Snugged chin deep beneath a duvet of aromatic foam, big toe fumbling an ecstatic top up from the hot tap, the soap dish-to-ceiling panoramic glazing of my bathroom affords me an unimpeachable view of a large, blatantly male vervet monkey which has just catered across the roof, thumped onto my private terrace, settled itself in my deckchair, rendered a couple of fleas temporarily homeless with a banjo playing-speed scratch, and is now nonchalantly shredding the last thirty pages of my long-haul aeroplane thriller. Little b*****r. Now I’ll never know whodunit. And if it tucks into my whisky there’ll be serious trouble…
Random, unsolicited encounters such as this have fuelled my obsession with Africa for as long as I can remember. And, even if you’re more likely to stumble across a giraffe or hippo in your own spare room than South Africa’s legendary Garden Route, the journey from Port Elizabeth to Cape Town along the country’s majestic southern coastline still oozes classic Dark Continent from every pore; impossibly exotic flora and fauna, gargantuan, ever changing landscapes, relentlessly vast skies, the unexpected around every corner, and a pace of life that imbues the word mañana with a truly indecent sense of urgency.
Overlay a healthy modern veneer of dangerously comfortable accommodation, excellent, ludicrously inexpensive food and roads that put our own bombed out boulevards to shame, and the picture is complete. Better yet, I can think of nowhere else on the planet where you can exchange an earful of February sleet for instant 30 degree sunshine without so much as a whiff of jet-lag.
Garden Route virgins are hardly likely to make ‘I simply can’t think why we haven’t done this before’ diary entries on first sight of Port Elizabeth; Croydon with added seaside and the thermostat turned up. So, although it’s only under 800km from here to Cape Town and you can comfortably spend the whole week at pottering speeds, it is worth trying to stay awake after a bleary night in the back of the bomber and drive firmly west for a couple of hours to where the main road, the N2, crosses the Storms River gorge and the scenery really gets into its stride.
From here, the road runs for mile after mile through the Tsitsikamma National Park, a narrow belt of ancient hardwood forest sandwiched between a towering, surprisingly verdant mountain range and the ceaseless, pounding ministrations of the Indian Ocean. Storms River Mouth offers the opportunity to stroll a kilometre into the river gorge from the coast along a boardwalk boasting far too many steps for my liking. The path meanders haphazardly through a dank riot of vegetation, festooned with gangrenous beards of lichen, which all but obscures the turbulent confluence of river and surf below. Despite scudding, low clouds overhead it’s particularly warm and humid in this ancient forest and, overdressed as only the British know how, it’s not long before I feel clammier than an oyster’s handshake.
Leaking like cream cheese in an old sock, I finally stagger out of the undergrowth to find myself at one end of a suspension bridge straight out of an Indiana Jones movie which spans the gorge a scant 20ft above water the colour and consistency of iced tea. Built, over 100 years ago, for no discernible reason whatsoever, the bridge is rustier than an incontinent robot’s underpants and sways alarmingly with every footfall. Across the gorge, the path rears near vertically uphill, with the promise of tantalising views from the top of the adjacent headland. On precisely zero hours sleep last night, include me out.
Home to those literature starved vervet monkeys, there can be no more startling wake up call to your arrival on the Garden Route than a night at The Phantom Forest Lodge. Perched high on a densely wooded hillside overlooking Knysna’s famous lagoon, the lodge is inaccessible by car, a phone call from the gate house bringing a stout 4×4 to inch you and your luggage five minutes up a steep, meandering track.
On arrival, the lodge remains almost invisible within the landscape, the thatched roofs of boardwalk linked reception, bar, dining room and 14 individual guest cottages blending so seamlessly with the landscape that not even the vervets differentiate between man-made and natural features as they hurtle, bickering, between balconies in search of the latest best-seller.
Stretching far inland, Knysna’s primeval forests once played host to elephants, but, sadly, no longer. Setting a grim precedent which has seen the scant resident pachyderm population today consigned to Chessington status, the French explorer Francois Le Valliant first shot and cooked an elephant here in the eighteenth century. He found the feet so ‘delicious’ that he pronounced ‘never can our modern epicures have such a dainty on their tables’. Tonight, however, I must make do with kudu; far from the endangered species listings and tasting much like venison with attitude, it’s entirely delicious.
Retiring to a luxurious bedroom boasting all the weaponry necessary to tackle a mosquito problem the lodge simply doesn’t seem to have, I fall asleep to sound of someone pouring an endless stream of ball-bearings onto a melamine tea tray beside my ear… Rain. Photographer Simon will grumble, but I love it. No half hearted English drizzle this; you get the lot, all at once, like someone emptying a paddling pool over your head.
The town of Knysna (the ‘k’ is silent) is considered the very heart of the Garden Route. It’s the epitome of a well-heeled, gently somnambulant African town; a low-rise, bougainvillea cluttered affair sweltering under the poster paint hues of the endless corrugated iron roofs that hallmark colonial habitation throughout the length and breadth of the continent, and pock-marked by the occasional imperious gable of Dutch administrative architecture.
Art galleries abound, and endless specimens of African carving clutter not just the shops, but every lay-by on the N2 either side of town. Here you can be assured ‘a very nice special price, just specially for you today specially.’ Trouble is, can you be assured a very nice carving? Mindful of the fact that being caught boarding an aeroplane in charge of an immensely tall, bubble wrapped wooden giraffe rates right up there with returning from Spain clutching a straw donkey these days, it’s increasingly tough to find anything genuinely unique on offer.
So, after a ridiculously pleasant day spent pottering about the town, I forfeit all hippo door-stop aspirations and lavish a handful of loose change on a diminutive gecko painstakingly fashioned from telephone wire and a dauntingly lifelike mosquito artfully hewn from a discarded Coca Cola can, before retiring to the bustling deli, 34 degrees South, on the modern Waterfront, to wade through a delightful synthesis of catch-of-the-day, murderously hot chillies and local beer.
Next morning finds us back-tracking 30km east towards Plettenberg Bay, the scenery metamorphosing with each bend in the road; Wiltshire farmland, the Scottish Highlands, the pine forests of Norway and, equally suddenly, with a raging bush fire leaping the road ahead, sending a thick column of pine scented smoke broiling aloft, and a malevolent looking male baboon hitchhiking beside the road, incontrovertibly Africa once more.
The N2 is a glorious road and, though there are speed limits here, no one seems to pay them overmuch attention, which probably accounts for the number of overturned lorries you come across on some of the more sinuous stretches. Though mostly single carriageway, refreshing etiquette which invariably finds slower vehicles pulling over onto the broad hard shoulders allows for rapid progress.
The eye-achingly broad sweep of Plettenberg Bay boasts possibly the largest, most deserted beach I’ve ever seen, disappearing into the mid-morning haze like a white scimitar blade. From the bustling Lookout restaurant perched at one end of the bay, we suck hot, garlicky prawns from their shells and watch a fistful of surfers, their antics rendered clumsy by the sublime wave-riding skills of a large school of bottlenose dolphins.
Ashore, it’s good to see that the dubious habit of wearing socks and shoes with shorts still thrives in one corner of the globe. But I suspect this may have more to do with the fact that a ferocious onshore breeze causes driven sand to make a better fist of ankle reduction than a month of Weightwatchers membership. The sun has finally deigned to put in an appearance and, lulled into a false sense of security by the cooling breeze, my forearms rapidly take on the colour of a brick factory floor.
Nearby Laird’s Lodge is an effortlessly comfortable, converted Cape Dutch farm house offering rooms stuffed with enough cushions to keep a hippo taxidermist in business. British winter visitors to these climes tend, primarily, to be divided into honeymooners and Saga louts, and my oft voiced reservations about communal dining are reinforced this evening by the somewhat old school disposition of my neighbour, a daunting, gunboat diplomacy espousing symphony in turquoise. Nothing, mercifully, a chunk of fillet steak that would plug a howitzer barrel and several stout glasses of pinot noir can’t fix…
The Garden Route boasts weather patterns unique to South Africa, and a couple of days of rain are invariably followed by four of sunshine. Confronted, however, by drizzle the next morning, we resolve to abandon the soggy N2 west of Knysna and, lured by the threat of better weather north of the coast-hugging Outeniqua Mountains, turn inland. We’re en route for Oudtshoorn, the ostrich capital of the world. And though this ramshackle farming community lies just 70km inland, the change in climate and countryside couldn’t be more absolute.
From the gently unlovely urban sprawl of George, the N12 climbs high into impenetrable cloud before plunging downhill onto a vast, arid, undulating plain of waist high scrub stunted by the power of a relentless sun. Once again, I’m stuck by the sheer scale of a heat haze-blurred landscape so immense it’s almost impossible to squeeze it into a camera, sweltering under cavernous African skies which, punctuated by the occasional, hermit-lonely, wandering cloud, always appear twice the size of those anywhere else on the planet.
In keeping with my time-honoured tradition of peering at exotic species in their natural habitat and then eating them, lunch in Oudtshoorn comprises horrifyingly rich, dark, smoked springbok and an ostrich meatloaf which leaves me wondering just how many endless months of leftovers you’d be confronted with if you substituted the fastest thing on two legs for turkey at Christmas. The ornate, feathered couture of 1920’s flappers is responsible for the birth of ostrich farming, but today they’re reared for their meat and, surprisingly, leather. I’m not entirely sure of the merits of a handbag resembling an oven ready chicken, complete with feather follicle pock-marks, but it is, I’m told, destined for a fashion victim near you, soon.
‘We do have a strict weight limit for riding ostriches’ mutters Safari Ostrich Show Farm manager Billy Engelbrecht, deeply suspicious of my woeful efforts to shed three stones by simply standing in the shade. However, a brief haggle and fluent lying win the day and, my future epitaph ‘It Seemed a Good Idea at the Time’ ringing in my ears, I’m hastily introduced to half a dozen large male ostriches which take one look at me and, denied the option of head burying in the rock hard ground, promptly make a bee-line for the farthest recesses of the dusty paddock.
Billy approaches his chosen victim clutching a large cotton bag. ‘It goes on the head’ he explains. ‘It has a calming influence and reduces the risk of panic.’ ‘Excellent idea’ I reply, bowing in readiness. ‘Not you’ he growls. ‘The ostrich.’
I’ve changed my mind about horses. I’ve always considered them to be dangerous at both ends and downright uncomfortable in the middle. But compared to an ostrich, a horse is a pussycat: ‘We tend not to stand in front of an ostrich’ Billy explains, yanking me clear. ‘They kick forwards and downwards, and that centre claw will open you up like an autopsy incision.’
You don’t so much ride an ostrich as wear it. Climbing up the paddock fence alongside the bird, I’m instructed to sit with my knees over its own bald, grey, knobbly knee caps, try to lock my feet together round its chest and then fold the wings down over my thighs and hang onto the leading edge of each for grim death. ‘Lean back’ yells Billy, whipping the bag off…
‘Waaaah… For… God’s…. Sake…. Somebody… Stop… This… Thing… Noooo…’ I bellow enthusiastically as we bounce round the paddock at an impossible lick. It’s like riding an atomic powered space hopper topped off with a gently miffed cobra. ‘Stroke its neck; that’ll calm it down’ urges Billy amidst gales of helpless laughter. I have other plans for that scrawny neck, if only I could let go of the wings for long enough to reach it….
Happily, the dismount proves a doddle; simply let go of the wings, and the unfortunate bird rockets out from underneath you in a welter of indignation and ruffled feathers. Trouble is, this is akin to stepping out of a car moving at 20mph, and there’s no way my legs can get up to speed before I hit the ground…
Nursing wounded pride and munching my way through a retaliatory chunk of ostrich biltong –wind dried meat in Dutch settler tradition, tougher than a car tyre and a demolition derby for fragile bridgework- we set out westwards along the R62. This is the Little Karoo, a 360 degree horizon of semi-desert endlessly fussed over by distant dust-storms and broached by innumerable mountainous ridges like the spines of surfacing, prehistoric leviathans. A succession of small, corrugated iron-clad towns shimmer into view, pummelled into the enforced tranquillity of exhaustion by the afternoon heat, with only the wary gaze of farm dogs panting in pockets of deep-shade to mark our rapid progress back towards the coast.
Set a mile or so back from the sweeping coastline of Walker Bay, Grootbos private nature reserve (pronounced as if you have a heavy cold) boasts two luxurious lodges -the Garden Lodge and the ultra-modern Forest Lodge, accommodating guests in a selection of delightfully private cottages dotted throughout the surrounding bush. This is native fynbos (literally, ‘fine-bush’, pronounced ‘fayn-bos’), a carpeting of scrub and wild flowers so bewilderingly diverse that botanists classify it as on of the earth’s seven Floral Kingdoms; the smallest but, with 8500 species, the richest.
Here on the Atlantic side of the Cape, fynbos used to predominate, but early Dutch settlers cleared much of it for cattle grazing and, distraught at the lack of building timber, imported diverse species of tree to the region, including the tall stands of eucalyptus that line main roads to this day. Huge mistake. Water is still perhaps the most precious resource on the Cape, and a full grown eucalyptus drinks 400 litres a day…
This leaves the Groobos as one of the largest acreages of indigenous bush remaining and, accompanied by the reserve’s most experienced guide, Silence –an abbreviation of his true name, Quiet Elephant- the best way to experience this unique ecosystem is on foot.
And the absence of those archetypal herds of Wildebeest sweeping majestically across the plains doesn’t mean the place isn’t crawling with wildlife. Impossibly bright sunbirds, coutured as if caught in the crossfire of a paint-ball contest, flit into view, fat beetles clatter aloft to the sound of miniature football rattles, butterflies like Vulcan bombers decorated by hippies on acid thump through the air and, on a fragile stem nearby, a female praying mantis punishes her diminutive mate for a clearly unsatisfactory performance through the simple expedient of eating him alive.
The proteas, ericas, restios and geophytes that make up the fynbos don’t have a specific flowering season, so the bush is an absolute riot of colour all year round. Colour, Silence, explains, with a purpose: ‘Yellow or purple flowers are often pollinated by bees’ he explains. ‘Birds prefer red, orange and bright pink colours. Pale or white, sweet scented flowers are pollinated by moths at night, whilst flowers very close to the ground with a yeasty smell are usually pollinated by mice.’
Many of the species are reliant on fire for regeneration, so controlled burning of the fynbos takes place every 10-15 years. Perhaps the most extraordinary plant of all has a sugar coated seed pod which ants take underground to eat off the sweet casing, leaving the seed, effectively now planted by the ants, to await the warmth of a fire above to initiate germination…
At the other end of Walker Bay lies Hermanus, the whale watching capital of the world. It’s a rather fine, two storey town with wrought iron arcades lining the streets and, from September to December, a vast population lining the cliffs and rocks below which mutates seamlessly from seals to humans at the high water mark.
This must be the only place in the world with its own, official whale crier, who struts around with a mobile phone and a dried kelp horn through which he yells the latest sightings; a gently pointless exercise given that the water at the foot of the cliffs is deep, and countless whales swim so close inshore that neither boat, binoculars nor, indeed, bellowing are necessary. Thought the season is a good month passed, there are still two whales in the bay today, apparently staging an anti-migratory sit-in.
These gentle giants are southern right whales, so called because they were once deemed the ‘right’ whale to hunt, not only because of a high oil and bone yield, but also because they conveniently float when dead. One of them is floating, belly up, today, with glistening flippers clearing the surface to the height of a windsurfer sail. It is, however, very much alive. The whales come north from the Antarctic to breed and calf in summer, and this, it seems, is simply female whale-speak for ‘Not tonight; I have a headache’. Further offshore, a vast male flings himself aloft, crashing back to the surface time and again in a welter of spray. The aggrieved whale equivalent, perhaps, of the classic response, ‘Well, I’m off to the pub, then.’
Heading inland again, we’ve time for little more than a whistle-stop tour of the Cape’s renowned wine region; verdant, mountain corralled valleys a green gingham checker-plate of pine, vine and fruit tree. The traffic clogged, 300 year old oak lined streets of Stellenbosch need no introduction as the capital of a burgeoning wine industry. Whisper who dares, but I can’t help feeling that much South African wine favours brute strength over subtlety of flavour these days, and can leave you, next morning, feeling as if you were clubbed senseless with the bottle at some point rather than merely having drunk the contents.
So I’ll settle instead for the picture postcard-perfect Huguenot settlement of Franschhoek which, slow-roasting high street lined with pavement restaurants offering parasol shaded succour to every conceivable palate, has become something of a Mecca for Cape Town weekend gourmands.
And so, finally, to Cape Town itself. In 1580, Sir Francis Drake described the setting as the ‘fairest Cape in the whole circumference of the earth’ and, 400 years on, little has changed except the growth of perhaps the fairest city to boot. After a stroll around the vibrant Victoria and Albert Waterfront, the city’s painstakingly restored 19th century harbour, the Winchester Mansions Hotel, sandwiched between the Atlantic and the triple peaks of Signal Hill, Lions Head and Table Mountain –this evening sporting its traditional barrister’s wig of cloud- makes an ideal sanctuary from the bustle of city life.
Overlooking the seafront at Sea Point, this elegant, Cape Dutch-style mansion is built around a deep, cool courtyard hemmed with balconies groaning under the weight of rampant bougainvillea, in which brazen starlings thieve balls of butter from my side plate whilst I’m monetarily distracted by a large helping of bobotie. This curried mince dish, baked in savoury egg and raisin custard and topped with a salty yoghurt dressing, is the epitome of Cape Malay cooking. Brought to Africa by the Dutch East India Company, it’s the oldest fusion cuisine in a country now luxuriating in an astonishing blend of Afrikaans, black South African and world cooking known as Rainbow Cuisine.
From Sea Point, the M6 meanders lazily down the Cape Peninsula’s Atlantic seaboard, through the fashionable suburb of Clifton, boasting Africa’s most expensive property, past the wide, sandy beach at Camps Bay, invariably teeming with supermodel photo-sessions (hence an accident black spot), and on south beneath the dozen peaks of the Twelve Apostles section of the Table Mountain range.
Winding out of Hout Bay, the Chapman’s Peak Drive toll road climbs dramatically up the flanks of its precipitous namesake, offering some of the most spectacular coastal scenery in the world before turning inland to cross the peninsula and coast downhill to False Bay. Here, at Boulders, on the edge of the Cape Peninsula National Park and accompanied by a positively eye-watering stench of fish, the African penguin has one of only two mainland colonies in the world.
Passing sailors used to consume huge quantities of both bird and egg as a welcome relief from hard-tack with extra weevils. More recently, the locals have somewhat taken issue with the birds over the din: It seems they’re also known as jackass penguins due to their habit of braying loudly, like donkeys, throughout the night.
An all-consuming urge to crunch on crustaceans takes us north along the False Bay coast to the tiny fishing port of Kalk Bay and the Harbour House restaurant, built right on the breakwater. Over an hilariously large seafood platter boasting a whole lobster, Mr. Universe prawns and mussels the size of a scaffolder’s bicep, I watch several large groups of fur seals lolling indolently on the surface, flippers semaphoring a lazy contentment which suggests no one’s told them that False Bay is the largest great white shark breeding location on the planet.
Foolishly thinking it might cure me of my rampant selachophobia (fear of sharks), I recently plucked up the courage to go cage diving in these waters with the terrifying evolutionary perfection that is carcharodon carcharias. Wrong. The sight of something the size of a small family MPV materialising, utterly silent and pick-pocket stealthy out of the ice cold, duck-egg green Atlantic left me nothing short of petrified. Forget snorkelling amidst gay, darting shoals of tropical fish, this is more like a state visit from a submarine sporting jaws that will accommodate the hind quarters of a horse and duty-free Toblerone sized teeth.
And, shooting out of the water like a penguin onto an ice floe, it occurred to me then that this really is the only single drawback to the Garden Route’s status as the perfect winter holiday destination: I’d always put the relative absence of bathers off these glorious beaches down to the freezing water temperature. Truth is, however, I suspect they know what’s in there…