A One Night Stand - Cremorne Holiday Resort - Port St John's - Fabulously Flamboyant
Travel is about exploring deeply, delving into a place's culture, history, art, and architecture, and sparking curiosity and connection.
Before our trips, we research as much as possible before we set off. My inquisitive nature, fuelled by the anticipation of new, unexplored destinations, is only satisfied after much snooping and mingling with the locals. It’s essential to experience the culture, cuisine and arts. I want to hike in nature, stroll the busy streets and nose around the shops and stalls. All of this takes time.
A one-night stand leaves me cold, disappointed, and frustrated. It’s a reminder that meaningful travel needs time to be truly enjoyed and to connect.
This would be our last day travelling in the Transkei. The rolling hills gave way to more rugged mountains and koppies, with reminders of the tabletop hills in the Free State. The vegetation grew denser as we entered subtropical climes, and here and there the sun surprised us, peeking through cotton-candy clouds. Recent rains in the hills and mountains trickled into streams and rivers, carrying the red soil to the sea. Towns were bustling with shoppers as the weekend drew nearer.
We arrived in the idyllic Port St Johns, “The jewel of the Wild Coast”, in the afternoon. We had time only for a quick bite at lunchtime, a nap, a shower, supper, and bed before setting off for Howick. As I looked out over the subtropical forests, river, and seaside, I knew this was a big mistake. I’d suffer FOMO for a long time. There’d be no exploring the village, no dining at the numerous restaurants, no sunning myself on the picturesque beaches, and no hiking in the lush forests. There’d be no time to chillax, get to know the locals, or delve into the hippy communities.
All I could do was admire the backdrop of golden cliffs while birdwatching; from my vantage point, the kingfisher and common house sparrow were just the tip of the iceberg, as the area is rumoured to host 240 bird species, making it a birdwatcher’s paradise.
We spotted two rare birds camouflaged by a large fever tree, not of the feathered kind, mind you. One was red and the other black. A lovely family of five or six sat at a nearby table, enjoying hamburgers and chips. They greeted us warmly but kept eating. My ears pricked up, and I couldn’t resist eavesdropping. Their young son thanked his parents for the lovely meal, saying it was a treat. Hamburgers don’t tick the “this is a treat” list, I didn’t think. I was impressed. Our curry was delicious, and I could taste the chef's Indian flavours, so different from our Cape Malay curries. Butch was in his element.
A while later, we thanked the waitress and said goodbye. Can you imagine my surprise when, a few minutes later, we heard the staccato whirr of blades starting up? On the lawn, the twin helicopters warmed up and swooped off. Mom in one, Dad in the other. I kid you not.
Housekeeping kept me busy for a while, and then I too sat with my feet up. Butch, with a toiletry bag and towel flung over his arm, went off to the ablutions, my cue to rest my eyes. In a stage whisper, Butch brought me back from my reverie, saying, “Maricha, I’ve lost my underwear.” He'd returned from the ablutions. My eyes travelled south. He couldn’t afford to misplace clothing. “Man up, cupcake,” were my words as he sidled up to our neighbour, who had given him a lift to the ablutions.
This was going to be a treat, I knew. Without preamble, he says, “I think I lost my underwear in your car, Fred.” Fred, a strapping young man, is dumbfounded and lost for words, blushing bright pink and spluttering that he’d not noticed any lost items. Fortunately, we found the disgraced garment lying forlornly in the road. It was snatched up, washed, and ready to wear the next morning.
We enjoyed an early supper on the veranda; after all the rainy days, it was a treat to throw off our jackets and soak up the balmy subtropical heat before retiring to our books and tablets (not the sugar-coated kind, but our Kindles and iPad) to watch a film and catch up with Shuggie Bain.
Our next stop would be one of the actual reasons for our trip. We were visiting Mem in Howick. We were on track, and our Honey Badger was performing to script. Perfectly.
Cremorne Resort offers options beyond camping: luxury chalets, a restaurant, a self-catering cottage for those who prefer to do their own thing, or a bed-and-breakfast option to spoil yourself. The property offers pools, walks, and hikes. The river offers a range of water-based activities, and fishing is a major draw. We enjoyed our stay, though one night was slightly compromised. I would suggest a longer stay to explore the area and make the most of this spectacular stretch of coastline.
Before our trips, we research as much as possible before we set off. My inquisitive nature, fuelled by the anticipation of new, unexplored destinations, is only satisfied after much snooping and mingling with the locals. It’s essential to experience the culture, cuisine and arts. I want to hike in nature, stroll the busy streets and nose around the shops and stalls. All of this takes time.
A one-night stand leaves me cold, disappointed, and frustrated. It’s a reminder that meaningful travel needs time to be truly enjoyed and to connect.
This would be our last day travelling in the Transkei. The rolling hills gave way to more rugged mountains and koppies, with reminders of the tabletop hills in the Free State. The vegetation grew denser as we entered subtropical climes, and here and there the sun surprised us, peeking through cotton-candy clouds. Recent rains in the hills and mountains trickled into streams and rivers, carrying the red soil to the sea. Towns were bustling with shoppers as the weekend drew nearer.
We arrived in the idyllic Port St Johns, “The jewel of the Wild Coast”, in the afternoon. We had time only for a quick bite at lunchtime, a nap, a shower, supper, and bed before setting off for Howick. As I looked out over the subtropical forests, river, and seaside, I knew this was a big mistake. I’d suffer FOMO for a long time. There’d be no exploring the village, no dining at the numerous restaurants, no sunning myself on the picturesque beaches, and no hiking in the lush forests. There’d be no time to chillax, get to know the locals, or delve into the hippy communities.
All I could do was admire the backdrop of golden cliffs while birdwatching; from my vantage point, the kingfisher and common house sparrow were just the tip of the iceberg, as the area is rumoured to host 240 bird species, making it a birdwatcher’s paradise.
We spotted two rare birds camouflaged by a large fever tree, not of the feathered kind, mind you. One was red and the other black. A lovely family of five or six sat at a nearby table, enjoying hamburgers and chips. They greeted us warmly but kept eating. My ears pricked up, and I couldn’t resist eavesdropping. Their young son thanked his parents for the lovely meal, saying it was a treat. Hamburgers don’t tick the “this is a treat” list, I didn’t think. I was impressed. Our curry was delicious, and I could taste the chef's Indian flavours, so different from our Cape Malay curries. Butch was in his element.
A while later, we thanked the waitress and said goodbye. Can you imagine my surprise when, a few minutes later, we heard the staccato whirr of blades starting up? On the lawn, the twin helicopters warmed up and swooped off. Mom in one, Dad in the other. I kid you not.
Housekeeping kept me busy for a while, and then I too sat with my feet up. Butch, with a toiletry bag and towel flung over his arm, went off to the ablutions, my cue to rest my eyes. In a stage whisper, Butch brought me back from my reverie, saying, “Maricha, I’ve lost my underwear.” He'd returned from the ablutions. My eyes travelled south. He couldn’t afford to misplace clothing. “Man up, cupcake,” were my words as he sidled up to our neighbour, who had given him a lift to the ablutions.
This was going to be a treat, I knew. Without preamble, he says, “I think I lost my underwear in your car, Fred.” Fred, a strapping young man, is dumbfounded and lost for words, blushing bright pink and spluttering that he’d not noticed any lost items. Fortunately, we found the disgraced garment lying forlornly in the road. It was snatched up, washed, and ready to wear the next morning.
We enjoyed an early supper on the veranda; after all the rainy days, it was a treat to throw off our jackets and soak up the balmy subtropical heat before retiring to our books and tablets (not the sugar-coated kind, but our Kindles and iPad) to watch a film and catch up with Shuggie Bain.
Our next stop would be one of the actual reasons for our trip. We were visiting Mem in Howick. We were on track, and our Honey Badger was performing to script. Perfectly.
Cremorne Resort offers options beyond camping: luxury chalets, a restaurant, a self-catering cottage for those who prefer to do their own thing, or a bed-and-breakfast option to spoil yourself. The property offers pools, walks, and hikes. The river offers a range of water-based activities, and fishing is a major draw. We enjoyed our stay, though one night was slightly compromised. I would suggest a longer stay to explore the area and make the most of this spectacular stretch of coastline.
Side Bar: FLAMBOYANT TREE - Delonix regia is a species of flowering plant in the bean family Fabaceae, subfamily Caesalpinioideae native to Madagascar, but also in the sub tropical regions of South Africa. It is noted for its fern-like leaves and flamboyant display of orange-red flowers over summer. In many tropical parts of the world it is grown as an ornamental tree and in English it is given the name royal poinciana, flamboyant, flame of the forest, or flame tree (one of several species given this name)
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