), we discovered the wonders of Richard Kershaw at the Western end of the extended valley. My initial inquiry was about Syrah but Erica, not that fond of red wine, chimed in that Richard's Chardonnay was a bit special, too. After managing to source a pretty decent range of Richard's wines in the UK, including Syrahs, Chardonnays and a Pinot Noir, Shan and I had been taken by the similarity of his top range Chards to the Meursaults we occasionally treated ourselves to. Restless River and Kat se Snor (both pure Hemel-en-Aarde) have recently joined that club but more of that later.

We were therefore delighted when Richard invited us for a winery tour (after the Cape Town Cycle Tour in 2018) and then back to his house to try some of his more esoteric, limited-run, single-block wines. Those who know him will nod in agreement when conversation taps into his knowledge of oenology that has brought him the Master of Wine (MW) title. His enthusiasm and sincerity are awe-inspiring. Happily our daughter, Kate, had selflessly volunteered to drive us back to Hermanus.

That WAS an afternoon. A Belgian couple had joined us, earnest post grad oenology students who asked detailed questions that wouldn't have occurred to our little family group. Richard's answers not only satisfied them  but went above and way beyond. Our heads were spinning with knowledge and the effects of a generous few millilitres of world class wines dispensed via a Coravin. Perfect use for such a beast, which inspired my family's birthday gift to me that year.

Pictured above: (top row, Backsberg 1974) The iconic Arch on the road from Klapmuts to Franschhoek as it was in 1974; me being embarrassing for a candid snap outside the cellar/tasting room; (middle row and bottom rows, Grabouw 2018) Me being starstruck - we'd tasted generous samples from the lined-up bottles; Shan persuaded Richard to put his arm around me for a picture; the vines in the valley below; a last look at Shan's Fauvist rendition thereof.

La Vierge

La Vierge's Peter Clarke and I had been close friends at school and beyond when wine became something to drink and Tassenberg was the only intoxicating (legal) beverage we could afford. Now I was encountering fine wines with saucy names (christened, allegedly, by his quietly spoken, genteel wife, Rose) such as Jezebelle, Original Sin, Satyricon, Seduction, The Affair, The Last Temptation, Nymphomane and (of course there had to be) Redemption. The restaurant is also festooned with magnificent artwork, a few examples of which match the risque naming enjoyed by the wines.

We went there to celebrate Shan's (virtual) 60th birthday. Her actual 60th had been in lockdown but we managed to make up for it with a splendid lunch and a most pleasant Jezebelle Chardonnay. We weren't aware at the time of the  Apogée Chardonnay, which received 94% from Tim Atkin but remains untested by madame's palate. This will be rectified. In the mean time we quaffed a lot of Jezebelle with our delightful "landlady", Emma Hayter, after a few cases found their way to her wonderful abode opposite Shan's Mum's cottage in Mitchell Street. Little had we realised that La Vierge had been a favourite haunt of Emma's late husband, John.

​As soon as we found this out, we booked to take Emma there to thank her for putting up with us. No sooner had everything been organised than Pete (Peter) phoned, announced he was in town (he is not often there) and invited Shan and me and another couple of school friends, Campbell and Sally, for lunch on the same day. It was a strange dilemma that ended up with Pete inviting Emma to join us. We all got on like a house on fire, discussing the panoramic toilets from whence you could gaze out at the traffic on the Hemel-en-Aarde road while performing appropriate ablutions. The trick was that drivers on the road below seldom, if ever, glanced up to spot the diners using the lavatories.

Peter was drinking the excellent 2017 Last Temptation Riesling, which became a favourite of my stay in SA along with Leon Coetzee and Margaux Nel's award-winning The Fledge & Co Elgin cool climate Riesling. The Fledge sort of qualifies for Walker Bay Status because the grapes came from there although the wine was marketed through their Calitzdorp operation.

Pete and Emma certainly livened up the gathering but where could Shan and I now entertain our delightful host? All will be revealed a little further into this blog (and a few others to follow). 

A tale of two wine emporia 

Every time I'd been to Hermanus on many previous occasions, the Wine Village was always one of the first places I would visit. And so it was in October last year. I wasn't disappointed and nothing would have changed had Daryl Balfour not suggested I try Wine & Co in the town centre.

Wine & Co had two advantages: it was a reasonable walk from where I was staying in Mitchell Street, sure, but the primary reason was Gary ... the level of personal service was (is) extraordinary. The shop is small and doesn't have the sheer volume on the shelves but, unless you want 5 cases of Columella that evening, I would not bet against Gary sourcing it for you.

There was one wine I wanted (a six-pack of) and it was apparently only available via an awkward distributor. As I knew the winemaker, I went direct. But Gary doesn't give up. Without me knowing it, he sourced the wine, god knows how. I felt dreadful having made my own arrangements.

Then there were the obscure wines he is sent to try. I lost count of the times he shared those with me. I guess Wine & Co is Hermanus's old-fashioned adult sweetie shop, where there are hidden gems and personal service second to none​. Maybe a little discreet gossip to those customers he has learned to trust.

Restless River

How did we first come across Restless River? To be honest, I think I bought a mixed case of tempting wines, perhaps from Ben at VinoSA. I am always on the lookout for a top notch Chardonnay and habitually browse Ben's tempting array. Happens I'm also a fan of Swig in London so it might also have been there, too. Being at the top end of SA Chardonnays, Ava Marie can be not as easy to find as one may think. Probably down to the small volumes produced ... you see, Craig Wessels is a bit of a perfectionist when it come to his wines. In this, he is aided and abetted by his gracious wife, Anne. He is notorious for having poured a whole year's production of red down the drain once because, in his view, it didn't come up to scratch. That's dedication. Especially when you only make one white and one or two reds (give or take three or four experimental wines on the side, if that's what the Wanderlust labels are?). Two of their flagship wines are named after their daughter and son (Ava Marie and Le Luc {Pinot Noir}) and the third after the two small vineyards (Main Road and Dignity) on which its Cabernet Sauvignon is grown. I think there are less than 4,000 bottles of Le Luc produced in a year and maybe double that for the Ava Marie and the Main Rd.

Although we have some of each of the non-Wanderlust wines (and the reds have not yet been touched, waiting for what I know not?), the Ava Marie has tended to be our focus. Why is that then? Because it blew me away from the first sip. And there was a bit left over for the following day and it tasted even better.

This came as no surprise to Angela (Lloyd) when I "published" my notes (WSET-based) and since then we have both nodded knowingly when holding wine back for the second and maybe even a third day1. I'm sure Angela, being the consummate expert, had known this for decades but was happy for me that I'd discovered the same thing.

I had, at the time, taken to Twitter and Anne Wessels had kindly thanked me for loving their wine (this was approximately two years ago). It turned out that we were from similar backgrounds in Durban, KZN, and that Craig had been at school with my laat-lammetjie2 brother Paul. Also turns out the Wessels had a good knowledge of Montrachet in Burgundy (details in an earlier blog). 

In December last year we finally met Craig face-to-face at their scenic homestead in the Hemel-en-Aarde. Truly Heaven and Earth. We were treated to a vertical tasting of a number of their wines, including a very early Ava Marie. I would have noticed the precise year (and should have found out later if I was a proper journalist) had Craig not been keen to show those who wished to see it around the winery. Happily for Shan and me there were only a few takers as the rest of the gathering was happily tucking into the fabulous spread of food and wine. As you can see from the photos below, this gave us ample opportunity to interrogate our host in detail.

Readers will see from the pictures that the winery is spotless. This is not always a prerequisite for excellent wine but is was very quickly clear that Craig has a scrupulously ordered mind. Second best is not tolerated ...

Above: (Top) Craig in his element; Posh amphorae that were specially imported from Florence to give an unwooded component to their Ava Marie and thus one of the added dimensions that makes this a unique wine. The juice in the vats (when there is some) has a dark colour as a result of exposure to oxygen during pressing. This is an intentional process carried out to stabilise the colour (without using any chemicals) and protect the wine from oxidation further down the line. Craig described it as a kind of like a "flu shot" for wine; The middle two pictures are more indicative Craig's recent experiences in modern art. In the right hand picture his is explaining how carefully he drilled the holes, evenly spaced and in straight lines. He then had to delegate the job because he had more important business and various other patterns emerged. These resulted in Restless River's submission for the Zeitz Museum of Contemporary Art in Cape Town's prestige waterfront district3 As you can see he was pretty earnest in his presentation; (Bottom) Serious playground in the background where wine and pukka coffee are consumed until the early hours, accompanied by a notably credible album collection. I was jealous; Evidence that the Wessels invest in their winery rather than their Lambo (a disproportionate number of those flash supercars can be seen elsewhere in the Winelands).

Bosman Hermanus

It is appropriate that Bosman follows Restless River here because it was Anne Wessels that recommended the place to us as a dining venue and as a winery. The first person we wanted to take there was Emma, having been gazumped by Peter Clarke on our initial attempt to take her to la Vierge.

Serendipity was on hand. The day turned out spectacularly, even the clouds waving happily to us when we arrived. I was a tad nervous to whether as Emma would enjoy it, especially as I had taken a punt on kicking off with the Bosman Pét Nat Chenin Blanc. This was a bit of a risk as I'm not necessarily as enthusiastic about Champagne as some and, besides, I doubt Bosman had any of the latter on the wine list. Shan doesn't generally do drinking at lunchtime and had valiantly offered to drive so Emma and I had quite a bit of Method Ancestral to get through before ordering something else, which we did. Happily, Emma seems to be enjoying the aperitif in the picture below.

Bosman does what we always appreciate at lunch time; a series of smaller plates that are delicious and convenient to share. We were all happy with our choice and the fizz was eventually replaced with the Upper Hemel-en-Aarde Chardonnay, which did the trick accompanying a series of delicious shared small bites. 

Emma was brought up to be gracious so the fact that she kept going back there with her friends was a particularly gratifying endorsement, even though she had enthused all the way in the car journey back to Hermanus.

We enjoyed it so much we took our extended family there for lunch a month later. I ended up having to eat about three Pastéis de Nata because they were running out and I didn't want our table to go short  ... it happens to me all the time. S'why I need to shift a stone or three.

Above: (Top) is sort of self-explanatory except it might take a bit of imagination to see the fifth finger in the hand of god creating the Hemel-en-Aarde; (2nd row) Pet Nat is a great start for lunch with Emma; A couple of wild swimmers head across the dam for fresh supplies, maybe. Babilonstoring in the background; (3rd row) l-r Max, Kate, Bennie, Crone, Andrew, Kinkles, Tim, Shan, Michael, Janine and Mia; (Bottom) the Pastéis de Nata that Bosman does so well; Caption this ... .

​Spookfontein, Tesselaarsdal and Creation

My excuse is that we ran out of time. It is a bad one and I certainly need to return for in depth chats with Berene Sauls and Carolyn Martin in which we can allocate time for a bigger picture story about where the valley is going. I think Anne Wessels has some ideas about Tesselaarsdal, too. Heaven forbid that it should end up under the mooted giant power lines transmitting nuclear generated energy from Banmtamsklip near Pearly Beach to the West Coast of South Africa.

The pandemic didn't particularly help in the early part of our "tour", leaving many venues temporarily (and sadly, in come cases even permanently) shut. Also, during the second half we were somewhat distracted by how unexpectedly long-winded our visa extension would become. When we'd investigated from the UK it seemed as if it would be a simple formality. That's enough moaning [ed].

I would dearly have loved to have had a face to face meeting with Berene to expand on her wine and the future of Tesselaarsdal village but her time was pretty much dominated by her day job at Hamilton Russell. It is at the latter winery that Berene makes her Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. The Pinot has been greeted with world-wine acclaim and no doubt the Chardonnay will, too, when it has time to rest awhile in the bottle. The first picture below is of the 2021 Chardonnay that was showing promise when we quaffed it in Hermanus, courtesy of Wine & Co.

I you follow my blogs you will by now have discovered that I have a bit of a thing about Tesselaarsdal, its past and its future. I'm not the only one4 but there is more to be played out. I do know for sure that Berene and the Wessels (and probably more besides) would dearly love to be part of that.

In the mean time it was rosé in the sun at the impressive building at Spookfontein.
"You must go there, if only to see the building," we were advised when we inquired from others in the know if it was open for lunches. 
We eventually made it by the skins of our teeth and enjoyed the food and wine, too: 

Above: (2nd row) Spookfontein's architecture is assuredly modern and built to blend in with the spectacular terrain; (3rd row) The detailing is lovingly carried through the interconnected buildings and there are substantial outside areas to sit and absorb the winelands and their surrounding mountains; (4th row) There was an engagingly cute Schnauzer frequenting the dining room. He was well-behaved. See if you can confirm if his name was Marmite (now gold-dust in SA having disappeared from the supermarket shelves)? (Bottom row) Inexcusable pun, I know, but the Spookfontein architecture graces every corner of hospitality and production.

Now, what about Creation? I have to hang my head in shame as a retired IT Architect. I dearly wanted to have lunch there but was having difficulty navigating the web site. It seemed to me on initial inspection that plain old lunch wasn't an option.

My Twitter friend (something good came out of lockdown), Lisa Harlow, was too polite to point out my cerebral shortcomings but did demand: "Have you been to Creation?" I mumbled something in response to which Lisa, a UK resident and specialist tour organiser, interjected: "I'll contact Carolyn Martin."

Which she did and before long Carolyn was contacting me. Sadly it was too late for Shan and me to properly visit by that point but we did drop by briefly to say hello and to be treated royally by Creation's co-owner (with her husband Jean-Claude).

Hopefully around the time that this blog goes out, Shan will be enjoying a full tasting experience there and will tell me all about it when she gets home to the UK.

Lunch with Angela Lloyd

​Now, last, but heaven forbid it should be least: lunch at Chez Lloyd. Without Angela's input, our Wineland perorations would certainly have been much diminished. We may never have become acquainted with Richard Kershaw for a start. Perhaps more importantly, though, Angela brought wine deliberations to life for me throughout lockdown. Tweeting throughout the pandemic was the closest we'd been able to come to a fireside chat.

Now all that was to change. Shan and I were headed to Kenilworth bearing coals for Newcastle (i.e. wine) and needed to complement it with some fresh flowers. We set off from Viv's place in Muizenberg, satnav (TomTom) primed with the coordinates and with plenty of time to spare to find suitable flowers. Now, it has been my experience with TomTom that it's great when you know where you're going and don't really need help but the wheels can come off (TomTom, thankfully not the car) when one most needs it. Such was the case on our way to Angela's. We saw parts of Mitchell's Plain we'll hopefully not see again. 

We did actually arrive on time but only with seconds to spare. We were warmly welcomed by our host and helped pick herbs while Angela set about the finishing touches to a delicious lunch. 

We also had a tour of her accurately temperature controlled and expertly stocked wine cellar. Green with envy, I could imagine soirees with the great and the good of the Cape Wine Community. And just in case you think that Cape wines dominate, there's also a cornucopia of exotic wines of various vintages that are either just ripe or still waiting to be. I may be a chav but I can spot a Chave out of the smallest corner of my eye..

Above: We focus on two very different and venerable Rieslings of completely different character. I think Angela managed to convert Chardonnay Shan to the virtues of well-kept Rieslings. And finishing off our scrumptious lunch with fresh Stollen did NOT go unnoticed alongside the Mosel.

Salut and thank you again for your gracious hospitality, Angela. Hopefully we'll be able to reciprocate soon up this end of the globe. Maybe fish out some ancient Badenhorst Chenin to share with the redoubtable Mr and Mrs Jones.

Coming next

We head back North East towards Kwa Zulu Natal and beyond to commune with friends and relations and for me to commence another road trip with my darling daughter, Kate.
​
[Endnotes]:

1. Actually I had first noticed this when trying my first bottle of Ryan Mostert's Smiley V2. My benefactor, Daryl, had given it to me noting that it was a bit controversial.  We'd been discussing El Bandito at his house and he had been undecided about the style of wine then classified as "Natural". I was, too after consuming a couple of glasses when I got home. And then something made me try it again the next evening and I was hooked. A salinity had materialised from somewhere and introduced a sublime balance to the drink. I relayed this info back to Daryl, who was delighted I'd enjoyed his gift.
2. ​Late lamb. He was 14 years younger than me.
3. If you really want to know what it is, it came out of a brainwave of Craig's. He wanted to recycle these  boards that been a component of some packaging and thought they'd make a handy sieve when eliminating detritus from bunches of grapes destined for whole-bunch maturation. He didn't do a demo for us so we had no guarantee of their efficacy nor whether the uniform holes or the more arty random ones worked best.
4. Quite some heartwarming detail in this article​

There is nothing so precious as quality time with one's daughter  ... especially if she's a good driver and you're both on a scenic road trip from Greasy Grey Gauteng to the Western Cape.

It once was that I was on stolen time when taking my family on holiday. Now the roles were reversed. Kate had a brief break from the corporate world to visit her 92-year-old gran in Hermanus. As a retired individual, I had all the time in the world to fetch her from Johannesburg International and transport her 2,040 km  to the South Western tip of South Africa. A journey of some 24 hours driving in 5 days' elapsed time. 

"Twenty four hours to drive from Joburg to Cape Town!"  you might cry, "that's just over 1,400 km and should take no more than 15 hours?"
And I might reply: "Perhaps, if you wanted to dice with death by boredom on the way," all the time congratulating myself on the fact that I had witnessed some of the most magnificent scenery in the world by straying (by about 600 km in this case) from the straight and narrow.
Of course I also had a cunning plan to palm off driving some of the most boring stretches on to my unsuspecting daughter. At least that would allow her to give her full attention to the spectacular bits while I drove, I reasoned with myself.

Well! That plan went to hell with me driving the first section in a cyclonic downpour. It didn't help that a huge percentage of the roads in the Free State are unfit to drive in the best of weather. Shan and I had approached the journey from the Eastern side of the Vaal Dam and were lucky to emerge in one piece. The Western side seemed to be a preferable alternative. Actually we were probably lucky we couldn't actually see the potholes (or where we were going for much of the time), hidden as they were by a sheet of water. Kate couldn't see the scenery, either.
​  
Hades to Heaven

But we survived and were delighted to finally arrive at our attractive and cosy accommodation at Honeysuckle Clarens where we were to pause for two nights. After repairing to our respective suites for a brief rest we sallied forth into the town in search of sustenance. It being Sunday night, there wasn't much choice but, as luck would have it, possibly the nicest restaurant of all those I have visited in Clarens appeared out of the gloom. The Bocca Di Lupo (doesn't that sound more splendid than the more prosaic English "good luck") was everything it needed to be, open and friendly and the owner relieved to be working his last night before closing for a seasonal break.

For much of the remainder of this blog, I'm going to switch to a picture story and let the captions conduct the narrative. There are a lot of pics. Anything that looks like a selfie is Kate's work. Dads don't do well at selfies.

Above, clockwise from top left: Me peering into the gloom somewhere between Heilbron and Bethlehem while negotiating s downpour of biblical proportions; and r-e-l-a-x ... happily ensconced at Bocca, armed with Aperol spritzes; reassuringly authentic Italian grub was accompanied by an equally reassuringly decent Soave; Kate taking a quiet moment the following morning with the van Reenen family graveyard (a little more about this in the narrative below); The gold-edged splendour of the Golden Gate National Park[1].

Kate was fascinated by the history brought to life by the van Reenen family graveyard at the Western end of the Golden Gate National Park. These remote cemeteries are a feature of rural South Africa and frequently contain vignettes of local tragedies around which romances have been built. This one was no exception with at least two stories which reveal themselves the more one uncovers. The first of these was a doomed romance in 1932 in which forbidden love between 22-year-old Valerie Wilcocks and 21-year-old Johan de la Harpe was cut short by lightning during a horseback tryst in the mountains nearby. The affair had split the families who were reunited in grief, allowing the couple to be buried together in this remote corner of the Free State.

The other tragic story from the van Reenen graveyard was starkly recorded in the same cemetery where young Nathan van Reenen is lying just below the tombstone of his brother Laurens. Nathan was "slain by an unknown assailant on 7 December 2013 in Durban whilst coming to the assistance of a victim of crime". He was sixteen years old. There must be a tragic story about Laurens, too, who died aged 24 in 2005 but I cannot find any details. Nathan must have been a laat lammetjie[2]. 

Nieu Bethesda here we come (one day)

The enthusiasm and resilience of the young is contagious and does spur one on to share in a whirlpool of activities. This had been evident in Clarens where we sped from one activity to the next.

Sadly, because of the state of the roads we were strongly advised not to follow the road South along the border with Lesotho. Having travelled that road a couple of years earlier and feasted my eyes on the fairytale spires of the Maluti Mountains it was with regret that we turned briefly North again before tackling the main arterial routes of the Free State.

Above: Clockwise from top:  Our route South West from Joburg to Hermanus; a typical Free State highway; finally the serenity of The Bethesda (guesthouse).

After a joyful welcome from Carla Smit, the Bethesda's proprietor whom Shan and I had met 3 months earlier, we repaired to our rooms to freshen up for an evening in town. In her excitement Kate reappeared earlier than expected: "Dadly, I just had to tell you that this is THE BEST hotel I've ever stayed in, thank you so much!" With which she returned her room to luxuriate for a while longer. To be honest, I couldn't disagree. Carla just seemed to have the balance more or less perfect. I say Carla because she's the one who meets and greets but her husband, Ludolf, has a similar presence albeit a little more behind the scenes.

Above, top to bottom, l to r: en route to Boetie's Bar (as one does in NB) the road stretches out to the associated township that is becoming increasingly integrated with NB central and hardly an hour in 24 goes past without sight of someone walking, riding a horse or driving a car along this thoroughfare ... (happily, though, not too many cars); Kate finally has her G&T ... Carla and Ludolf can be spotted in the background on the extreme left ... it is after all the de facto watering hole in NB; Boetie himself presides over the bar; My ideal house in NB - verandah on the street so the occupants can converse with passers by.

Three days condensed into one

My daughter being, well, my daughter, and therefore imbued with the energy and enthusiasm of youth, was keen to be up and at it on the morning of the only full day we had in Nieu Bethesda. When Shan and I were there we had a much more laid back approach to things but probably didn't engage in many more activities(apart from eat more sumptuously).

Above, clockwise from top left: Breakfast awaits and we're the first to arrive, champing at the bit to visit the rock people out of town; Kate does a turn with a rock person (not sure if it was a walk or a tango) ... these statues are dotted all around quite a substantial area of veld bisected by a stream and a dam; inside the Bushman museum looking out at the Tower Cafe; In the grounds of the NG Kerk gazing through the trees at another view of the township.

We also whizzed around the Helen Martins museum like a duo of whirlwinds, so I'll leave any descriptions of her house and art to a couple of earlier blogs[5].

And that was just the morning! We were distinctly peckish by the middle of the day - time for the Brewery and Two Goats Deli (BTGD). This required a bit of a walk.

Above. clockwise from top left: this substantial suspension bridge crosses the Gats River, which is often just a dry riverbed but can become a raging torrent; the homestead that fronts the BTGD; a sunflower welcomes you to the brewery; we chose to share a platter for lunch ... thank goodness we did; the house terrier wishes we'd ordered a platter each (we still snuck him a bit as he was so appealing); I always take this picture when returning from BTGD, it has different moods and frames the ever-present Compassberg appealingly.

A brief rest was required back at the Bethesda, accompanied by tea on the patio, and then a walk around the town

Above, clockwise from top left: contre-jour goats in the centre-ville; back at Boetie's Bar and my daughter looking relaxed and a teeny bit sunburned having escaped an English winter; the following day we asked Carla to show Kate the cellar, she was happy to oblige.

Two things about Nieu Bethesda that compel me to go back time after time: the time-cycle seems to stand still for a while, which induces a feeling of relaxed wellbeing; homes and hospitality providers with verandas that allow one to interact with passers-by. 

Kate and I spent our last evening having supper on the verandah at Elbé Van Heerden's Village Inn talking to people at the adjoining tables and the occasional passer-by in the street. Just fabulous.

Another 579 kms up the road via the Seweweekspoort Mountain Pass

Kate at the wheel again, doing the drudgery on the N1. We turned off at Laingsburg and swapped driving duties. Just wow. This is almost as spectacular as and prettier than the Swartberg Pass a little further East but the road quality is superb gravel. More in the captions below.

​Our ultimate destination for the day was Mymering Wine and Guest Estate. I don't know what it is about the Southern lee of the Swartberg but the hospitality model is more hospitable. Shan and I first encountered this at Boesmanskop where the proprietor, Tienie, fed us a gourmet meal and then invited us for conversation in his sitting room. At Mymering, dinner was with the owner and friends and family and no-holds-barred conversation was encouraged. Our host was a retired consultant doctor from Gqeberha and had opinions on everything. What fun. What debate. Kate didn't hold back ... I was so proud of her strongly held opinions.

Above: It was all worth it! Shan's sister, Kerry, managed to snap this moment of tri-generational hilarity. I'd love to know what 92-year-old Judy said to provoke the guffaws but will demur to the threesome's precious moments to enjoy whenever they see this picture.

Coming next

A pause to celebrate the concept that small is often more beautiful than big ... buying wine in the Western Cape
​
[Endnotes]:

1. Shan and I had visited a few months earlier and I had been there on my lonesome a year or so before that.
2. Afrikaans expression for children born long after some of their siblings. Literally a "late little lamb".
3. I had a conversation with Carla about the cushions and I can't remember whether the fabric illustrations were Tretchikoff prints because my  addled ageing brain became confused with  another Tretchikoff encounter in Calizdorp.
4. More Tretchi info in the Boerewors Express on Page 6.
5. ​With Shan earlier this year and Richard in 2016.

This next instalment of this blog was supposed to be a joyous thing. It would have been had I kept on top of things. However, the longer I've taken, the sadder the outcome has become.

When I first set about a series of anecdotes covering a road trip up the East Coast of South Africa and then returning more or less through the middle, I had planned for three episodes. I am now on episode 5 with probably two more to come.

First in Mpumalanga there were Sharna and Daryl, followed by Stuart, and now we come to Heidi and Andrew Newby. The last time I had seen them was while in the Western Cape 18 months previously when they were living in Hopefield, North of Cape Town. A couple of fleeting visits that left more questions unanswered than had been on the original list.

In the mean time the intrepid couple had upped stakes and moved most of the way across South Africa to the banks of the Vaal River, just below the Vaal Dam wall. Ok, not quite in Mpumalanga but as near as dammit is to swearing.

​Above, L to R: Andrew proudly cutting into a round from his new cheesery in Deneysville; 18 months earlier, Andrew, Heidi and me near Smitswinkelbaai, lunching at a friend's cheesery.

"Why are you abandoning Hopefield for Deneysville?" I asked Andy shortly after the Newby family  embarked on a Great Trek of their own, from the Western Cape to the banks of the Vaal.
​“We need more grass for the animals, Banj,” was the explanation. Short and to the point as always.
​
When I finally arrived in Deneysville in January, my old friend was equally succinct.
"Why are you staying here for such a short time, Banj? And without Kate and Shelley-ann?"

I mumbled  through my explanation of all the Covid obstacles. I'm not sure he was convinced but it did lead to the three of us talking about daughters that evening, how proud we were of them and how Mila was spreading her wings and working in Germany. Andrew was proud and sad that she was so far away but not so far that she didn’t drop everything to visit her Dad when he first became ill. Kate had done something similar for me when I wound up in hospital in France a few years previously. Dad-daughter bonding over a glass of something was highly recommended. The three of us counted our blessings with some rather fine wine provided by Daryl “Bikey” Balfour. We were in the Newby restaurant on the plaas and discussing their ambitious plans for a padstal.

Beyond that they were contemplating converting their almost 100 stables into B&B accommodations for parents and children to share experiences with the animals on the farm, a short distance from the Vaal River. Earlier in the afternoon Andrew had proudly showed me around his recently completed cheesery (already with a sideline into wider charcuterie). We discussed the finer differences between Chorizo and Chouriço, the latter being more spicy, something that was proved the next morning at breakfast.

I had set out that morning from the Eastern Transvaal, the boot of the car containing a box of assorted wine, something Mr and Mrs Newby appreciated with the splendid repast the three of us had devoured with a degree of lip smacking enjoyment. Food was second nature to the plaaswoners[1] but decent wine was less easy to come by in rural Deneysville. Bikey’s cellar is, by contrast, a legend and we muttered our appreciation as we settled into nostalgic reminiscences.

I can’t pretend we weren’t concerned about Andrew’s mobility but there was an air of cautious optimism. He was in the South African health care system and appropriate treatment was on the horizon.

Above, L to R: Group Daily News photo, possibly as early as 1976, starring ... Back row - Andrew, Greg Dardagan, Garnet Currie, Rob Melville, Middle row - Kathy Usher, Liz Clarke, Front row - Don Blackbeard, Russel Kay; Andrew exercised significant influence to secure me a wholesale price on my Honda, which I rode up to Nottingham Road in his honour in 1978/79 (the licence disc being a giveaway as to the date) and smoking a fag to celebrate.

A short detour into shared history
​​
I’m not exactly sure when I first met Andrew? It would have been some time in the second half of the 1970s when I was Motoring Editor of the Daily News and he helped me by testing the motorbikes, something he was infinitely more qualified to do than I was.

I just enjoyed riding the one he had out on test at any given time and they became a unifying factor. We did stuff like a bike and caravan foray to the Transkei Wild Coast and participant/scrambler cooperative coverage of the Dusi canoe marathon[2].  He procured me my first (and last) motorbike (above). But when I saw him in January he had remained a biker at heart, planning a solo expedition on a high-end "scooter" he had recently acquired.

Above, L to R: A bunch of us hung about in the 70s and 80s (Garnet and Bikey Balfour AWOL on this occasion) ... top row, Tony (a.k.a. Spikey Norman) Kinnear and John Pauling ... bottom row, yours truly, Andrew; John Pauling trying to ignore Andrew's gurning, something he was wont to do occasionally; Andrew chatting to Brenda Lynsky at Shan's and my leaving do in 1987 ... I think I spy Andy King and Johnny Thorpe in the background.

As well as working together we spent a good deal of time socialising. Perhaps at the core of this particular "journo" group were the four reprobates in the first frame above but Garnet was always around, too, as was Daryl.

There was a point when the dissolute journo aspect of our lives began to cause health concerns. Some of us resumed surfing and bicycles emerged for regular Sunday rides. Andy was more of a diver than a surfer and expressed his contempt for the rest of the group by gurning.

Shan's and my participation in the Durban group came to an end when we moved to the UK to start a new life in 1987. Andy was at our leaving do. He continued pursue cycling and went on to post some seriously quick times in the Cape Argus cycle race.

We didn't see each other again for 31 years and it was the Argus[3] that reunited us. I took a local group of cyclists to participate in the 2018 event and got in touch again. A couple of reunions occurred with the most recent having been the feature of this blog.

When we parted on the 16th of January, 2022, I couldn't be sure ​when I'd next be in SA but felt sure there would be another visit. We discussed prospects and the uncertainty of it all.
​"Don't worry, Banj," my friend summarised, "We aren't going anywhere."
“Next time you drop by, Banj," Andrew continued, "make sure you bring Shelley-ann and Kate with you ... and stay a bit longer,” were among his parting words as I set off on that Sunday morning to fetch Kate from Joburg airport.

Above, L to R: Mr Newby was so excited for us to taste his new cheese for breakfast as the cat and terrier testify; always an animal lover and encouraged by Heidi, the house in Deneysville was a haven for waifs and strays ... only a terrier can look this beseeching; cheers Andrew, you were one of a kind.

There was to be no next time
​
Heidi walked me to the gates their plaas[4] in Deneysville because Andrew was finding it difficult to walk more than a short distance. As she waved goodbye and I set off to collect Kate I was feeling optimistic about my friend's prospects. His enthusiasm for his charcuterie adventure and the prospects the farm offered had rubbed off during the previous nights longe dinner.

On the 3rd of March, 2022, I received a message from Daryl to tell me Andrew had died that day. Heidi  later posted an explanation on Facebook of the information she'd been given.

​Andrew Newby[5], 1951-2022, RIP

Up to this point I haven't mentioned Graeme Newby, Andrew's slightly younger brother. I don't remember him that well other than that he was a thoroughly decent cove and we all enjoyed his gentle humour when he was around. I do know that he became an optometrist and practised in Cape Town for many decades.

He was known to our group as "Peppermint" and also liked his motorbikes. According to urban legend, Graeme was once visiting the Skyline Hotel, a bit of a notorious dive in Hillbrow, Johannesburg, when he needed to use the loo. He would have been reluctant to leave his belongings out of sight so took his crash helmet with him to the Gents where he was jumped by two aggressors. Not knowing what else to do, he dispatched them with his crash helmet.

On the 19th of July this year, Graeme suffered a massive heart attack in his Cape Town surgery and died. 

Graeme Newby, 195?-2022, RIP

Guys, the world is a poorer place.

​For the first 65 years of our lives I'm not sure my cousin Stuart and I really got each other. I don't think there was any particular animosity but we seemed to live in parallel universes. But things changed when Jane died towards the end of 2019.

Our Dads were brothers and at times our families lived in each others' pockets, but random forces seemed to push us in different directions. I was the first born on Woody's side of the house and Jane was first born on Graham's. For a while our paternal grandmother, Molla, assumed Nirvana had been achieved. Jane and I would marry and ride off into the proverbial sunset.

She hadn't accounted for our parents' baby-boomer proclivities and it wasn't long before Stuart appeared in Jean and Graham's (GKF) household and Susan arrived to grace Shirley and Woody's (EFH). In Molla's eyes the third and fourth sprogs had pitched up to gatecrash the party.

The irony was that by the time Catherine EFH and Rosemary GKF sidled into the mix, Molla had a new round of favourites. Stuart and Sue were relegated, in Molla's eyes at least, to a parallel universe.

Jane and Stuart remained close, enjoying various nefarious capers together well into their teens. Teen stuff was Jane's and my preserve during the mid-60s before she got attached to her first partner. I think Stuart very much ploughed his own furrow at that stage and we gradually became scattered to the wind. Over the years we got together for weddings and funerals and it was the most recent of the latter that cemented Stuart's and my path towards toenadering[1].

Jane and Stuart had remained great friends and that relationship  grew stronger over the years, especially when they both wound up in the UK. Jane as a carer and Stuart on secondment from a major SA bank. Jane was desperate to rekindle a relationship between her brother and cousin but we were both caught up in our own professional lives and opportunities were missed.

Above, clockwise from lop left: Stuart as a pirate, Jane the damsel in distress although she doesn't look too distressed; Stuart, Rosemary (who didn't like her photo being taken) and Jane; Jane on her wedding day smiling at what may or may not be Molla; Jane in latter years at a music festival in the KZN Midlands.

Until the summer of 2019 when she contrived for the three of us to meet for lunch in the Boot and Flogger (B&F) in Southwark, which had become a favourite haunt of mine for London rendezvous. Only, Jane managed to drop out for "work-related priorities". She had been a carer in the South East for some years and came up with a plausible excuse. 

I was pretty stoked after the hour or two my re-found Cuz and I spent in the B&F. I think he felt the same because we readily agreed to meet again the next time he was in town.

The next time I heard from Stuart was when he telephoned me a month or so later in September.  His opening words were: "I've just been contacted by Interpol ..."
Now, our family has always revelled telephone prankery so I left a wary pause hanging ...

"Jane is dead," he blurted. I could tell he was choked up and finding this difficult. Hearing this for the first time I went numb. Probably didn't acquit myself terribly well, which wouldn't have been helpful to my Cuz delivering such a devastating message.

She had had a heart attack in her caring client's home. It had taken Interpol a while to trace her next of kin, i.e. Stuart, via Johannesburg to London where he was currently on business. Stuart ended up shuttling back and forth to sort out her affairs. We agreed to meet near her last workplace in Flitwick and attempt to shoulder the burden together. I have to say Stuart shouldered most of it but I did provide the transport while we went from one branch of the public administration to another between Flitwick and Luton. That meant three or four hours in the car together, during which we made great strides in our toenadering.

A few more days together at random intervals during September and October 2019 cemented our determination to get to know each other better. Stuart had some consultancy work he was doing in London but Covid put a stop to that as well as a planned trip for Shan and me to South Africa. It was January 2022 before we could properly plan our next reunion, this time at his place on the multi-faceted Walkerson Estate where Stuart and his son, Ryan, had recently built a refuge from eGoli[2]. 

Above: The countryside in the Walkerson Estate and the general Dullstroom area could almost be in Wales or the Lake District with its rolling green valleys rearing up occasionally into stark peaks and kranses, the former of which often reach above the surrounding mist. It is mostly rich grassland but indigenous lilies abound in sheltered spots. Many of these lilies, such as the Agapanthus on the right, have found themselves into the garden centres of England.

Walkersons and Dullstroom

"I have a plan for your stay," Stuart announced when I eventually found his abode, nestling on a slope above the central trout stream. "We don't have to follow it religiously but the first step is to go up to the mountain plateau and have a G&T while we enjoy the view of the estate below."
"Sounds great to me," I responded. We were soon climbing into his bakkie[3], accompanied by Cairo the English Rottweiler, and setting off on our ascent.
"There's quite a lot of game up there," my cousin informed me. "We're bound to see Wildebeest and Striped Donkeys but there could be a lot more."
"What's with the striped donkeys?" I asked him.
"They're Zebra. Cairo and I don't like them."
Turns out the zebra keep destroying Stuart's lawn. A particularly annoying event had occurred soon after laying turf at vast expense. Stuart and Cairo managed to chase about 20 of them away from the immediate surrounds of the house in the dark and the next morning the whole "lawn" had turned into a mud bath. Cursing and swearing, he'd gone to inspect the damage. No a blade of grass in sight. Then  he noticed a strange thing: the zebra hadn't munched all the grass, they'd flipped all the turf squares on their backs, mud side up.
"Bastards," my cousin exclaimed. I could understand his sentiment although I still quite like Zebra.

The rest of the plan for the day was to be a braai[4] accompanied by suitable beverages

Above, clockwise from top left: Cairo enjoying the "view" of the valley; we luxuriated in the bespoke G&Ts that Stuart had prepared earlier; I'd stopped of in Mbombela to avail myself of the limited stock in a local wine shop and then Hops Hollow for a selection of craft beers - the latter weren't cold and my cousin's magnum kind of trumped the former; after a couple of cold lagers, we set about the 2011 Lady May with some enthusiasm; by the time the excellent braai was ready to eat we were eagerly revisiting our past, seen here in the Drakensberg at what could've been Loteni or Kamberg, I imagine around1963/4.

Over the next few days my rediscovered cousin and I explored the foundations of why we should be proper buddies during our remaining years. Yes, it was more than our shared affection for Jane or that we were both suckers for a great curry.

"Besides," Stuart observed, "we're both in touch with our feminine sides."

He's probably right ... I'd never really thought about it: we both certainly cared about other people. We also reminisced about how, on the whole, I got on better with his Dad and he got on better with mine. Was that Molla's influence in bringing up her sons or just the distant father-son relationships that were encouraged then? Although Stuart's rakish charm is all Graham.

We tried valiantly to finish the Glenelly but fatigue eventually took its toll. Retiring to our opposite corners of his house my cousin suddenly checked himself and remarked: "Oh and the plan for tomorrow is ..."

Above, L to R: Perhaps my Cuz was too fatigued to notice this interloper as he retired but when I glanced out of the window of my quarters, I spotted this fella about two metres away - the camera flash didn't bother him and I wasn't about to set off a cacophony; Cairo regards me knowingly while Stuart recovers slowly from the night before.

It wasn't long, though, on my second day in Dullstroom, that my host sprang to life: "Now Cus[5]​, about today's plan; first I'll do a fry up then we'll head into Dullstroom for a beer tasting. I'll show you some of the shops, buy some provisions and check out the whisky bar, we can have a pub lunch, followed by a milkshake and then we can come back here and cast some flies."

If he didn't have a measured delivery, I could swear he didn't stop for breath. I tried to keep up.

Trip to town

Dullstroom would probably like to think of itself as quirky and to some extent it is. Kind of posh quirk, though. The bric-a-brac is in a different league and the milkshake shop would turn Mo Farrah into Mr Blobby given a week or two.

Above: clockwise from top left: Très trendy (chic?); the pretty much everything shop next door; in a whisky bar, a full sized wooden bike with presumably fully-functional Ultegra running gear in a frame on the wall - I mean, they went to all that trouble, they could at least have used a Dura Ace groupset; 4 or 5 spaces/rooms packed to the gills with just clocks - this was one room, others contained all sorts including antique grandfather timepieces; a bric-a-brac shop with quality stuff, including some tasty silverware.

Casting some flies seemed a pretty sensible way to spend the late afternoon after our sensory overload, a little bit of tranquil exercise along the river at Walkersons. I think Stuart caught a couple of tiddlers that he put back. We fished separate beats as he has stellar experience and I just like to thrash about a bit. I caught nothing and elected to walk back the couple of kilometres to the house. The soon-to-fade light brought with it a perfect tranquility after the busy day.

Above: What is it about water and early evening that brings about regenerative powers?

One of the evenings I was staying with Stuart we managed to slip out for a bite to eat at the rather splendid Mrs Simpsons restaurant in central Dullstroom. As is customary when parking in the street in South Africa, there is a system of car guards who freelance in "looking after" your car while you go about your business. It was no different when we went to Mrs Simpsons except that Stuart managed to establish from our car guard that he was a schoolboy and that he needed to watch over x number of cars to make ends meet before he had to walk a few kilometres home. Doing a quick calculation, my cuz gave the young chap x times the going rate and sent him off to get an early night. I think the young lad had exams the next day.

Above: Inside Mrs Simpsons. It was excellent but what is it about places like this that still hark back to the Empire ... or maybe it's a pistache to satirise the so rich and so powerful with so little to offer Everyman.

On my last day my Cuz pointed out that we hadn't really explored the "other" side of the estate yet. There may be some other animals up there he said. He was secretly hoping we'd catch a glimpse of the only sable antelope "in the village". A male whom, Stuart claimed, had been making inappropriate advances towards the female wildebeest. Sadly, we did not come across this lonely fellow but a story emerged. Apparently Stuart and another couple of Walkersons inmates had taken pity on this magnificent buck and had purchased three female sables from a reputable source. Sadly the local game preservation officials were not so sympathetic to our "stag's" plight and the paperwork was taking months ... perhaps now even years. 

I mentioned this story to my old mate, Mario Bozzone, who, in typical laconic fashion, told me how male sables had an inbuilt time bomb, beyond which their sperm count diminished rapidly. Typical Boz ... he researches everything. I must check with Stuart if the ladies have been given the go-ahead to move to Dullstroom, yet.

On my last morning, I peered out of the window pretty early in the morning to see this mountain reedbuck gazing at me balefully from a few metres away ... 

Above, l to r: Oops, there's a scary dude at the window; he looks dodgy, I'm outta here; is this far enough, this grass is actually pretty tasty?

After Shan's and my return from our trip to South Africa, Stuart contacted me to sound me out about scattering Jane's ashes at a special place on our gin mountain. It was sensitive of him to ask. What right would I have to disagree? Anyway, I thought it was a brilliant idea - as I write this I can see her ensconced up there on her new bench, revelling in the view or being philosophical about the mist.

​​Above: there is bit of a saga coming up as to how this photo came about.

But before that, a bit of a journey

I didn't really know what to expect, even though the Daily News Empangeni bureau had been my patch back in 1974. Whilst there, I had been almost joined at the hip with George D'Ath, my counterpart on the Natal Mercury. Theoretically we had been rivals but more often we supported each other.
Zululand, as it was then, was vast and, in many areas, pretty sparsely populated. Often stories would break out at opposite ends of our patch and we'd divi up the fact-gathering. The strip between the Tugela and Phongolo[2] Rivers and bounded by more or less parallel lines, running North-East through Eshowe and Vryheid respectively[3], were scarily remote to us.

Both of us moved away from Empangeni before we properly tackled this hinterland with its lure of the Wild-West. I never saw George again and, sadly, he was hacked and stabbed to death[4] by Witdoeke vigilantes in Nyanga, Cape Town, on 10 June 1986. He was the first journalist to be killed in the political conflict in South Africa. He probably would have enjoyed the dark irony of the story he used to tell of the spelling of his last name. Evidently it had been De'Ath but a recent ancestor had thought it macabre and removed the "e".

And so, in 2022 I came to fill in a bit of the Kwa Zulu Natal (KZN) that had passed me by. These are the pieces of my travels that draw me in with the magnetism of a jigsaw. I reached Eshowe ahead of schedule as the roads were clear early on that Monday morning.

Above: sunrise at 04h30 in Umdloti; my route for the next few Mpumalanga blogs.

From Eshowe the road dips down into the Mhlatuze basin before entering the rugged peaks and krandtzes that form the wild hinterland. Particularly spectacular is the White Mfolosi river valley that bisects the aforementioned  remote strip. I can't remember when I first encountered them on this journey but the one blight was the phalanx of coal trucks presumably ferrying their loads between the Northern KZN coalfields and the Indian Ocean port at Richards Bay. These behemoths can drop down to 10 kph uphill and then make overtaking hazardous by accelerating to 100 kph downhill. Time was that this traffic would have been taken up or at least moderated by the railways.

The journey from Vryheid to Mbombela crossed familiar territory so it was a relief to see Daryl's smiling face after the remaining 4 and a half hours. It wasn't long before we had wine glasses in our hands and were resuming the banter we had enjoyed intermittently over the intervening 45 years. More of the wine later.

Annoyed with myself for having zero photos of the way from Umdloti to Mbombela, I jumped at the opportunity of a bit of photography the next day with my friends the experts.

Sharna and Daryl

The Balfours are renowned in international hospitality, especially for their top flight wildlife safaris[5] majoring in photography across much of the globe. While​ discussing possibilities for the following day, Sharna suggested we take a trip up to Kaapschehoop for an iPhone safari.

They explained that many of the avid photographers who enjoyed their safaris often came as couples and quite frequently only one of the duo would be happy lugging around tens of thousands of dollars worth of camera kit. Consequently, Sharna had boned up on her cellphone techniques and provided coaching for those who wished to take a more casual approach to their wildlife and landscape pictures.

"The latest cellphones have extremely competent inbuilt cameras," she explained, while Daryl nodded knowingly.

I was happy to be in their hands. I did take my Nikon along for the ride after a good night's sleep, though.

Above: The deluxe spare room at Chez Balfour looks outward across the Steiltes Nature Reserve and inward at examples of their fine work.

Kaapschehoop
​
​While the town of Nelspruit is in the Lowveld region of Mpumalanga, Kaapschehoop is 28 km away, still in the Mbombela municipality but on the Highveld escarpment at 1640 m above sea level. The village came into existence as part of the 1873 gold rush that started in the Pilgrim's Rest area. Apparently Kaapschehoop peaked in the late 19th century with almost 5,000 residents and then descended throughout most of the 20th century until a low point of 16 inhabitants.

When you visit the place, its charms are clear. A huge amount of restoration has taken place and the altitude makes it a welcome refuge from Nelspruit. Brandishing our iPhones, Sharna and I darted about taking photos while Daryl looked on benignly.

Above, L to R, top to bottom: the first two pictures of traction engines hint at the town's industrial past; a lovingly restored verandah bungalow; step back in time for some lovely boer food when you visit the wagon house; ponies roam the streets as Daryl contemplates the transport options; more ponies shelter in a renovators' dream; the structure's still standing but it's a little out of town; a grand terrace downtown.

We had hoped to  have lunch in Kaapschehoop but it was a Tuesday and not much was open so we headed back towards Nelspruit. Sharna had pointed me in several positive directions with my iPhone (hopefully the results above bear this out) and a residual appetite for some more photos remained.

Photography lesson 

As we descended the escarpment I spotted a tableau that floated my boat and mentioned this to Daryl, who was driving. He turned the car around and retraced our path a few hundred metres to where the outlook had caught my imagination ...

Above: The first frame with my iPhone was a snapshot of what I'd seen but now what my mind had selected as a promising scene wasn't quite doing it; out came the Nikon and all three of us wrestled in frustration with its settings. The next six frames illustrate a sample of our frustration and eventually the last frame was more or less what I wanted (give or take a few judicious tweaks with Lightroom). A larger version appears as the banner to this blog.

Only after commendable patience on the part of the Balfours were we able to continue our journey to a leisurely lunch at the Kingfisher alongside what appeared to be a raging torrent of a river that I mistakenly took to be The Crocodile. Sadly the river was the less dramatically named Gladdespruit, a tributary of the Croc that had been swollen by recent heavy rain (a harbinger of the soon to arrive devastating East Coast floods, perhaps?).

Wine and grub

Now Daryl is a winester and foodster of some renown. That is not to say Sharna's grub is not on the same level but this evening we were to have a braai[6] and Daryl had once won the SA championships in that discipline. We detoured from the route home to Chez Balfour for some steak. A couple of perfect pieces presented themselves, well aged and marbled and what appeared to be an inch thick. Daryl and I chose one of these. Sharna was worried it wouldn't be enough and tried to persuade Daryl we needed another. We managed to convince her it wasn't needed. I tell you what, you'll never go hungry on one of their safaris with Sharna managing the catering.

Daryl had been given an electronic device for Christmas that purported to present the perfect braaied meat (as if he needed it) but before we go there and to the splendid bottle of Hannibal I need to take a few steps back.

Above: Daryl does like to keep his guests guessing - now revealed op sy moer; Daryl and Sharna haven't got mushroom for their steak lying untouched at the centre of the table.

When I had arrived the previous day I was tested via a brown paper bag on the constituents of the absolutely scrumptious op sy moer. I immediately got the Chenin bit and was appreciating the salinity of its blend partner. I was going for Palomino but didn't want to make a fool of myself so demurred. Of course, Daryl being Daryl, will never concede that I might have guessed correctly.

The splendid and perfect steak was soon added to our plates and melted in the mouth in between sips of the Bouchard Finlayson, a perfect accompaniment to the juicy red meat.

And there were some leftovers from the single steak after we'd all eaten our fill. Those Balfours do eat well, oh yes they do. Merci mes amis.

Recommended route to the Highveld

The next morning my friends were advising me on the route to take to Dullstroom to spend the next few days with my cousin, Stuart.

While they were showing me their recommended route I didn't question that they were sending me North to go West, nor had I realised that we were already North of Maputo. It is often a revelation to look at a map rather than just slavishly following one's SatNav. My personal global positioning, which is generally not too bad, had the Mozambique capital still way North of where we were sitting having breakfast.

​The route swept up in a loop, taking in the Long Tom Pass and the highest altitude brewery in Africa before swinging South to Dullstroom. Thanks guys that was great advice and having travelled that route I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Coming next

I am bound to embarrass my cousin with my newfound affection for the fine fellow ...
​
[Endnotes]

1. Formerly Nelspruit
2. ​Formerly Pongola
3. ​Also more or less parallel to the coast.
4. Slightly more detail of this infamous incident is provided by the Truth Commission here
5. Read all about their Wildphotos safaris  
6. Barbecue
7. Hops Hollow review

An instalment in our traversal of most of the length of South Africa, renewing old acquaintances, cementing cherished relationships and taking in a few new places, too. This is the  second of a growing number of blogs on the subject, that number depending upon how much the imagination gets carried away in the moment. 

This instalment is the sequel to the first few stops of our East "Coast" Nostalgia and there is at least one spooky link back to the Clarkes of Chalumna. See if you can spot it in the text (or maybe a photo caption).

A substantial incentive for visiting Kwa Zulu Natal (KZN) was to right a wrong with Mr and Mrs Patriarch Deale. That has a distinct and beguiling ring to it, doesn't it? Patrick (a.k.a. Packet) the Patriarch; rather nicely packaged, perhaps? 

You see, since the matriarch, Judy, moved to Hermanus, the Western Cape became the primary family holiday destination and KZN (our birthplace) had become rather neglected as such. In the meantime, Packet and Susie built their dream house in the Midlands on the outskirts of Hilton. Shan was the first sibling to be setting foot in the completed article. I'd visited the construction site a few years earlier but hadn't seen the full Monty either.

So we were contemplating our visit with delicious anticipation. But first we had to traverse what used to be the Transkei but is now part of the Eastern Eastern Cape province. We knew it would be a fairly epic journey from Tyolomnnqa but we weren't quite prepared for the sheer length of time it would take.

Transkei

Travelling as we were via East London (Buffalo City), the only feasible route for us to get there in a single day was to regain the N2 and cross the Kei River at the Great Kei Bridge. This route also had the singular attraction of revisiting the vast valley that has been carved out by this mighty waterway. More than 25 km if viewed in its entirety, the landscape has a rugged grandeur that is difficult to rival.

We renewed our Oohs and Ahs at the spectacle and then we were in the Transkei proper. The plan was to avoid Mthatha and veer off the N2 at Idutywa and take the less-travelled high road that would eventually drop us off on the N3 just above Hilton.

In retrospect it was the correct decision but would've been an even better one had we departed at dawn with Joe and his family.

Central Idutywa was a preview of Transkei town centres further on up the road. They have become intense commercial centres with vibrant informal markets, which is exciting if one has the time to take in the ambience but also intimidating due to the sheer crush of people going about their daily business of selling and procuring life's necessities. Turning into the side roads only exacerbates this, with more people to avoid and with potholes that feel as if they might consume an entire car.

Extricating ourselves from Idutywa and heading in the direction of Ngcobo brought its own revelations. The road has an almost urban sprawl feel about it for much of the way and, sensibly, has urban speed limits to match, which you avoid exceeding at your peril. Sleeping policemen and other teeth-rattling physical constraints abound. I do approve of traffic-calming for ecological and life-saving reasons but there are so many of them that an extra hour on the ETA at Ngcobo would be expedient (maybe an hour and a quarter to get to the other side of Ngcobo whose street markets were particularly intense). This would be on top of the allowances for avoiding the goats, sheep and cattle that appeared to roam the trunk roads at random.

The drive from Ngcobo to Elliot is spellbinding as you travel along a ridge that could be the top of the world with vistas disappearing into the distance on either side of the road. The vistas are even more spectacular to passengers seeing as the driver's attention has to be more or less fully focussed on the road surface that is (to quote the Prince of Wales) "appalling".

The road from there to the N3 is a little better, perhaps even challenging a curate's egg in some parts, where it is actually good. Unfortunately we arrived in Underberg a fair bit behind schedule and the fading light and the heavy rain that continued to plague KZN for the next five months all but obliterated the views of the Unkomaas that we knew to almost but not quite rival the Kei.

Sadly we get nil points for photographs of the Transkei. This can be attributed in part to a self-preservatory frisson and in part to our steadily disappearing deadline. The trip ended up taking us 11 and a half hours, two and a half hours longer than normal people should have taken.

We made up for the photographic shortcomings in the Transkei once we reached The Edge, informally known as Chez Deale.

On The Edge at Chez Deale

Above: the new Deale home is appropriately named The Edge for the reasons illustrated above. On a clear day it is possible to view Pietermaritzburg but not so often in the rainy season.

The Edge Deales were most understanding of our state when we arrived and, apart from a scrumptious supper and glass of wine, we more or less flopped into our beds in preparation for the following day's fun.

Apart from being a budding senior athlete with the early morning runs that have kept him young, fit and handsome, Packet has recently taken to keeping chickens. Mucking out the coop and providing fresh food is only half of it. The other half is taken up with defending his birds from predators. Most of these predators were evidently huge raptors of the avian variety.

But there were also monkeys after the eggs. A brazen bunch of bistids they were too. Hanging about and even coming into the house if a chance presented itself. This caused a lot of charging about, trying to scare off the sceptical apes as well as the avian ones.

Returning to the birds, it wasn't long before we witnessed a face off between our host and a Crowned Eagle. With its 1.8 metre wingspan (for UK readers, similar to that of a Red Kite) but with claws the size of Muhammad Ali's fist, our airborne feathered friend did not seem too perturbed by the Patriarch's laser stare.
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The same patriarch who had recently perfected that stare as a leading thespian in Paul Spence's1 theatre group.

​We were eager to to visit the Station Stop theatre and assorted other attractions, which we did after Susie's soul sustaining sustenance in the form of a fry-up. Yes, we did benefit from Packet's having saved a few of his brood and thereby some of the jolly fine fresh eggs they had produced..

Above: "What's up Cock". Makings of a new performance?

Stuffed with breakfast, followed closely by coffee and cake at the station, we decided against a full-on lunch and repaired back to The Edge for rest and restoration.

However, not before stopping off at St Anne's Diocesan College for Shan to see where her Mum, Judy, had been schooled. The college had also played a significant part in Susie's (neé Haines) and her own Mum's history, having both been there simultaneously, as pupil and teacher respectively.

I had also visited St Anne's, starting in 1968 when Susie and her friends had been the tantalising reward for the likes of Andrew Hathorn2, other friends and me to walk the 9 km to spend an hour or so on Sunday afternoons. There we would sit politely on the lawn under the watchful eyes of the staff, probably including Mrs Haines, before theoretically walking the 9 km back again.

Those were the school rules of the day but I say "theoretically" because, if Andrew was involved, we would repair down the road for tea with his grandmother who would then take pity on us and drive us back in her mint condition Riley 1.5 and drop us discreetly just before our school gates.

Above: Susie and Shan engage in some bonding resulting in a foot massage for the latter; I enjoyed the paving close up, too. ​

Packet and I had to swot3 for an upcoming visit to the Crossways Pub, an establishment that had hosted me and other reprobates (dare I say it) from 1968, through the early 70s and most recently for drinks to mark my Mum, Shirley's, death in 2010. We set out in a now familiar deluge to put the world to rights over a pint or two of the Crossways' finest.

​Our last day was spent in the Karkloof area, a particularly lush oasis in KZN. Our destination was to include a nature reserve featuring a zip-wire through spectacular indigenous trees and after that the view site for the 105 metre Karkloof Falls. The Falls had been visible across the wide uMngeni Valley from the school I had been at for 4 years and we used to peer across quite a few miles at what seemed like a pathetic trickle. Now we would see them up close and après déluge.

If I am to be honest, I must admit to a feeling of some relief when it transpired that the zip wire rides were fully booked on that Friday but that we could walk through the bush on some fine trails. I suspect that Shan and Patrick, particularly, hid their disappointment admirably.

Above: Certainly no pathetic trickle, the après déluge Karkloof Falls pumping on January 7, 2022; There be 20 slippery adders down this road - slip on them and you'll suffer a head-on collision?

We didn't crash but did take a wrong turning and a huge detour via Mooi River4 to return to Hilton for an appointment of Packet's and an al fresco lunch that had to be abandoned (well the al fresco bit anyway) because of le grand déluge flooding the parts of the mall and parking area.

One last night and a relaxed full breakfast and we had to leave leave the Deale's clifftop idyll to drive to the coast and lunch with the Hathorns. As with so many of these later life nostalgic experiences, the question did arise: will we ever see this again?

Andrew and Ann

As mentioned earlier in this episode, Andrew and I had been friends in 1968 but it all started way further back than that. I suspect I had been aware of his existence since I had been aware of anyone's existence. His uncle, Maitland (Matey), had been at university with my Mum and we spent a lot of time with Matey and Mary and their children. John, Shirley, Alan, Peter and Paula dovetailed into my siblings  and me neatly. Their cousin, Andrew, and I should've arrived at Hilton College on the same date. Only Andrew did in younger life what I have succeeded in doing later in mine, i.e. he fell down (from his bicycle, aided and abetted by a car) and broke his crown in 1965 aged 13/14. I ended up doing much the same thing in 2015 en route on my bicycle to stay with Andrew's brother Jeremy's brother-in-law, Richard. Ended up in hospital shortly afterwards in Caen, France but that's not strictly part of this narrative. Andrew ended up missing the first term of boarding school and when he finally arrived I was asked to ensure his transition into the new establishment would be a smooth one. Not that he needed my help.

Returning to the present, we had arranged to have lunch with Andrew and Ann at the Bush Tavern in Umdloti, just North of Durban, on the second Saturday of 2022.

We set off in good time and were almost derailed by a phone call from Packet to tell me that I'd left my camera bag at their house and would I like him to jump in his car and meet us at the N3 Toll Plaza? Bless him. Given a few minutes to review the situation we decided that it would a) be unreasonable to expect him to chase us half way across KZN and b) I could potentially make an alternative plan to recover the equipment after I had dropped Shan at Durban airport.

So we were well on track for the appointed hour until we attempted to park our car near the restaurant. The last time I'd visited Umdloti it had been a pretty sleepy beach resort. This time it was completely rammed. Traffic was being turned back at the roundabout at the entrance to the town. Shan and I had booked accommodation at the Greenfire Lodge B&B down one of the roundabout's spur roads. 

We eventually managed to persuade the traffic officer preventing traffic from entering the access road that we had a reservation down there and they let us through. We drove and drove and then drove some more. Eventually, just when we thought we must have been mistaken, we arrived at the B&B. Two kilometres down the road.  We were now already late and had two km to walk back in fiery heat.

So not a great start to arrive at an assignation 45 minutes late with probably one's oldest friend, especially after a few years since the last time I'd seen them. So we were a bit fraught and the idea of a snap wasn't really on our minds. Of course, as things are between old friends, the fraughtness disappeared as soon as we sat down and the conversation started. Then we were too preoccupied with the present to pause for photography. Anyway that's my excuse. It was fab seeing you guys and I've dug out some historical snaps as compensation.

Above (L to R, top to bottom): Ann and Andrew with our goddaughter, Nicole, at her christening in 1987; a bunch of oldies at my 50th, back row yours truly, Shan, Jeremy (Gorgs) du Plessis, front row, Andrew, Lynne du Plessis, Shan's other brother, Martin Deale - suffice to say that I must've been to all of their 21st birthdays, Shan's most recently, so this represented a combined friendship at that time of more than 150 years. Andrew had travelled in from South Africa and Marty from Boston; a corker of a photo I dug out from a reunion 9 years ago in which Andrew is smiling benignly while Johhny Thorpe grins spookily through the closed window behind and Rose Clarke seems determined to ignore such tomfoolery; Andrew and Ann five years later at a similar reunion.

Our lunch was over all too quickly and we said our goodbyes at the roundabout whereupon the Hathorn went to find their car and we trudged back the 2 kms to our B&B taking in the peace and fading light along the beachfront5.

Above L to R: ​Chosen for its sea facing balcony we enjoyed sundowners at Greenfire Lodge as the light faded behind us; and then reappeared what seemed like a few hours later in the form of a glorious sunrise.

We didn't even have time for a morning walk along the beach before heading off to Durban's King Shaka airport for Shan to grab her flight to Cape Town. I resumed the Nostalgic journey heading North towards the Balfours.

Coming next

In #3 and #4 I'll travel beyond to commune with Vaalie friends and relations and commence another road trip with my darling daughter, Kate.
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[Endnotes]:

1. More about Paul.​
2. ​Also starring in fputn-here-we-go-again-it-had-to-be-ct-rt2.html
3. Historically a euphemism (coined by my Dad, Woody) for post-prandial 40 winks after lunch when supposedly revising for exams at university​
4. My parents had lived there during my Dad's early retirement years.
5. A beachfront that was subjected to massive damage during the terrifying floods in May this year​

In which we traverse half the length of South Africa, renewing old acquaintances, cementing cherished relationships and taking in a few new places, too. This is the first of a few blogs, the number depending on how much the imagination gets carried away in the moment.

Take this instalment as the introduction and first few stops of our East "Coast" Nostalgia

First up, Jane and David Rosenthal, Jane being a Joeys1 cousin who had long since decamped to that part of the Cape in the form of what is referred to as The Garden Route. Conversation with these two lovely people was never going to be a problem.

Above: We'd barely made it on to Natures Valley Beach with the Rosenthals before progress was dictated by the need for dialogue.

But first, our route. We had made the happy decision to leave Hermanus as the sparrows broke wind on New Year's day. We'd seen out out the Old Year with a relaxed braai with Shelley-ann's sister, Kerry (a.k.a. Kinks), and her husband, Tim. Early to bed and early to rise and all that. Jolling (revelling) on NYE could be left to the next generation. I suspect that, as we left the next morning, most of the other traffic was made up of revellers returning to their beds.

The first instalment of the Nostalgia blog would take us from Hermanus to Umdloti, just to the North of Durban from whence Shan would fly back to be with her Mum and I would meander onwards to pick up with the Vaalies2.
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In addition to the aforementioned Rosenthals, we were intending to call on the entire Robertson clan, Pete and Rose Clarke, Shan's brother and sister-in-law, Patrick (a.k.a. Packet) and Susie, and Andrew and Ann Hathorn. We would travel more than 2,000 km to achieve the first leg of the ultimate nostalgia-fest.

Above: Our more than 2,000 km to cover the first, East "Coast", section of our meander ...

So now back to Jane and David. We'd visited them before in their eyrie above Whiskey Creek in The Crags near Plettenberg Bay. On that occasion we'd stayed in their guest accommodation but now they were living there while renting their main house to a family. We'd need to find an alternative place to lay our heads for a couple of nights. I started parsing places in the Crags/Plettenberg Bay area and every place that looked enticing seemed to be eye-wateringly expensive, even for an inhabitant of the UK.

That was until I came across the quirky Villa Villekula. "Quirky" can often be used as a marketing ruse to disguise what is essentially a substandard product so we approached the Villa with a little trepidation but an open mind. Did I mention the place was off-grid, too? And a domestic animal sanctuary.

It is difficult to describe what a wonderful surprise awaited us so I'll start with the view from the main verandah.  

Above: This was the serene outlook to be enjoyed with a glass of chilled wine - big skies surmounting a background of the Tsitsikamma mountains with a lake/dam in the foreground, the latter brimming over with fish. Donkeys peacefully grazing completed the sensation of wellbeing.

We could have just stayed there for the two days we had booked and invited the Rosenthals to break bread with us in what was reputed to be the finest restaurant in the area. As it happened, however, the restaurant was closed for the owners to grab a quick breath after the Christmas onslaught. Once we'd overcome our initial disappointment, though, this was a blessing in disguise. Our hosts directed us to a cheerful alternative down the road and we arranged to spend the next day in Nature's Valley with Jane and David.

Above L to R:  What a surprise - Shan enjoying a glass of wine to accompany the surprisingly delectable  bistro food at the Peppermill Cafe; return to Villenkula to appreciate to accommodation constructed almost entirely from repurposed materials and bric-a-brac, which could have been tacky but wasn't, having been carefully chosen to complement the off-grid spirit of the place.

Nature's Valley

It seems I've known about Nature's Valley for almost ever. My Mum spoke about it, recalling her youth to me and my siblings when we were young children. She also spoke of holidays in Plettenberg Bay. I'd been to Plettenberg Bay relatively frequently. Used to love the place as a callow youth3. I'd always wanted to go to Nature's Valley but never had. Now we were on our way, being guided by David, sitting beside me in the car. We were all chatting so happily that our human satnav almost failed us at the first major junction, i.e. the one off the N2 that heads off down the edge of the gorge to join the Groot River.

​Nature's Valley is a place of two parts. Forest and Beach. The beach forms the backdrop for intense conversation on the beach and is portrayed in the introductory photos to this blog.

​There was a brief pause at the mouth of the Groot which was open, terminating our progress in a North Easterly direction. I feared for a person on a standing up paddle board proceeding downstream towards the open sea but she was an expert and manoeuvred out of harm's way confidently.

Above from top left: an intrepid paddle boarder near the ocean; further upstream the water is the colour of cola produced by minerals and their production from water flowing over plant roots; The beginning of the trail; a majestic Yellowwood towers above the forest; Jane and Shan admire the trees while David feeds his plant-identification app with snaps of the lower-growing flora; yes, the trees do have ears - wouldn't you love to know what signals they are receiving?

We paused to feast ourselves on the ocean, the beach and the forested hills overlooking this tranquil place, after which late morning tea seemed a good idea. We emerged to find the post New Year Jan 2 invasion was in full swing. Despite concerted attempts to get to the fabled Blue Rock Cafe, the beach side road was so rammed the only sensible option was to head for the hills.

Nature's Valley is the start of the Tsitsikamma hiking trail that extends along the heavily-forested coast for more than 60 km to the mouth of the Storms River. In my grandparents' days this forest covered vast tracts of the area between the coast and the Tsitsikamma Mountains. Giant Yellowwood (Podocarpus falcatus and latifolius) dominated the skyline, interspersed with other regal trees such as Stinkwood (Ocotea bullata). These were literally decimated by the logging industry, fuelled in part by the thrust of sleeper-hungry railways and the furniture industry. Now there is a scant scattering along the coast and the Hiking Trail is probably the best way to experience it.

And we wonder why there is global warming?

Foiled in our attempts to reach the Blue Rock Cafe, we resolved to head back to The Crags and the Pepperpot and (at least Shelley-ann and I) ate too much. Conversation continued throughout and we succumbed to tea and David's delicious cake when we finally dropped our companions back at their home. Holidaying may be relaxing but it sure doesn't do much for the waistline, especially when the dreaded Long Covid discourages any mitigating exercise.

​As we drove away from the Rosenthals' a sad air enveloped our car. How many more times, if any, would we see them again?

We dawdled back to the Villa in a contemplative mood and ruminated over a glass or two of wine before resuming our journey eastward.

Above from top left: our host, Daniela, showing typical love and attention, this time to her adopted animals;  the verandah from which we enjoyed our evenings and breakfasts at the Villa; those Tsitsikamma mountains again, bathed in early evening light; Shan soaking it all in in the gloaming.

The next leg of our journey resumed the next morning relatively early. We were headed right across the Eastern Cape to Tyolomnqa, with an unknown quantity for the last section, both in terms of directions and the state of the road.

But we were excited to be heading there at the invitation of Denise King, now the matriarch of the Robertson clan, originally from Durban. It had always been a place of mystery to us ... Far from the Madding Crowd. It is also the holiday retreat for Peter and Rose Clarke. The extent of its mystery was always the perennial excuse when trying to see one or more of its itinerant inhabitants at certain times of the year: "Oh no, we'll be at Chalumna4."

It has always been that a certain 290 km of the Eastern Cape highway (the N2), stretching from Storms River to Makhanda (formerly Grahamstown), is to be endured rather than enjoyed. Beyond that the big east-flowing rivers such as the Fish, Buffalo and Kei kick in, flouting their immense canyons bedecked with canyon-side vegetation. We would remove a bit of the monotony by taking the coast road beyond Gqeberha (formerly Port Elizabeth) and travel via Kenton-on-Sea and Port Alfred to the Tyolomnqa River, just after which we'd bear right on to roads of dubious passability for the final 9 km to our destination.

To fortify ourselves for the featureless 220 km we decided to visit the Big Tree shortly before we would reach the Storms River Bridge. Time was (I have to remind myself that callow youth was around 50 years ago) that you just pulled off the N2 down a gravel road and, before you knew it, the gargantuan Yellowwood (Podocarpuus Falcatus) presented itself beside the track. At least 600 years old, and reputedly anything up to 1000, this emperor of the forest has a girth of almost 9 metres, a height of more than 36 metres and its canopy spreads around 33 metres.

​Usually you'd be the only car stopped in the small clearing, unlike nowadays where there is a tarred car park more than a kilometre away and an entrance fee to visit the tree via a network of boardwalks.

Not that this is a bad thing mind. The entrance fee is fairly modest (less if you're South African) and the troupes of visitors encourage inclusivity and appreciation of what is left of the enormous forests that once graced this area. I just hope the fees go to preserving and extending this area of magic.

Above: having traversed a kilometre or so of boardwalk it is quite difficult to encapsulate the enormity of this arboreal monarch ... but you have to give a try. Even better, go and have a peek for yourselves if you haven't already.

Tyolomnqa/Chalumna

Fortified by the tree and a slightly weird motorway services attempt at lunch just East of Gqeberha, we finally turned off the tar and down a deceptively smooth dirt road headed for the coast. We'd kind of programmed the satnav with the shortest route to Robertsonville and it seemed to behaving. Until, that is, we reached a fork in the road. "Our" road was on the right, running along a pretty secure looking fence.

Now there was a time (yeah, I know, back in the 70s) when Toyota Corollas were built and tested in South Africa for the vagaries of the rural roads there. Our 2021 model was only really happy on urban tarmac and, even then, the more predictable bits in the Western Cape. Avis was no doubt aware of this because underbody damage to rental cars was subject to a punitive surcharge. And then, of course, there was the inconvenience of leaving half of one's car on the road and having to be helicoptered out of the bundu. And for that to happen, we'd have to call for help and, guess what, there was zero signal where we first encountered a scale model of the Swartberg blocking our path. Actually, the mountain range might have been OK had it not been for the mini Fish River Canyon on the other side ...

​We turned around, not quite sure what to do next. While hesitating to decide what to do we heard a not particularly friendly voice calling us. A fairly robust looking man and two youngsters were summoning us from the other side of the fence. I won't say that actual fear occurred but we definitely felt uncomfortable being confronted in the middle of nowhere .

"Where are you going," he demanded. His companions weren't smiling either. 
"We're trying to get to Chalumna," I replied.
"That's back the way you came from," he countered. The girls had begun to fidget.
"But we're headed for the lagoon and a friend's house on the Chalumna River ..."

At that a light went on, the girls started smiling: "You need to go back to the fork [it was a few hundred metres back] and turn right." He gave us lengthy instructions, which we promptly forgot. Turns out he had a game farm behind the fence and thought we might be up to no good. Not sure we resembled poachers in our white Corolla street car but no harm done.

We set off hoping the satnav would recover some sort of signal. Before it did, we caught a glimpse of a giraffe peering at us across the top of a thorn tree.

Mobile signal had deserted us but the satnav seemed to have some half-hearted idea and we eventually found ourselves confronted by a gate with Chalumna Estates emblazoned on it. Miraculously Shan's mobile signal had partially restored itself and she managed to speak to Denise (Den). Den said she could phone the gate with a code and it would open. Shan rang off while I manoeuvred the car into position. The gate didn't open. After a polite pause Shan phoned Den again. 

A conversation ensued in which Den seemed to suggest she might have to send her stepson, Nick, up the last 1.5 km to let us in but he was just out on a short errand so we might have to wait a while. We were just arranging ourselves around the view down the steep descent to the river in preparation for the significant wait when suddenly the gate opened. Girding our loins, we shot through and inched down the hill towards the river.

"Let's hope it doesn't rain before Wednesday, or this road will be a tricky ascent," Shan opined.
"I suppose there are worse places to be stuck in," I replied, taking in the riverside idyll below us.

Arriving at Den's house we clicked as to why conversations had been a bit frantic.

"Welcome and how lovely to see you," Den grinned as we got out of the car, "Oh, and don't use the toilet, the tank is flooded. We're waiting for the lorry [these lorries were known to us as honeysuckers] to empty it."
"Everyone will have to use the boathouse loo," she added, "There're only 11 of us."

With no further ado, after we'd shifted our luggage from the car to her house, Den thrust a beer in my hand. "Come on, let's go and say hello to the rest of the family."

The "rest of the family" consisted of Den's three sisters, Susan, Louise and Sally, their children and, in some cases, grandchildren. The 4 sisters' parents had been Hugh and Bar Robertson, lifelong friends of Shan's Mum, Judy. Their extended family in Chalumna at the beginning of January numbered something like 25 people across an age spectrum of close to 60 years. Apart from Den, Shan hadn't seen any of them since Sally (now Attenborough) and David's wedding in 1983.

So there were quite a few "Robertsons" to greet, hug and renew acquaintances with. Each of Hugh's and Bar's 4 daughters had their own houses along the river front.

​Pinning everyone down, though, was quite a mission with all that extended family and their collected friends scattered around the small community. After a brief stint with Susan and Mike Booth at their place we finally settled down with Louise for a dop5.

.Above, almost sisters, L to R: Louise, Shan and Den; Shan and Sally were born three days apart.

We had one full day in Tyolomnqa and, boy did we make the most of it. Dawn to dusk and beyond. Four of the 11 in Den's house were children and a wonderful water world awaited. It started out mucking about in the lagoon before breakfast and then progressed to the ocean in boats and, of course,  there was the obligatory braai6 that evening for supper. Shan and I snuck home with Den for a short stretch to recharge our batteries for the forthcoming evening

Above, sort of top to bottom and L to R: Joe Heywood was seemingly a man of boundless energy, paddling the children around the lagoon from not long after sunrise, although, in the first frame, leaving his mate's wife Claudia (King) to swim along behind. The first four frames were not that long after sunrise; the full width shot was taken at sunset from Pete and Rose Clarke's place where I'd snuck off for a peaceful beverage with himself at the Clarke place a little further upstream. We'd got together at la Vierge a month or so before7 in the Hemel-en-Aarde but this was altogether more relaxed, shooting the breeze with an old friend over a bottle of his finest Walker Bay nectar. We walked back some of the way along the Clarke's long quiet access road appreciating the peace and battery regenerating properties of the darkness and the rustle of wild animals in the undergrowth alongside us; back at Den's Joe was still going while Claudia and Nick King were trying to keep out of the limelight. The last pic of the exhausted children and Joe's wife, Taryn, looking out over the darkened river and hopefully enjoying a little peace after the long day.

For some the evening might then have been over. Certainly Joe and Tarryn were driving back to Cape Town early the next morning although Shan and I, too, had a long journey ahead. Longer than we thought but that's for the next instalment in which we have an assignation with the Deale patriarch, probably much of the cement between the families in this episode of the blog and playing a starring role in the next.

In the mean time we got the conversation bug and crawled to bed at an unseemly hour. 

And, by the by, the honeysucker had arrived the previous afternoon, which was a relief for everyone.