The Garden Route - Almost Full Circle - Summer Part 2
Thick, winter soups, hearty casseroles and wedges of freshly baked bread, cheese and green fig preserve have taken their toll. Winter weight will have to be walked off, I say to my reflection, while I massage (with firm, upward, circular strokes) copious handfuls of sunscreen onto my décolletage, arms, and face.
The reflection in the mirror is no spring chicken, and all those years of sunbathing, cigarettes and champagne are etched around my eyes and splotched on my skin. But you know what? I don’t regret any of it. My mother was right when she said, “Maricha, mark my words, you’ll regret only the things you didn’t do!” So, I embrace these signs of a life well-lived with a good dose of good humour.
My granddaughter, Isla, six, going on sixteen, made a remark that almost brought tears to my eyes one day while we sat on their front steps waiting for a pizza delivery. “Ouma, you’re really very old!” She exclaimed, her face a picture of concern.
Her careful consideration of the question “How old do you think I am, Isla?” Was evident. She wanted to be kind, but she also had to justify her answer. So, she gently pinched the skin on my mottled hand and said, “Look, Ouma, your skin is papery, see-through, and you have blue veins popping up.” I agreed and waited for the blow to come. Children are brutally honest.
She looked me straight in the eye, unflinchingly and mustering all her courage, (I might pop my clogs, and who’d want to be responsible for that?) She took a deep breath and said bravely, “Ouma” She said quietly, “I think you’re twenty-four!” I almost burst a blood vessel, but I kept my pose and solemnly agreed. She’s a bright little button, our Isla.
We were silent for a long time. Eventually, though, she got bored and realised we couldn’t sit there on the step forever, so to compensate for the outrageous blow she’d delivered, she offered to dance to a Taylor Swift song. I could remain seated she said gently. What could I say? She eased my phone out of my pocket, found her favourite song, “Shake It Off”, on Spotify, pressed the play button, increased the volume and let me have it.
Isla is a pro at shaking it off, and soon I was shaking the years off, too.
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Let's get back to the Garden Route
The Honey Badger was on a roll, and we made good time, enjoying the excellent condition of the N2 as we trundled through the districts of Humansdorp. The saline waters of the Indian Ocean are calling me.
J-Bay
Everyone loves J-Bay (Jeffrey’s Bay). I can remember my surfer son’s enthusiasm to pack his Rip Curl surfboard bag the night before he wrote his last subject for his final exams. For them, there was no Matric weekend in Hermanus; their sights were set on surfing. The ancient Datsun bakkie was roaring to go, he said. All they had to do was pick up the board the next day. He mastered “travelling light”, a pair of board shorts, two T-shirts, a toothbrush and not much else. All were shoved haphazardly into the black board bag along with Mr Zog’s Sex Wax.
The weekend before the trip, he’d given me the rundown of Jeffrey’s Bay. “J-Bay is built on the legend of Supertubes, a long, fast, right-hand point break that lights up in winter swells. Every July, the world’s best arrive for the Championship Tour stop. Even from the boardwalk, watching a master carve lines on an endless wall is mesmerising.” He might miss the winter swells, but he’s an easy boy, and the smaller, windier conditions were not going to put Jaco, Pieter, Zaai and Jimmy off.
I remember the Gunston 500 was held in J-Bay, but those were the days when smoking was cool and sexy, girls looked like Twiggy, and boys wore short shorts. Jikes.
Oh, I admit it. I am a thalassophile (n. someone who loves the ocean and finds thrill, calm and peace being in or near the sea).
What’s more, the campsite is ideally situated on the beachfront, and we were one of only three campers there, which was perfect.
I insisted that we park as close to the beach as possible. I needed to hear the waves crash when I woke at 2:00 in the morning. Insomnia had infested my nights.
The rainy season had started, and most days were cloudy with sudden showers. Whenever the sun poked its rays through the clouds, we’d set off on beach walks.
Surrounded by crystal clear blue seas, we’d spend our days exploring the rock pools for Octopus and admiring the homes with the best views. The beauty of the South African coast never ceases to amaze us.
For a treat, we walked to a restaurant on the beach, the one with the best reviews. It was lovely to sit at a white table surrounded by other guests.
Butch asked for the wine list and selected a young Sauvignon Blanc, which was chilled to perfection, crispy and green, he said—the perfect choice to complement his fish.
Summer brings out the best in everyone, and all around us, guests dressed in summer dresses, T-shirts, and shorts were happily laughing and chatting cheerfully. We felt a sense of connection, sharing in the joy of the season and the beauty of our surroundings. This was a community of summer lovers where sunshine and surf provide a good dose of Vitamin D, the sunshine vitamin.
A couple sauntered up from the beach, dumping their surfboards on the lawn and joined a party of friends. They were locals. I decided they embodied the chilled, relaxed, easy-going lifestyle of youngsters who’ve grown up by the seaside. They were sun-drenched, wholesome and laidback.
A few feet away from me at the next table, a guy was busy stripping his bicycle, which had at least six panniers attached to its frame. This piqued my curiosity. Who was the cyclist, and what adventures had he been on?
His accent gave him away immediately. An American. He ordered a hamburger.
We’d always felt confident in acquainting ourselves with other travellers; I was determined to do so again. We made eye contact, but all his attention was on his hamburger, which he was busy devouring. Cycling does that.
Immediately after I heard the ping of his credit card registering his successful payment, I said, “Hi!” He reciprocated, and we had a brief chat. His journey had started in Port Elizabeth.
He had just completed his second day on the road and was suffering saddle burns. We assured him that he would make it to Cape Town, his final destination. We wished him luck and said we’d wave if we saw him along the road.
On Friday, while having our fish and chips at the harbour (freshly caught Cape Salmon), we chatted with two Medical Reps, one of whom was an eager traveller who asked whether we planned our route ahead of time. No, we said simultaneously. It’s the unexpected encounters that often lead to the most memorable experiences.
But that didn’t mean we were clueless or rudderless. We had an idea of where we were headed, but this largely depended on good intelligence, recommendations, and suggestions based on our interests that we picked up by talking to other travellers we met along the way.
We were quite au fait with South Africa and the route home. This time, we were advising others, mostly foreign travellers, like the lovely German couple travelling with their daughter, who were parked adjacent to us in Jeffrey’s Bay.
With a map tucked under his arm and our travel guides weighing him down, Butch went over to their imposing big blue truck to share some of our experiences with them.
Since meeting them, they have kept in contact and joined WhatsApp groups, which Butch found informative, productive and confident in recommending (one does not have the time nor the inclination to belong to groups that do not add positive, insightful or meaningful value to one’s questions).
After a few gorgeous, albeit cloudy and even rainy, days in Jeffery’s Bay, we decided to head off to Storms River and then Plettenberg Bay. The drive out of town showed us how much the town had expanded with new developments, shopping centres and housing estates.
There’s something special about the Eastern Cape, and I get the nostalgia my friends who grew up in the region have for this magnificent coastline and the Karoo, of course.
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As we meandered down the coast, the weather changed, and the thick clouds dissipated until they all evaporated. By the time we reached the Storms River Mouth National Park, we had clear blue skies and a warm sun on our skin.
We turned in at the Storms River Mouth Rest Camp (Tsitsikamma) sign.
“Where the booming breakers of the Indian Ocean relentlessly pound rocky shores, where temperate high forest and fynbos roll down to the sea in an unspoilt verdant carpet, where ancient rivers carve their paths to the ocean down rocky ravines.
This, “the place of much water”, is the Tsitsikamma Section of the Garden Route National Park. The heartland of the park stretches approximately 5km to the sea, protecting a wonderland of intertidal life, reefs, and deep-sea fish.
Dolphins frolic in the breakers, surfing and playing for the sheer joy of life, and the gentle giant of the ocean, the southern right whale, visits here, coming inshore to breed.” A descriptive account of the splendid landscape from the SANPark’s website.
Every word is accurate and perfectly describes the area. I have never met anyone who does not admire and love the Garden Route and who, once you’ve visited, makes a point of returning as often as possible. This is the closest to the Garden of Eden you’ll ever get.
The campground is situated on the rocks where waves crash relentlessly, and we had the pick of a campsite. It always fascinates me that when we have the option to pick, we become indecisive and tend to hem and haw before settling on our first choice anyway.
After opening all our windows to let the fresh sea air infuse our Honey Badger, we immediately set off to explore the area. Besides being only a handful of campers, they were all enjoying the warm sunshine, hiking, paddling, or carefully setting up short lengths of wood and tinder for their afternoon or early evening braai.
The next morning, we took the opportunity to spend the day outdoors, exploring the park and hiking the paths along the Storms River to the suspension bridge and beyond.
It was encouraging to see the number of cars and buses that had already pulled in to drop off day visitors to the park. There were dozens of walkers ahead of us. Tourism was on the rise and thriving.
We were in no rush, and we did take our time enjoying the fauna and flora. We stopped to watch the colourful kayaks on the river, but did not venture down to the swaying suspension bridge. As we watched and enjoyed the shenanigans, we both said, “Been there, done that”.
Many of the park’s buildings are undergoing construction and renovation, which is promising. We stopped for coffee and cake at the marquee set up in place of a restaurant, where, once again, the tourist numbers surprised us. It was a hive of activity, and the staff were coping very well under challenging conditions, producing plates of high-quality food from a makeshift “mess tent”.
The shop on the rocks had an excellent selection of curios, groceries, vegetables, and ice cream (for our evening dessert).
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The crashing waves, temperate climate, and the windless night all gelled to allow us to sleep the best sleep in weeks.
We were eager to proceed to our next destination. I noticed that my beloved tangerine straw hat’s days were numbered. It had served me well, but it was now tired and worn out.
It would be unthinkable for us to pass by Plettenberg Bay without stopping for tea with our friends Bob and Magriet. The minute we turned into their street, the years slipped away, and it felt like just the other day that we parked right there in our usual spot in the Honey Badger. Some things never change, no matter time or distance.
No sooner had we settled with our cups of Rooibos tea and the conversation turned to “do you remember when we?” or “what was it that we… or can you recall what happened to…?” and the three old friends rehashed their family holidays to Botswana in the 1980s and 90s. Eyes lit up as they recollected their past experiences. Shared memories are what bind us.
Seated around their aged golden-yellowwood dining table off the kitchen, we enjoyed a lively conversation with Andre, and while we tucked into a delicious, light lunch. Butch recounted some of the extraordinary meals we had on our trip, the street shopping we did, and how we’d buy fresh meat in the morning. We were sated and replenished in heart, mind and spirit.
Later on, while sipping our after-lunch coffees, the conversation inevitably turned to current affairs, health, retirement, and the conundrum we find ourselves in: do we pare our lives down, or put the large family home on the market and move to a secure lock-up-and-go in a retirement village? Our children and grandchildren, we agreed, have their own lives, and God forbid we become dependent on them. We decided that while we had good health, we would live full, independent, positive, energised lives.
Our short visit ticked all our boxes; we’d reunited with good friends and evoked sublime recollections.
Until next time, we promised before setting off.
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It was unthinkable that we were now only 4 hours from home. How is that possible? More than a thousand days away feels like the blink of an eye.
It’s too soon I said to Butch as we stopped at the gates of the Wilderness National Park for a weekend at the Ebb and Flow Campsite.
Come hell or high water, I would make the best of these days. No sulking and no tears, I promised myself, swallowing the fear and a lump in my throat.
This time, we picked a spacious campsite on the embankment of the river. A popular spot, of course, and as the afternoon approached, other campers joined us, and by sunset, there were four camper vans, including the Honey Badger, parked in a row.
Bright and early the next morning, we set off to explore the park, hiking the trail over the railway bridge and along the river to the waterfall.
Ferns thrive in these climatic conditions. All along the route, green ferns towered above our heads, and nestled beneath their leaves, there were dwarf ferns and a variety of different ferns in an assortment of greens.
A plaque displayed alongside one particular pathway lined by ferns announced that these were Seven-Weeks Fern (Rumohra adiantiformis). It went on to say that “the seven-week fern is ubiquitous and is found in many of the temperate rainforests worldwide. It is thought to have an Antarctic origin, as it is consistently more abundant in the southern temperate regions.
In South Africa, it reaches its maximum height in the southern and south-western Cape, where it is a frequent or common fern in wet forest floors. It is also abundant in the mist-belt forests of the escarpment.
Over the past decade, a small but viable export industry has developed from the sustainable harvesting of this fern. It is a much sought-after species in Europe and favoured by the floral trade.”
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Kalander (Podocarpus falcatus)or Outeniqua Yellowwood, hails from these natural forests, and this species is the tallest and most spectacular tree in the woods. (Please note the photos I include are NOT yellowwoods but other indigenous trees growing in the forests.)
The name falcatus means “sickle-like” and refers to the sometimes sickle-shaped leaves.
This species is less common than the well-known and our beloved real yellowwood (Podocarpus latifolius). The kalander is dioecious, meaning individual trees are either male or female. The male catkin, or cone, is small, reaching up to about 1.5 cm in length, and is borne singly or in small groups. The female cone is small and solitary, developing into a reasonably large yellow fruit. Bats, wild pigs, and birds eagerly consume this fruit.
The timber of calander is similar to that of real yellowwood and was also used extensively for beams, planks and floors by the early settlers. It is, however, not as popular among modern furniture manufacturers today.
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Along the way, we crossed the river by “Pont”, which we pulled using ropes from one embankment to the other, and enjoyed the paddlers’ gentle paddle as they floated past us down the “rooibos tea” coloured waters.
The yellow colour is a result of naturally dissolved organic matter (e.g., tannins) that may result when rainwater or runoff leaches the organic matter from leaves, roots, and other vegetative matter, and flushes it down to the aquifers supplying groundwater, streams and mountain rivers, which infuses like tea to colour the water. This golden nectar is perfect for a parched hiker to scoop up in cupped hands and sip, feeling refreshed.
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Eventually, we reached the waterfall for a well-deserved break. There, we unpacked our backpacks, took off our shoes, stretched our toes, and leaned back to rest and enjoy our snacks and water.
Our walk back to the truck was less rushed as we ambled home, enjoying the birds and wildlife and the slightly muggy coolness of a forest.
Once again, I can only say Kudos to SANParks. Our Wild Card was paying dividends.
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We hadn’t taken the bikes off the bike rack in a while. Butch decided we needed to head into Wilderness town, and there was no need to do so in the truck. We could cycle.
That should take my mind off things, I realised as I dug into a hatch looking for my helmet, gloves and bandanna. I didn’t think I’d have the legs, but I was going to give this expedition my best shot.
Butch was the leader and took us on a wild goose chase all around the countryside for exercise, he said. I huffed and puffed, almost pushing my bike up a hill, but I resisted as I pushed my pedals down forcefully and climbed the mountain, reminding myself that every uphill has a downhill.
Sometimes Butch does know best. Hard to admit, but true. Although exhausted, I felt invigorated and energised by the time we neared the campground and then headed on to Wilderness.
Our first stop was for coffee and breakfast at one of the many quaint restaurants, bistros, and coffee shops scattered throughout the village. This little bistro allowed me to wander around, enjoying all its shabby chic decor.
Our jaunt to the village allowed me to replenish our vegetable basket, and Butch found a beautiful pork belly for supper.
We rewarded ourselves with a luscious coffee milkshake from a delightful barista who, I believe, gave us an extra scoop of ice cream. It was delicious and quenched my yearning for something cold, rich, and chock-full of caffeine.
The afternoon was spent lazily watching the canoes, spotting a few wagtails, enjoying the lizard sunning itself, and, of course, there were always monkeys to keep us entertained. I also dipped into my book now and then, but mostly I succumbed to my heavy-lidded eyes and napped.
Supper was a grand affair. The Pork belly was delicious; the scored rind was crispy, and the apple sauce was tangy.
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On Monday morning, we packed up our table and chairs, closed the outdoor kitchen, locked our hatches, and stowed our belongings in preparation for the journey.
The weather had turned once again, and we noticed as we set off, crossing the bridge and turning right onto the N2. Direction Ladysmith, how yesterday’s blue skies had turned dark and foreboding. This road is so iconic, I’m sure it needs no explanation.
The mist turned to a fine spray, which in turn became heavy drops of rain. The rocky cliffs shone from the previous night’s rain, and where the water could, rivers became waterfalls as water thundered over the escarpment.
If ever the day mirrored my mood, it was on this drive along this well-trodden route where travellers come from all over the world to marvel at our beautiful Garden Route.
My heart was in my stomach. As we approached the end of this journey, we would later reset the GPS and close the Bradt Africa travel books. We would remove our camera batteries, take off the long lenses, and fold up the map.
As I followed our route with the black marker pen on the large Tracks 4 Africa Map, I could see I only had a short distance to cover and I’d be back in Onrus, where I’d started my snail trail in black. How I wish I could backtrack.
Like Alice, once this door opens, we will step through the looking glass into the unknown for the remainder of our personal journey. The one we were not entirely ready to discuss.
The road took us from the abundance of the Garden Route into the subtle autumnal colours and landscape of the Karoo.
Yesterday afternoon, my eldest phoned and his words were “our survival has been due to fear. Imagine walking in a forest a million years ago, and you hear a twig snap. We would instinctively think it’s a predator and, in fear, consider our options. If we don’t, we’re toast.” The guy who’s not afraid could become something’s next meal or worse!
My feelings of trepidation are instinctive, then? I can live with that. A walk and sundowners on the beach will clear my head as it always does.
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