Shell We Go West?

Exploring the West Coast National Park and Groenrivier. With the sun on our backs in the morning, we set off from Upington to Springbok. Along the Orange River, aqua systems run through vineyards, date palm plantations, watermills, and the legendary Pink Padstal, where stocking up on books, dates, dried fruit, snacks, and a gift for grandbaby is a no-brainer!

That’s the thing about a Padstal; it’s got to be inimitable and stand out from the crowd. We love stopping off to sniff around for a bargain and something for the picnic basket.

Once we left the verdant farmlands, we entered arid Namaqualand, a scorched, rocky yet majestic landscape in summer. For future visitors, note that the Goegap Nature Reserve's gate closes at 16h00, so plan your arrival accordingly. Our first choice for the night was the reserve, but with the gate closed, we had to find an alternative campsite nearby.

iOverlander, our preferred reference for campsites, pointed us west. We set up just as the sun set on a small, private site on the farm Modderfontein. The retired miner, now a farmer, came around in his blue Jeep to welcome us. The “oom”, a renowned raconteur and a fundi on copper mining in Okiep, is also a very keen member of the vintage motor club, hence his old Jeep. He could, given the opportunity, keep one up all night!

My Dad later told us that Okiep was world-famous for its copper mining, which played a vital role in South Africa's mining history. As a young schoolboy, he’d travelled by train with his father, an American mine captain, to accompany a friend home for the holidays. The pictures I took reveal the reality of early 1900s mining conditions, shocking and a reminder of the region's rich industrial past.

We traversed interesting mountain passes as we descended into Namaqualand. A stark landscape with villages and farms dotted along the way, reminiscent of Namibia and just as picturesque—a landscape artist's dream that invites an appreciation of its natural beauty.

The landscape grew more desolate and stark. Mine dumps dotted the way in various shades and textures of excavated earth—the sand and gravel roads forced us to deflate our tyres. The poor tyre-pressure monitor couldn't cope, reminding us of the environmental impact of mining in this area.

Kleinzee was the first coastal town we reached, but we weren’t going to stop there. I couldn’t resist taking a photograph of the lone golfer putting on a sandy putting “green”. He gave us the once-over, too. This once-thriving mining town now looks deserted. All the shops were closed, and a few were boarded up. The COVID lockdown must’ve dealt them an immense blow.

At last, we reached our lunch destination. We needed to quench our thirst. We’d reached Hondeklipbaai. The restaurant, aptly named, I thought, Die Rooispinnekop (The Red Spider), aka crayfish. Here, rumour has it, crayfish are plentiful and the staple dish. I’m always astounded by some of the sê goed (inscriptions on plaques) we come across in small villages.

I was drooling until Butch whispered, “Look at the menu–under seafood!” He tapped the flapping menu under my nose. My heart was a-flutter with anticipation. I read… Fish–Hake and chips, Russians and chips, Viennas and chips. You learn something new every day. I’ve always suspected there were grizzly bits minced into Russians, but… fish. No. No. No. 

It would be fish and chips, all from a Cape Town supplier that complies with sustainable fishing practices. Our meal was delightful, the fish lovely and the chips gorgeous. But this is what we’ve come to—no place to hide any more. Distance isn’t a factor, and local is only lekker (lovely) to tourists like us. Locals, whose staple might be crayfish, enjoy a good Vienna and chips on the weekend. Such a shame. At least they have All Gold tomato sauce to go with the chips.

We explored the beach in search of the shipwreck, had coffee (from our own supply), then entered Namaqua National Park and began our search for a suitable campsite for wild camping overnight in Leliefontein, Kamiesberg district.

It is on these adventures that I fall in love with our Honey Badger again and again. Sublime. We appreciate what we do and where we’re able to go. In these COVID times, we’re lucky to get away from it all. Our simple lifestyle is serving us well—touch wood.

I must agree with everyone who raves about Groenrivier. We loved it too and will undoubtedly return during the summer. The campsites are miles apart with a long- drop toilet, an enclosed braai area and, of course, a view to die for. This is the ideal spot to wild camp for the adventurous. Fishing would be good, and if there’s a left break, a surfboard could come in handy too.  During crayfish season, I’m sure there would be crays on the menu every evening. 

Butch and I could spend a month there without missing home, weather permitting. When the chilly wind comes up, it might be time to pack up.

Every day brought something different: the terrain, the campsite location, and the coast with its diverse fauna and flora. On day two, we had to deflate our tyres further as we trundled through thick, fine white sand.

Much of the coast is a National Park, but some of the land belongs to sheep farmers.  My job as the gate opener was tedious: stretching my legs and jumping in and out of the truck to swing open the steel farm gates. The sight of sheep grazing so close to the coastline is lovely.

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For decades, the west coast of South Africa and Namibia has been a mining hotspot; I know Anglo American (De Beers) did a lot of diamond mining here. Now, long stretches of unspoilt coastline are being extensively sand-mined, affecting beaches, dunes, and biodiversity. I recently read that non-profit organisations, environmentalists, and conservationists are challenging the massive expansion of mineral sands beach mining and its cumulative impact on the region. We were astounded by the vast areas affected.

On one of our walks after setting up camp, we noticed hundreds of metres (could’ve been kilometres, but I don’t want to exaggerate) covered in mountains of black mussel shells. We couldn’t understand how this had happened. Imagine, from a distance, seeing a grey, almost blue beach. It wasn't until we walked over and saw it was made up of tons of mussel shells. Heartbreaking if the cause is mining damage.

The road south from the Groenrivier estuary is far more corrugated. We rattled and shook until I thought I might lose my teeth. The noise was deafening. I have vowed to have our truck “silenced” somehow. We need to have the shocks checked!

The weather couldn’t have been better, and once we’d settled, we’d stretch our legs on long walks along the deserted beaches. Here and there, we’d come across other campers, and we stopped to chat only once. I miss company and enjoy hearing about other travellers’ experiences and how they do things. The couple we met were keen birders, and their tables were covered with bird books, binoculars and spectacles. They were interested in seabirds and West Coast birds.

We delved into the rock pools in search of an octopus, to no avail.

We spent three nights camping along the coast, then turned left and headed inland again. It was time to return home. Lutzville was our entry point to civilisation—a picturesque wine-farming community on the banks of the Olifants River. We still debate whether we’ve stayed there before; I think we have.

For lunch, we stopped off at the new farm stall and restaurant at the top of Piekenierskloof. Teeming with visitors returning home after the long weekend, we found a table and ordered the house speciality, Roosterkoek.  

The baker was a pro at baking the best roosterkoek I’ve eaten. He told me he learnt the art from his mum and has been making roosterkoek for decades. The trick to a perfect roosterkoek is that the braai grid must not be closed, which makes sense now. His roosterkoek were light and puffy, unlike the rock buns I’ve produced.

For dessert, we ordered pancakes. They were disappointing. Not light and fluffy, they were just a little too thick. We filled a basket with some delicious homemade goodies and lemon meringue tarts to take home. 

The descent over the Piekenierskloof always marks the end of a holiday for me. It’s just a short stint home from there. I can’t say I always enjoy the thought. 

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