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, l to r: Nothing in the detailing of the rooms was left to chance, down to the individual cushion covers[3][4]; the view from the windows was equally calming and relaxing. 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: (top) the road from Laingsburg to the top of the Seweweekspoort pass is pretty scenic in its own right - for much of the way it follows a verdant valley before turning to traverse the pass ... occasional traditional stone cottages such as this one adorn the route; (middle left) Kate couldn't resist flinging her arms around at the magnificence of the rock formations we wound through on our descent; (middle right) finally the sun sets on a magnificent day with the Towerkop defining the skyline; (bottom left couldn't resist a morning shot of the 'kop; (bottom right) Friday morning was turning out to be a scorcher with this handsome fellow taking up residence in our cool cottage. All too soon we had to turn our attention to Kate's primary reason for her visit and we wasted no time descending through that last part of the journey to Hermanus. 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]:
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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. Coming next
I commence another road trip with my darling daughter, Kate. [Endnotes]:
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. Hopefully our next Dullstroom G&T will be shared on this bench. Coming next
A race across Mpumalanga for a slight incursion into the Free State to catch up with another old mate. [Endnotes]
With Shan safely installed at King Shaka airport and headed back towards Cape Town, I turned the car northwards. Excited as I was to be spending that evening with Sharna and Daryl Balfour in Mbombela[1], I was also relishing the prospect of crossing some hitherto unexplored territory en route. 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. Above: The daunting Long Tom canons made things extraordinarily difficult for British troops during the Anglo Boer War; I was driving so was unable to sample more than the odd sip of the nectar at the Hops Hollow brewery[7]. With its accommodation, I will definitely stop over there for a night next time I'm in Northern Mpumalanga! Coming next
I am bound to embarrass my cousin with my newfound affection for the fine fellow ... [Endnotes]
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. 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 (l to r): Patrick ensuring the survival of the remaining fowls; brother and sister at the renovated station which has many new attractions including a cafe and a configurable area for a stage and a substantial audience (for that is what Mr Deale and his co-thespians attract to their popular performances); me acting as the village curmudgeon (evidently I didn't have to try too hard!). 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 (top to bottom, L to R): Standing in the forest beside one of the swollen streams that eventually feed the Karkloof River and, ultimately, the falls; a chap zips past us on a wire; Shan and me looking winsome; Susie, bless her; Packet being thoughtful; funky fungus; Forest floor flowers - if I'm not mistaken, this one a streptocarpus; the trunk of a gnarly old tree 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. [Endnotes]:
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. 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. Coming next
We complete #1 of the East "Coast" nostalgia as we head further North East towards Kwa Zulu Natal. In #2 and #3 I'll travel beyond commune with Vaalie friends and relations and commence another road trip with my darling daughter, Kate. [Endnotes]:
*AtCi144D In which our visa extension saga descends beyond the Styx, last girlfriend and first girlfriend deliberate over which one of them drew the short straw ... and we actually catch some fish. Extension saga Part 2 This saga started in the previous episode of AtCi144D but was temporarily abandoned out of depression and a local shortage of SSRIs1. The idea that we could complete formalities in a morning in the relatively close and traffic-free Caledon must've been formed during a prolonged session on dagga2 or lysergic acid (or both). First of all we were told we'd have to go and stand in a queue at the Seffrikkin Department of Home Affairs, located in Long Street in Cape Town. This meant getting into Cape Town during rush hour and, according to urban legend, waiting in said queue with no guarantee of being seen before closing time. What is more, if one reached the front of said queue before closing time, unless the accompanying documents were immaculately prepared, we, the applicants, would be turned away and told to come back at some indeterminate time in the future. I have read The Trial and needed a cocktail of morphine, heroin and cocaine merely to finish the book. "Speak to Riempie3, she'll introduce you to someone who knows the ropes," we were advised by Shan's sister, Kerry. Riempie was tres sympathetic provided Shan with contact details. The then spoke to this "someone". His advice was simple: "the only way is to get an agent, would you like me to refer you to one?" "It'll cost you about R9,000 but it is your best chance," he added. We accepted the contact details with gratitude but also some scepticism. I suggested I check with Viv (first girlfriend). She runs a B&B and many of her guests are long term foreign students at an international college in Muizenberg. The gist of her advice was to use the agent if we wanted relative peace of mind. Shan needed no more affirmation and phoned the recommended agent. We parted with R9,027.16 and asked him to get on with it They would submit some forms that we would have to complete and then book an interview with Home Affairs. These meetings were hard to come by so we'd have to take what we were offered. The forms were a nightmare and involved shuttling to and forth between relatives with printing facilities and the local police to witness the signatures as commissioners of oaths. Our last few days before heading off to Muizenberg were filled with these activities and consuming strong drink to calm the nerves. Strong drink is legal in South Africa and we didn't wish to fall foul of any drug legislation while applying for a visa extension. The agency confirmed that we would have an appointment on the morning of the 14th of December (two weeks before our visa expired and we'd become illegal aliens). If we missed that one, the next opportunity would be in January, beyond the end of our current 90 days4. We could finally go to Muizies, reasonably relaxed in the knowledge we'd covered all the bases (for now). We set off relatively early so as to visit Kirstenbosch with Viv and her daughter, Dani, and have lunch together after absorbing the "invisible exhibition". Visiting Muizenberg 1 All I can say is thank goodness we had the wonderful Dani there to coach us in the ways of "invisible exhibitions5." Dani looked on indulgently while Viv and Shan ran around checking the app. Our Kate would've done the same, both of them being women of enhanced intellect. I was able to feign diminished running around capability brought on by Long Covid. Above: (top) Viv and Shan on the Boomslang at Kirstenbosch with the magnificent mountain range as a backdrop: (bottom L to R) the water that sustains the uniquely diverse botanical playground; Viv and Shan enjoying the augmented reality art on Viv's mobile. Following a long, lazy lunch in the gorgeous surroundings of the Kirstenbosch Cafe we said goodbye to Dani and repaired to Muizenberg. Last girlfriend and first girlfriend have a toenadering6 I'm running a huge risk of being accused of mansplaining7 here but it would be well nigh impossible to avoid that dastardly trait and keep the narrative. Both Shan and Viv are women of intelligence and an incomparable sense of humour so I beg Dani's and Kate's indulgence for appearing Neanderthal in their more enlightened eyes: So, how does Viv fit in? She was the first person of the opposite sex with whom I had a relationship that exceeded one year. This was more than 50 years ago. There's a backstory at fuzzy-photos-unreliable-tasting-notes-rites-of-passage-4.htm. Since then we've been in contact quite a few times in the last decade but only fleetingly ... So, Rule #1: beware the Ides of December a.k.a. it takes nerves of steel to put your last girlfriend together with your first girlfriend and a bottle of wine. You will end the evening with a comprehensive list of your shortcomings. It's not that Shan hadn't met Viv before but the previous occurrences were brief encounters sans vino. Shan even stayed in Viv's house in Muizenberg the night before the Cape Town Cycle Tour (to this day colloquially known as "The Argus"). Viv wasn't there. She'd decamped to last boyfriend, John's, place so that our Faringdon team could have the run of her home and the downstairs B&B. Not too much alcohol was consumed that evening because we were poised for an assault on the vertiginous Argus very early the next morning. Shan insisted that I had the small single room while she slept on some cushions on the floor in the living room. I needed my sleep to fortify me for the 110 km, 1220 m ascent event around the fabulous mountains of the Cape Peninsular the next morning. So now we're sitting on Viv's small balcony on a balmy but fresh (if you can get such a thing) evening. I'm on a small two seater and they are each on their own chairs on either side of my perch. Shan to my right, Viv to the left. I refill their glasses. And then it starts. Some of it apocryphal in extremis. I haven't had that many "girlfriends". Actually, if I had to count, two wives and two lovely people with whom I'd had a relationship (both actually very innocent). I am still friends with all four. Technically speaking, I haven't actually ditched any of them. especially "last girlfriend". We have had an, at some times maybe stormy, relationship that has lasted almost 43 years and, hopefully, still going strong. So Mizzes Deale-Harrison and Connell launched into a dialogue (or maybe duologue, seeing as any attempt by me to contribute was met by a simultaneous glare between the two of them). If you remember the psychobabble cliche, You're OK and I'm OK but he's not OK, that was obviously what the glare meant. To have taken their nodding and tongue clicking at face value, I must've been a callow rake. But I wasn't especially, not to either of them. Gawky and lacking in seductive confidence, maybe, but not a rake. So, dear Shan and Viv, next time you meet, as I hope you will before too many years intervene and we cannot remember anything, please no more "He was ... ," followed by "and another thing ... ." Even Mansplainers have feelings. The next day dawned as if nothing had been said. We had a fab walk to St James where Viv swam in the tidal pool and we had a lovely coffee and chat before she drove John, Shelley-Ann and me to Tamboerskloof for a fab meal and last girlfriend's reunion with her school buddy from 40 years ago. Such is the way with Old Friends. We played Bananagrams that evening to great hilarity. The next day was Viv's birthday and a LOT of Methode Cap Classique was consumed. The next morning we were properly introduced to the Palmer Street enclave for brekker and other shopping stuff.. Above: (top row) Random eclectic stuff a la Muizies. (2nd row) Viv and Shan comparing notes; stylish dude who inspired me to be a little less constrained in term of my sun hat; Shan in BluePriest where she bought some local stuff and I got the hat. (3rd row) Viv contemplating a makeover (perhaps); who knows what they were up to? Praying mantis mating dance?; Severe (deco?) building as the backdrop for the previous evening's revelations. (bottom row) parlour matron?; we'd seen bike locks and car locks but not one like this before ... Extension saga Part 3 All things being equal, there were pros and cons regarding a trip to Cape Town and Home Affairs. We would travel to the city the day before and stay within walking distance of Long Street and we could revisit Jane and the Miller's Thumb before a good night's sleep and a long walk. We could also obtain some pukka Paella rice (unobtainable in Hermanus) for a big fishing related feast on our return. We had even managed to bag a fabulous deal at the Tintagel Guest House in Tamboerskloof, where the lovely manager, Utah Ryan, couldn't do enough for us: from afternoon tea to a sumptuous breakfast the next morning. We even got blow-by-blow instructions for the safest way to walk the 1.8 km down the hill to our appointment in the Home Affairs version of the VFS "Premium Lounge", for which we'd paid an additional R500. I know the V in VFS stands for Visa. No idea about the FS ... will leave that to your imagination. Suffice to say that the Wasabi Kob8 at the Miller's Thumb and the hospitality at the Tintagel were the high points. Above: Shan languishing in our rather splendid Guest House in Tamboerskloof in preparation for a mile-long walk down the hill to Long Street and Home Affairs and then back up again to get our car: a little testing for an old codger with Long Covid. After that it was all down hill. The lounge was far from "Premium", not that we gave a fig about that - it was the chaos and the hours-long extended wait that was frustrating, not to mention galling at R500 a pop. And that was just to find out that the papers, which had been carefully choreographed by the agency, were in order to be sent off to Home Affairs proper. There they'd be vetted by an unspecified date. On said (or perhaps unsaid) date, we'd have to return to Long St to find out if our application had been successful and, if so, have stickers inserted in our passports. A luta continua, indeed. The process had been exhausting, especially for yours truly after a long-covid inflicted trudge back up the hill, including coming a painful cropper on the sidewalk en route. It was such a relief not to have to trek back to Hermanus and to be able to take up Viv's kind offer of staying in Muzies again. She wouldn't be there but we had keys and could relax with easy access to Palmer St and Joon café. Joon being a great little atmospheric oasis to entertain some old friends and rellies including Mignon (Min) Gulbrandsen, Denise King and Charles and Adi Phillips. We'd also be a stone's throw from wine-guru, Angela Lloyd (more of that with pictures in the parallel wino blog coming up next), who'd kindly invited us for lunch the next day. Note to self: we did play a lot of Bananagrams9 during both visits to Muizenberg. À trois et à deux. Shan generally won. Above: (top plus bottom left) familiar Muizenberg sights - beach huts and mountains forming cloud formations. (middle) Min and Shan hadn't seen each other for 40 years but still got on like a house on fire; always a feature of our Cape trips, Adi and Charles Phillips. (bottom) the precious Paella rice at about twice the price of our local supermarket!; the fresh seafood paella it eventually ended up in. But first we had to catch the fish Shan's nephew, Andrew, was determined that we should go fishing with him on the boat he skippers, Mrs Jones. It doesn't happen as often as one might imagine because it is pretty heavily permit regulated and fisheries officers are on hand on the slipway to check your catch on your return. Finally the day arrived on Sunday the 19th of December. Andrew cautioned us that, if we did not get there on time, Mrs Jones would leave without us. From the long early morning shadows on the jetty (below) at 06:30, it can be seen that we took him at his word. We left a bit later but that wasn't an issue on such a beautiful day and with almost the entire family on board. And we came back with a gurnard, 5 silvers and 18 crayfish, most of which were eaten fresh that night. Above: (top right) storming out of Hermanus New Harbour to the fishing grounds. (middle row) Shan looks on as Bennie negotiates with Kinks for a lighter; Baby Mia came, too, seen here with dad, Michael, and mum, Janine. (bottom row) Michael's best man, Ayrton, and partner, Cara, both caught fish. It was her first ever, hence the excitement. Sadly, both of these fish had to be returned to the ocean because they were undersized. A new home for a month Over the Christmas period we might have been homeless were it not for the generosity of friends. We house-sat for Sheila Whitfield and Tony Webb and were blessed with the spectacular Hermanus views below. Above (clockwise from top left) Surrounded by mountains in most directions, these cliffs were behind the house; looking across Walker Bay and the mouth of the of the Klein River at the brooding mountains beyond; at some stage someone must've introduced Norfolk Pine trees to the area. Whether you like them or not, they do provide a commanding silhouette against the sea and sky, lit by a fading sun at sunset; echo that with the "pink mountain" in the last frame. Four generations for Christmas Above (top) From 92 to nought, L to R: Matriarch Judy, Shan, Bennie, Andrew, Mia, Kinks, Michael, Janine and Tim (with Pepper the dog looking expectant - perhaps Tim had just said the word "braai10"); Proud parents with a seemingly always cheerful Mia - I'm sure she has her moments but she just lights up so as to be completely edible. I'll make no apologies for baby pictures in my blog. Coming next
A parallel existence in and around December focussing on winemakers, vineyards, wine critics and wine, mostly in the Hemel-en-Aarde valley [Endnotes]:
In which we discover that we could soon be illegal aliens; what started as a postponed 60th birthday celebration with Shelley-ann's nonagenarian Mum suddenly threatened to escalate out of control. In mitigation there was a surprise visit to a dear school buddy of Shan's after a 40 year separation. (Above, L to R): Jane and Shelley-ann in 1978; Two gorgeous ladies in 2021. But before all that, a most considerate friend had offered us her guest cottage opposite Mum Judy's tiny abode. Our first task after returning from the Swartland was to move in with Emma, a task that might have been a little easier had I not already accumulated a mini wine collection. Moments encapsulated Many attractions of Hermanus lay within a short walk of Emma's. For the next few weeks we played at being tourists with all the delightful places we could either walk to or reach with a short car journey. Some pictures emerged but not much text. The next section will be devoted to picture stories with not much more than a caption here and there. Following that, we'll start out on another road trip and kick off with more detail of the Jane and Shan reunion that forms the masthead of this episode. A story in pictures ... The area around Hermanus is extraordinarily varied. In terms of botanical life on its own - there are said to be more species in the area than in the entire United Kingdom. And then there are the whales and the mountains adjacent to the sea. Beyond those mountains there are vineyards heading up the (Hemel-en-Aarde1) valley with rolling wheat fields towards its North Easter end. There is also the forgotten community of Tesselaarsdal ... This series of blog episodes has, more often than not, featured mountains. That's because there are a lot of them in Southern Africa, many of which line up along the East and then South coast. One of the places these mountains come closest to the sea is Hermanus. Viewed across the Old Harbour (below), a stretch of the town's waterfront is framed by a background of these majestic natural structures. (Top triptych, L to r): Sculpture of an elegant baboon2 couple looking out to sea across Walker Bay; Lovingly restored buildings at the Old Harbour; Street art livens up the bollards with the mountains omnipresent in the background. (Bottom triptych, at Emma's house, L to R): Shelley-ann opening birthday presents with mother, Judy, and sister, Kerry, on the verandah of the guest cottage (more of the birthday further down in this episode); Emma silhouetted on her own verandah at the other end of the pool; the Moon and Venus see off the other light sources on a magically clear evening in the garden. NSRI3 flare training Fishing is a primary pastime for Kerry's family in Hermanus where the seas range between idyllic turquoise tranquility and terrifyingly grey, gale-induced cauldrons. She and husband, Chairman Tim, and sons, Andrew and Michael, were frequently to be found in and around the Walker Bay Boat and Ski-boat Club. Volunteering, fishing, mucking about in boats or propping up the bar. This particular evening they were to be trained in the proper use of distress flares by the NSRI ... (Photo opportunities included (L to R): Michael; a member of the NSRI team; a realistic exercise out in Walker Bay to demonstrate the flares' visibility. So, I cheated (just a little bit) with the Montrachet: When I persuaded Shan to leave the name plate (now reinstated) blank on her Fauvist interpretation on the left above, we were in the middle of a little social media game of "name this vineyard". Some of them had had more obvious detail and friends such as Angela Lloyd and Daryl Balfour rallied to the challenge. For this one, I thought things were a little less obvious so, in a spirit of fun, I offered a prize of a representative wine to the first person who got it. Having met Anne Wessels subsequently, I very much doubt she was motivated by the prize. Nonetheless, she got it immediately. Shan and I suspected she might have been a little surprised when we met for coffee in Hermanus actually bearing a bottle of 1er cru Puligny Montrachet. Note to Anne: we knew you weren't expecting anything so hope you weren't embarrassed? Not quite Le Montrachet, but your delight and grace was worth the little ceremony. I guess as the purveyor of SA's arguably finest Chardonnay, Restless River Ava Marie, Anne would have done her homework. And then it was THE birthday The one we'd been waiting to celebrate for a year: Madam's virtual 60th. This episode in our holiday was full of surprises. You've heard about Shan's friend, Jane, and there's a bit more of that to end off with. But now there was a new delight - her brother Patrick and sister-in-lor Sue (a.k.a. Packet and Susie) putting in an unannounced appearance for the festivities. It started with siblings and Mum: (Clockwise from top left): L-R Shan, Judy, Kerry (a.k.a. Kinks) and Packet; Fick's Pool could be anywhere in the world (typically, perhaps the Mediterranean) where a terrace sits above a beach or tidal pool open to all comers; Shan, Packet, Kinks, Susie and, at last (but not least), Tim enjoying beer, wine and sunshine at Fick's Pool the day before the main event; and on the actual day, lunch at La Vierge with views from the Hemel-en-Aarde valley all the way to the sea through a gap in the coastal mountains4. Hemel-en-Aarde (extension) In relatively recent years the Hemel-en-Aarde valley has become, if there is such a thing, a rural metropolis of winemaking with wall-to-wall wine farms, including Restless River and La Vierge, lining the valley. It needs a blog of its own. This will be forthcoming, as will, one day, a proper blog about Tesselaarsdal, the place that more-or-less escaped Apartheid5, having been left in trust by an 18th Century landowning couple to their workers (probably read slaves). Before we took time out to assimilate a comprehensive catalogue of the Hemel-en-Aarde's delights, Shan and I took a little time out to meander up the North Eastern end of this valley's evocative landscape. At first, we were enticed into Tesselaarsdal because it was in the middle of nowhere. Then we came across this loosely packed community of eclectic buildings: (Top row, L to R): a general store; a bungalow that seemed entirely populated by donkeys; a loose collection of smallholdings enclosed by immaculately maintained barbed-wire fencing. (Bottom row): what appears to have been a "Little Boutique Hotel" until fairly recently, now spookily abandoned. And no-one I asked knew a thing about it. I will return to Tesselaarsdal in a later episode of this Blog series but what I really want to do is properly research a full-length article. Moving further North East towards Stanford, both of us were moved by the moody rolling hills and their varied textures reflecting the cycles of agriculture in the area. Bored penguins During a previous expedition to the Cape, Shan and Kate (our daughter) had taken the opportunity, I suspect aided and abetted by Kinks, to visit the penguin colony at Betty's Bay. Shan was keen to take me there. I had seen a bunch of penguins in amongst the Boulders on the outskirts of Simonstown but, beguiled by my dearly beloved's tales of these avian busybodies scurrying about their daily business in their thousands, I happily went along for the ride. If you have the option, don't go there in the moulting season (seemingly November into December). There were thousands of Penguins but the vast majority of them were standing around in bunches, looking depressed. And being very smelly. After we left, a couple of people I spoke to confirmed that this was a penguin thing6. We did have an enjoyable light lunch in Kleinmond, followed by a scenic drive up to the Iona wine estate and a little beyond to gaze over the Grabouw/Elgin valley (partner/rival to Hemel-en-Aarde). (Top row, L to R): Betty's Bay Bleak House; Depressed penguins moulting on a slipway; (Middle row, L to R): Mountains across the bay viewed through a fissure in a century old oak post; at least two of the penguins had other things on their minds than being depressed ... necking in the sunshine, perhaps? (Bottom row, L to R}: A fine sweeping beach seen from an al fresco Kleinmond restaurant, with the Babilonstoring Mountains in the background; Elgin farms in the basin formed within the Hottentots-Holland mountains ... some fab wine farms down there to rival the Hemel-en-Aarde. Bit of a shock re: visa extension When planning our much-postponed visit to South Africa we came across a little clause somewhere, which stipulated that we would have to obtain a visa extension to remain in the country for more than 90 days. This fell short of our 144 day duration. As is always our wont, we immediately assumed panic mode. The planning had been stressful enough anyway and here was another obstacle standing in our path. It may not sound like much, and perhaps it shouldn't have been, but the complete lack of coherent information had the makings of a nightmare. Initially we were pointed at a South African government website that suggested it was a piece of cake and could all be done online. Whew, huge relief. The relief didn't last long ... only until we tried to follow the online instructions and were politely informed that the system had not been commissioned yet. Who should we ask how to resolve this? Our carrier, British Airways, who had happily accepted a 5-month return flight, had no idea. The South Africa embassy in London was worse than useless (and quite rude to boot). We were abandoned to Googlesphere. Eventually following a path that seemed plausible we found someone that told us that we couldn't obtain an extension from outside of South Africa and would have to do it when we got there. The most probable solution we'd been given was that, once we were in SA, we'd have to take our passports to an office of the Department of Home Affairs. If one chose the office carefully, one would have to join a queue that may take quite a few hours but the extensions would be appended there and then. The most convenient appropriate office was evidently in Caledon, which wasn't too bad, especially as I could combine a visit to the Tesselaarsdal section of the museum nearby. Do a bit of research and a visa extension in one 90 km round trip. We should've realised that things could never be that simple ... 7 Forty years of friendship in abstentia. How to end this episode on an upbeat note? Well, that's the easiest question so far. Once upon a time, in the beginning, Shan had been attempting over several forays to the Cape, staggered over quite a few years, to hook up with one of her oldest and dearest friends from their jolling8 days in Joeys. Turns out the friend, Jane, has a restaurant in Kloof Nek with her husband, Solly. Said restaurant keeps them extremely busy and all attempts to join up in the past have ended in disappointment. Enter Captain Markel. Through a few forays into Ms H's memory bank, managed to establish where Chez Solomon might be. Things became a bit easier from there and Captain M managed to contact Jane anonymously. We wanted to entertain six of our friends (two of whom were also relations). To cut a long story, and numerous calls to Jane, short, we ended up with a table for 4 for lunch on the first Wednesday in December. Shan was in the picture and Jane blissfully unaware. Serendipitously, we would be staying a few nights with another friend of mine of many years. Must've been about 50 years I'd known Viv. She and her partner, John, were to be our guests at the Miller's Thumb and Viv had offered to drive so that Shan and I could celebrate our coup de grâce in style. Viv, John, Shan and I were all in on the story but I suspect every one of us was a little apprehensive that the whole surprise could go horribly wrong. In the event it went off like a dream, give or take the odd happy tear and many, many hugs. As is always the way with these things the tears shed were not in a miserable way, as can be seen from the pic at the outset of this blog. Sometimes the odd tear can be a gratifying thing especially when organising surprises. The food was bloody gorgeous BTW ... do try the Miller's Thumb in Kloof Nek Road. We contrived to return in the next episode. Coming soon
I did mention at the start that this episode was going to jump about a bit. Things start in one timeframe and continue into another. So the next few episodes will contain continuations of our forays into Restless River, La Vierge, staying with Viv in Muizenberg, lots more about Home Affairs and, inter alia, more bits and bobs about Hermanus and Tesselaarsdal ... [Endnotes]:
Broadly West of the Kasteelberg This is where much of the Swartland royalty resides with names such as Mullineux, Sadie (x21), Wickens and Badenhorst dotting the landscape. From my perspective it had been impenetrable on my one previous visit. But this time I was better prepared, or was it to be another Nick Broomfield moment2? Or perhaps a curate's egg. With our next 4 nights' accommodation already arranged and confirmed, we had some time for a western Swartland recce before check in. On the way we thought we'd look in at Jan Smuts' ancestral home, which is located within the grounds of a cement works at the North Eastern corner of the Kasteelberg. Turned out it was closed on account of the pandemic, which was a pity because I wanted to show Shan the humble beginnings of the man who'd had such an influence on global politics between 1919 and 1948. We were, nonetheless, in a convenient place to pick up the road that snakes along the Western side of the Kasteelberg. Apart from the fact that the Riebeeksrivier road along the base of the mountain is uniquely lush and scenic for the area, I was hoping to pinpoint the Mullineux farm so that I could phone in the hopes of booking a tasting. If not of the Mullineux wines themselves (I'd previously done this in Franschhoek), then the recently launched Greatheart Wines facilitated by Andrea as a joint initiative with the workforce at the winery. The scenery must've distracted from our navigational capabilities because we arrived all too soon at the main road at the Southern end of the Kasteelberg without spotting the entrance. There was a consolation in that I was able to show my dearly beloved the scenery she'd painted, sight unseen, in her home-grown Fauvist style. (Above L to R): The Jan Smuts house, from memory the far end was accommodation for animals; Shan's Fauvist view; the original photograph taken from the R46 near the top of Bothmanskloof Pass looking East; some of the Swartland crew (Hanneke Krüger, Jasper Wickens and Ryan Mostert) in Soho in 2019 - I'd met Ryan at an impromptu hoedown at the Wine Collective in Riebeek Kasteel a few months before the photo was taken. Andrea can be forgiven for not immediately recognising her own home turf when seeing the two pictures in juxtaposition above, but it didn't take her too long to get it with a little prompting. Left with some time to spare before checking in at Kalmoesfontein, we decided to head towards Malmesbury and see if we could get lunch at Bill & Co., owned by David and Nadia Sadie. I'd had a healthy and scrumptious salad there two years previously. Sadly it was closed permanently and we resorted to the Swartland Winery for a bite to eat and some jars of exotic chutneys. While we were eating our lunch, Shan asked: "Remind me why we're going to a wine farm for 3 nights?" I reminded her that the Badenhorst place was in an incomparable setting where she could paint and we (or I, if she chose to stay behind to focus on a landscape) could walk to various other wineries. We could also travel out by car to surrounding places of interest. I was excited. I'd been planning this for nigh on 2 years after it had been suggested by Hanneke in Soho. In fact, we'd originally booked for 4 nights but Covid ensured we had to be content with the 3 night slot a year later than originally planned. "Please indulge me," I urged. "How often do I get to spend quality time in amongst real winemakers?" And she did, because she's lovely and she knew how much it meant. Kalmoesfontein We arrived at the turn off for the Badenhorst place in the mid afternoon. Toyota doesn't make its bog-standard Corolla sedans like it used to do. To be honest the ground clearance was pitiful and exacerbated by the Avis get-out clause vis-à-vis insuring any underbody damage. Inching down the road, we finally thought we'd made it when we had to make a hard right and ascend an incline. We did reach our destination a few hundred metres further on but, suffice to say, I was looking forward with some enthusiasm to a glass of something VERY SPLENDID after we'd unpacked and jettisoned the car. We followed the arrows from the car park to our accommodation where the key was in the door. And splendid accommodation it was, too. An eyrie above the whole complex in the top of an old silo. There was no one about and we ensconced ourselves in our gaff with sweeping views of the Swartland and the Elandsberg in the distance. At our feet was the old farmhouse with long views over the roof to Xanadu. (Above, clockwise from top left): Our gaff a.k.a. the Silo; Our view; Our pool; Our view after the clouds had lifted In search of excellence (a.k.a. something splendid) Having kicked the tyres of our accommodation and its immediate surroundings, and after two years of waiting for Nirvana, I was raring to go. The sun was still above the yard arm so I thought I'd check out the communal areas in preparation for early doors. The farmhouse in front of us was open but deserted. I found a bar that looked inviting and resolved to return when I could hear some activity from below to lure me out from lurking in the Silo. When I had visited the Badenhorst table at the Soho gig in 2019 the place was rammed. Everyone wanted a piece of Adi. Hanneke had a few moments when I proffered my glass but there wasn't much chance of meaningful dialogue. There were just the two of them manning their stand. She could sense my disappointment: "You'll have to come and stay with us in the Swartland," she volunteered. Shan and I had been contemplating a trip to the Cape the following year so I expressed an interest. "Contact Semma at the farm, she'll sort you out," my new friend suggested. "Then we'll have time to show you around," adding that I should avoid harvest time. I contacted Semma, who recommended early November and it wasn't long before we'd secured 4 nights at the beginning of November 2020. Then Covid broke loose and we ended up settling eventually for 3 nights a year later. To say I was excited to be there was the understatement of 2021. It wasn't too long before sounds could be heard of vehicles arriving in the parking below the Silo. I maintained a decorous pause before venturing out towards the sounds of people drinking with obvious enjoyment. A fair-sized group was seated at refectory tables on the rear veranda of the farmhouse, adjacent to the bar. I squeezed past hoping to order a drink but there was no-one currently serving. After waiting a while it became obvious that no-one was going to be and I slunk back to the Silo and a half-full bottle we'd brought with us from Riebeek Kasteel. Probably made some inroads into a complementary bottle of Papegaai, too. The next day we walked an inner circle on the estate before presenting ourselves for the lunch we'd paid for and were hoping to share with the winemaking community on the farm. After that I would be having a wine tasting for a little extra. The food was excellent and we ate ours at our assigned table in splendid isolation with a wonderful view over towards the Elandsberg. The winemakers were at their own table on the other side of the verandah. I hung around after the meal as arranged (Shan went off to read) until I was asked if it was OK to come back a little later because I was the only one signed up for the tasting. Would I mind waiting for another family to arrive. Of course I wouldn't so I headed off back to the Silo. When the others arrived, it turned out that the predominant other was a chap out from Scandinavia setting up a wine-importing business. It was interesting to chat to him while Hanneke ran through the few wines we were to taste. I kind of forget which ones they were but probably the reds and the younger whites in the lineup below. You could say I'm a bit of a fan. Here are examples of the varieties and their variants (excluding the few bottles of Secateurs, Papegaai and Curator) that are currently in our "cellar" in the UK. It was all over pretty quickly as my tasting companion had to move on to another gig. While Hanneke was packing up I asked her casually about the fun and games the night before. Evidently it had been great fun and many of the participants were suffering the consequences. Actually even more splendid than mere mortals could comprehend She then volunteered a story which I really wish she hadn't. Evidently a wealthy Dutchman who had been living in Durban had decided to return to live in the Netherlands. He was a wine collector of some repute, including as the owner of one of the world's largest collections of Romanée-Conti. This collector had made the decision to repatriate with the finest vintages to his home country. The remainder had been distributed to a group of close friends with the proviso that they would not sell it on but would share it with other friends who would appreciate it. The wine being drunk in Kalmoesfontein the night before had been part of the consignment that had remained in South Africa. "What was it like?" I asked her. "Absolutely wonderful, out of this world," she replied (maybe not in those exact words but you get the gist). So, the upshot of the story is that, while I was sidling round the bar the night before to see if I could get some special Badenhorst Brew, the occupants of the rear verandah would have been in a state of RC oblivion. Striking out from the Badenhorst estate When we had realised that striking out from Kalmoesfontein in our woesy Corolla was not going to be a thing, we refocused on places we could walk to. First on the list was David and Nadia across the road. I'd spoken to them at the Swig do, too, and they'd encouraged me to visit the farm. When I contacted them, they apologised. Sadly they'd be too busy that week. Eventually, Shan and I decided to settle for a walk up the valley into the Paardenberg. There were some wineries up there, most significantly the Swerwer estate. It was a lovely day and we could just go out and have a look at what was available. But first there were the geese. Shan is not generally a scaredy-cat but for some reason these large birds had always gone for her since time immemorial. Not in a friendly way. So, understandably, she has developed a bit of a phobia. (Above, clockwise from top left): Those geese weren't going to allow Shan to take her chosen path; the detour took us past some cuter aquatic birds but why was only one of them yellow?; David and Nadia signposted to the left ; The road winds up the picturesque valley and then stops at the Paardenberg. After detouring around the geese, following a gentle route to the David and Nadia sign, standing back to let a pickup turn in to the side road and being thanked by the occupants (did I detect a Sadie in there?), we continued walking up the Paardenberg road. It was warm and peaceful with an eclectic mix of dwellings along the way. The only entrance beyond the Sadie's that appeared to be wine related was to the Swerwer winery, a few kilometres further on. The sign was a little discouraging and my Long Covid was beginning to make itself felt so we turned for home. Actually, I was being chivalrous because Shan had become nervous about the baboons barking nearby. (Above, top two rows): some eclectic housing. (Bottom row L to R): No Swerwer today; a puppy at the Badenhorst farm at lunch time that looked achingly similar to our granddog, Georgie, inducing a pang of nostalgia. Leaving Kalmoesfontein I was a little sad to leave. For most of our stay we'd been the only guests and I had hoped to be able to say hello to Adi. We did cross paths in a doorway at lunch time but he seemed on a mission so I stepped back, unacknowledged, to let him past. I bought some of the vintages I'd tasted and collected a bottle of her own wine from Hanneke to take to our next winemaker, Francois Haasbroek. After extricating the car from the farm road we took a quick drive along the road we'd walked the day before. We wanted to see how much further we could have gone had I not run out of steam. Don't mention the baboons. Not much further, as it turns out. While making an awkward U-turn opposite the JC Wickens entrance, a bakkie3 approached from the homestead. Its occupants gave us some space to complete our manoeuvre and when it was possible, they drew alongside and asked if they could help. I told them we'd been staying at the Badenhorst place and recalled a bit about our walk the day before. "You should have dropped by," she replied with a cheery wave before heading off down the road. Probably the best wine tasting ever, a wish fulfilled We set our satnav for the De Meye estate, the current (at the time) home of Blackwater Wines. I'm not sure Francois would approve of his Blackwater brand being described as "boutique" but he has his fingers in a growing mound of many pies and this was the current pinnacle. This was serious business. We started with Hanneke's Ph Palomino and then Francois just kept the bottles coming. He had to collect his daughter from school and Shan and I grabbed a bite before returning for more. Shelley-ann took this picture just before interval. The T-shirt is on my back, and had been obtained from BinTwo in Padstow. I tried to convince Mike Boyne, BinTwo's proprietor, that by wearing it I should become his emissary. "Nice try, Mark," was his response. We must've tasted for nigh on four hours. Normally Shan would have got a bit antsy by that stage. Wandered around conversing with the birds and squirrels. But, no, conversation with Mnr. Haasbroek covered a lot of ground from rugby to politics, physics to chemistry, elitism to people's wine and much else before returning to wine. The only things Francois seemed elitist about were wine glasses. Did you know that, however imperceptible, most glasses have a lip around the edge that causes the nectar being transferred to your mouth to leap over the sweet receptors on the tip of your tongue and hit the bitter receptors at the back. The rims needed to be milled. Actually, bugger all that, they just needed to be Zalto. And, if you wanted to drink wine at Francois' table, you'd better sip it from these pieces of art whose stems seemed as if they'd snap if you glanced at them. I know what my favourite wine was from the 12 we tasted. It was the 2019 Syrah, not yet officially bottled. There was no label on the bottle. More than a month later Christmas was fast approaching and I asked Francois if I could get some unlabelled bottles to drink before disappearing back to Blighty. He agreed to this and Shan and I created a label from the picture above and had it printed in Hermanus. A member or two of the local wine royalty were concerned that the label cheapened the wine to which Francois retorted that he liked it, adding something to the effect of: "We've put Mark on a retainer for label design." The Syrah was my favourite but there wasn't one wine that disappointed. The Pinot Noir and a reasonably obscure blend of Chenin, Clairette Blanche and Palomino (named "Chaos Theory") were other favourites. Sadly Francois wasn't intending making any more Pinot because the price of the grapes had gone ballistic and he would have to charge more per bottle than he thought was reasonable. All good things come to an end and our experience that day ended with a whimsical mutual ambition to make artisan wines somewhere in the Langhe4. As we were leaving Francois asked us to hold on for a few minutes while he disappeared. He reappeared with a box containing the 11 of his wines we'd tasted. Most of the bottles were all but full. All protestations on our part were ignored. "I'd just have to pour them away," he dismissed our protests. I tell you what, like similarly excellent wines, none of those bottles had deteriorated much after a week of sharing and enjoying them with an appreciative family. We did manage to buy new stocks through Gary at Wine & Co in Hermanus. Gary and I shared a bottle of the 2019 "own label" Syrah appreciatively in the "snug" in his shop but the rest of those puppies have come back to the UK with me. And back to Fauvist art Two of the remaining pictures in the previous blog were from roughly the same area and I promised to reveal all but I am holding the last one back because there's a bit more of an anecdote around it that I'll come back to soon. (Above): First two - Dasklip Pass into the Winterhoek Mountains north of Porterville; Last two - view from Kershaw homestead near Grabouw.
Coming next Cape Town, old friends, restaurants and surprises (including arm to arm combat with the Department of the Interior. [Endnotes]:
Broadly East of the Kasteelberg Shelley-ann makes no bones about the fact that endless wine-tasting is more my kind of thing than hers. It's not that she doesn't like wine, she does. But she knows what she likes and sees no point in pontificating about it for hours on end. So I developed a long running ruse that started out with asking her to base some of her Fauvist painting on wine-related photographs I'd taken ... The sequel to that, and her hard work, would be to visit some of the places she'd painted sight unseen. Places I'd been but she hadn't. Come to think of it, a large chunk of of the rationale for Around the Cape in 144 Days (AtCi144D) had been to share some of the bits of South Africa we hadn't seen together during the more than 40 years of our relationship. So part of the plan for this episode, Part 1, of AtCi144D is to (re)introduce four of Shan's paintings. Explanations (where they came from etc.) will be in the second episode. Part 1 is also a sub-plot for yours truly to prepare for (sugar-coat if you like) a bit of more in-depth sampling of wine in the Western Cape. I hope readers will think this is a bit of fun rather than a Machiavellian scheme by me to ensure that the following episode, Part 2, will be read. Nonetheless, hopefully the four paintings below will whet your appetite to carry on reading: Hermanus at last A year late but we got there. We were introduced to Mia, the 2-month-old latest addition to matriarch and great grandmother Judith's growing clan. We welcomed a debrief from Kerry (Shan's sister a.k.a. Kinks, who had been by their mother's side throughout lockdown) and Tim (Kinks' other half) in which we were counselled to allow 92-year-old Judith a good night's sleep before the reunion, Shelley-ann got to see her Mum at last. I am assured that it was an emotional and tearful reunion. Tim and I kept a respectful distance until the mum, daughter, sibling relationship was re-established. We took a stroll on the wonderful cliff path and admired the ocean. After a week's unwinding, visiting, eating, drinking and reacquainting ourselves with Hermanus, we were ready to resume the trip that had been arranged and rescheduled multiple times since it had originally been conceived and reservations had been made. The first stop was to be Saronsberg, which encapsulated the parallel missions of our 144 day Southern journey. A Western Cape winery with a magnificent art installation. In the mean time, serendipity had been rekindled by some joint painting sessions with Judy, Kinks and Shan. So we headed North. Into the mountains. Again. (Above L to R): We travelled broadly in an anticlockwise loop with a few sticking out bits as the mood took us, broadly West of the Kasteelberg were, in theory where the wine-making heavy hitters resided; as one arrives at Saronsberg, there are pieces of sculpture arranged in the nooks and crannies of the approach to the main building - we did wonder what these two might have been saying to each other - a couple of mature Gumnut Babies about to ascend the gum tree, perhaps? Apart from combining art and wine, I had chosen to take Shan to Saronsberg for two more reasons: spectacular scenery and the simple but charming cottages providing the accommodation. We had planned to stay there for two nights but we'd come to grief after having to shift our holiday backwards. This actually ended up working to our benefit when we shifted our second night to Tulbagh. But back to that one night in Saronsberg, the accommodation and views were as beguiling as I'd remembered them from my previous visit two years earlier but the complete lack of any personal touch was not as I had recalled it. When we arrived, our key was in the cottage door and there was wine on sale on the stunningly beautiful patio. But the choice was limited, especially when looking for a white wine that was not Sauvignon Blanc. There was a Viognier that was competent. We ended up buying a bottle of that. The bottle of the flagship Full Circle Syrah-dominated blend was smothered in stickers proclaiming its excellence. That and the price dissuaded me from testing it further. The gallery itself was worth a visit on its own. Inside and out it is integrated with the surrounding winery and then the landscape ... We sipped our Viognier contentedly on the little patio at our cottage and marvelled at the truly remarkable sunsets that occur in the Tulbagh valley. The following morning we dropped our keys in the drop box and headed up the valley until we ran out of road. It didn't take long but did afford us a view of the splendid Twee Jonge Gezellen estate, which now seems to focus exclusively on its Krone range of bubbly. There was a time in my youth when Twee Jonge Gezellen TJ39 was the epitome (to my mind, at least) of posh South African white wine. But now we were hungry and needed breakfast/brunch. We headed for Tulbagh and happened upon Kole & Deeg. Tulbagh Once again my propensity for gluttony, coupled with a no-breakfast hunger encouraged by the drive in the country beforehand, mitigated against getting a photo until the meal was half-finished. "If it's so bloody delicious, why don't you take a photo?" my wife exhorted me once my plate was half empty. So what you see below is one of the mostest, ultimatest fry ups I've had. Having waited for late brunch may have something to do with it but, judge for yourself. So as not to repeat the unpreparedness, we repaired directly to the Paddagang (middle below) and obtained a booking. We had heard it was popular. Perhaps the house cat had eaten the cream (and all the frogs1) by the time we got there many hours later. We were the only diners. Actually the grub was lovely - the lunchtime crowd outside when we'd first spied the place had dissipated. Then we had the afternoon to survey the aftermath of the devastation caused by the 1969 earthquake and the phoenix that arose to become what is Kerk Straat2 today. I have already been berated on social media for exclaiming at the phenomenal restoration of the Cape Dutch architecture that exists in this street today. I do understand why a large sector of the South African population is not as impressed as I was at the rebuilding of this part of Tulbagh to its original specs. I really do. But a street vandalised by Victorian busybodies and then rebuilt to its original assisted by money provided by the Rupert family is not entirely a bad thing. Check out a few of our pictures if you disagree and have the debate with someone else. Maybe go there too. There's a pocket museum with the details3. In the meantime, here are a few examples of what exists in Kerk Straat today, lovingly restored to its 170-year old glory, previously vandalised by Victorians. In the same complex there is also a Christo Coetzee art museum that is equally small but perfectly formed. One of our little excursions out from Tulbagh took us up the valley towards the mountains. There is no way through (by road anyway) the mountains. It's like a perfect amphitheatre with only a few tarred roads in its basin. Determined to explore every inch of it we veered up any road that would take us closer to the Groot Winterhoek range and the source of the Klein Berg River. There is one main asphalt road with one or two lesser arteries which don't stray very far from the Winterhoek Road. We were proceeding up this route when we were suddenly confronted with the virtual obstruction below. At first we were tempted to ignore the command and plead ignorance. After all there was a picture of a truck surmounting it and the appearance of the road on the other side was no different from the bit where we'd now ground to a halt. We were left in no doubt when a large SUV appeared as if from nowhere. The driver rolled his window down. He was polite but there was an underlying hint of menace. "Where are you going?" he demanded. He was not smiling. "We were hoping to go further up the road," I started, looking him in the eye. His face was hardening: "But I saw the sign and I'm now turning around." He relaxed infinitesimally as I started to turn my wheels slightly resentfully towards the "draai plek". The SUV didn't move until we'd performed our U-turn and headed back from whence we came. Questions started running through our heads. Look for yourselves. That piece of tarmac beyond the draai plek is maintained by the same authority as the bit we had been on. What was up there that we were not allowed to see? I had wanted to take the photograph above but it didn't seem sensible under the scrutiny of SUV man. Instead I did the unthinkable and ripped it from Google. Heading for Riebeek Kasteel With one road in there was nothing for it but to head back the way we'd come and take the gap made by the Klein Berg river South West of Tulbagh. I only mention this in detail because the new Nuwekloof Pass has views of the old pass that must have been a bit spine chilling when there was no other way through. The alternative would have been a one and a half hours detour around the mountains. Of course there was also the terrifying 170-year-old Bains Kloof Pass that probably would've been even slower. So Riebeeck Kasteel (RK) beckoned. We were to spend two nights in Jacques Pauw's4 guesthouse, now named the Tin Roof Taverna. I had remembered it as the Red Tin Roof when I had last visited for a pukka Sunday roast a couple of years previously. Now it was a Portuguese-influenced taverna, which was fine. What wasn't fine, though, was that Booking.com had cocked up our booking. There was no room at the inn. Not on our first night, anyway. In fairness to everyone involved, our itinerary had slipped so many times with the pandemic. What was concerning was that there was very little unbooked accommodation left in RK. We didn't really know where to turn. What we hadn't reckoned with was the wonderful Sam Rogers. She and Jacques were partners in this enterprise. "Go and have some lunch in town and leave it with me," Sam promised. "I'll have some options for you when you get back." Sure enough when we got back we had some options. Good ones. We ended up at the upmarket Cafe Felix. Sam had arranged with the owner to cover our B&B expenses. Did we want to spend the second night back at her taverna? Yes we did. A decision we didn't regret. (L to R Above): Our palatial room at Cafe Felix; back at the Tin Roof Taverna for a langoustine lunch and feeling contented. And of course we popped into the unique Wine Kollective that surely has the most comprehensive kollection of Swartland wines.. Owner Anton Espost was in and we grabbed a few bottles of stuff we probably weren't going to find elsewhere (easily and all in one place, at least) Coming next
We skirt around the Kasteelberg in search of some wine legends and accommodation that had been arranged in London and been on hold throughout lockdown. Two years later I was hoping to fulfil some of the dreams hatched in Riebeek Kasteel in the Southern winter of 2019. [Endnotes]:
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AuthorMark Harrison - making travelling an adventure Archives
March 2024
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