The long return

My flight out of Cape Town was at 8am on Saturday, which meant an uncomfortably early start to end the holiday.

Or perhaps not. A barman in Camps Bay I was talking to on Friday had an alternative strategy, which did not involve getting up at an unfathomable hour. "Go out tonight on Long Street. Make your way to one of the clubs round there and get wrecked till about 3am. Then, ease off the pace a bit, head back to your hotel, have a shower and you'll be fine. Then, when you're on the plane, hit the free bar and get back on it."

I admired the audaciousness of the idea, and if I were ten years younger I might have attempted it, but this was never going to be a serious proposition. I was in bed by 10pm after a final meal out in Camps Bay.

The flight back was arduous. As it was a daytime flight it was difficult to get any sleep, and the 12 hours passed slowly (as 12 hours normally tend to). My experience wasn't helped by being sat next to a selfish twat who kept invading my space with his elbows. The ability to choose your seat online before a flight is a marvellous thing, but it gives you no information about who your neighbour is going to be for half of an entire day. I reckon you should be able to click on a seat to find out basic information about who is going to sit there. It would be great - hover your cursor over 33D and the words 'inconsiderate wanker' appear, 'personal hygiene problem' at 54A, 'Ipswich Town supporter' at 23B. You get the picture.

Anyone who has read even a small proportion of this blog will know that I thoroughly enjoyed my time in South Africa. It was a wonderful trip - one of the best I have ever had. I would be hard pressed to pick a favourite holiday, because they are all different forms of escapism at different points and stages of my life. Thailand in 2004 at the age of 26 was an epic two week party in surroundings that I had never experienced before, but I wouldn't want to spend 14 days continuously drunk in the same way now. Honestly. It was the perfect holiday in 2004, and for different reasons South Africa was bang on in 2012.  

I fell in love with Cape Town almost as soon as I arrived. Emblazoned on the back the of the red tour buses that go round the city is the slogan 'You don't need a holiday. You need Cape Town.' As a piece of marketing, it's genius. Tourists reading it are invited to think that all the warmth and happiness they feel are nothing to with being away from the office, but due to the experience of being in such an amazing place. It's obviously a combination of both, but the words encourage you to think that Cape Town is some kind of happy pill that can change your mood and outlook on life. In other words, you want to come back again. It's certainly a more evocative and inventive way of promoting a place than simply putting the word 'visit' before its name.

  South Africa is a country with many social and economic problems, but more and more people are visiting and with that comes more jobs and wider prosperity. Once you get beyond the image of crime that some people automatically associate with the place, there is something for people of all ages, backgrounds and interests to find there that will captivate them. Crime is by no means an urban myth in South Africa, and there are many areas that are very unsafe. But equally it would be wrong to believe that you are automatically going to get pulled out of your car and shot at the traffic lights.

I did a great deal of stuff in my two weeks, but there was also a lot I didn't do and see. In other words, there's plenty left for the next trip. And I definitely want there to be one.

Heading back to Cape Town

It is a long drive from Plettenburg Bay to Hermanus, a town on South Africa's whale route, and it certainly felt like one when I completed it. Six hours in the car driving back along the N2 was pretty monotonous. In a perverse way, if there more cars and if the road wasn't so easy to drive on, it would actually have been more interesting. I was just on auto pilot driving at a similar speed through a landscape that, although impressive, never seemed to change.

Hermanus was a very pleasant little seaside town. I was only staying here for one night to break up the journey back to Cape Town, and it was a really nice place to kick back for the evening and have dinner in an Italian restaurant. The town is famous for being one of the best places in the world for whale watching, but it was the wrong time of year to see any and so I had to make do with baboons running around looking cute and menacing at the same time.

On Thursday morning I left Hermanus and made my way up along the coast towards Cape Town. The serenity of the journey was turned on its head as I got closer towards the city. I witnessed a masterclass in the best of South African driving as cars casually switched lanes without looking or indicating, people used whatever lane they felt like for overtaking and others careered all over the road like crazed lunatics. Fortunately I made it to my final destination of the trip, the suburb of Camps Bay, without incident.

Camps Bay is a glitzy, glamorous and expensive part of Cape Town that looks like the setting for a film about the rich and famous. It is not, however, a snooty place and its pristine white sand beach with Table Mountain glaring over it is one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen.

I was staying in a relatively cheap (for Camps Bay) guesthouse for my final two nights in South Africa. After dumping my bags I went and saw the owner to be shown where all the relevant facilities were. I was pleasantly taken aback to be shown first of all a huge fridge full of beer, which I was told I could help myself from. After grabbing a cold Carling Black Label, I sat down and chatted to this guy. He had been running the place for 12 years, was divorced from his wife, now lived here alone and had little to do every day other than welcome new guests to his home and show them where the beer, swimming pool and snooker table were. As I looked out from the top floor of the house and surveyed the stunning sight of Camps Bay below us, I couldn't help but feel that this was the kind of lifestyle one could only dream of. It was clear that this guy, Paul, despite being in his 50s, still enjoyed the finer aspects of life. "Every now and then I go on a drinking binge and get wrecked. I also still get to take some chicks out from time to time and do what I need to do," he said. Paul then regaled me with a story of how he had gone out earlier in the week in Camps Bay, got horribly drunk and inadvertently soiled himself while walking home. I laughed out loud, before wondering if all the guests staying here were treated to the same tale. He then volunteered some advice about which bars were best in the area for "picking up lovely girls with big tits" before making his excuses and claiming he had work to do.

Camps Bay was without doubt the perfect area to wind down the trip. I've seen many, many places in this country of incredible natural beauty, but none combine it with the vibe and atmosphere you get here. Speculatively, I had a look in the window of an estate agents to see what the money I spend on rent every month in London could get me here. The answer was a fairly nice apartment with lovely views. Reminding myself that the commute from here to Westminster might be a bit of a challenge, I trudged off. I may never live here, but I'll be coming back...

Plettenburg Bay

On Tuesday 14 February, I left Knysna and headed off eastwards along the coast towards Plettenburg Bay.

It wasn't until I was behind the wheel that I suddenly realised it was Valentine's Day. Not as a result of my phone overheating with messages from admirers, but because the brain was just slowly kicking into gear. Fucking hell - Valentine's Day. This would not normally be a problem, but when holidaying alone it had the potential to make eating out in the evening a pitying experience.

My aloneness and single status prompted a lot of soul searching as I meandered along the N2. Why didn't I have a partner?  Was I really happy in my life? Would I be in the same situation this time next year? In an instant, I mentally turned these thoughts around in my head. This was the first time in a long while that I had asked myself if I was happy. I had been so overwhelmingly consumed by the day to day pressures of work in recent months that I'd stopped to even think about whether everything else was ok. Thus surely this holiday was working. I didn't feel tired - unusually I was not dependant upon endless cups of coffee - and I had been sleeping well. For the first time in ages I was thinking about myself and my own health. It was reassuring and worrying at the same time.

I saw a sign for the Knysna Elephant Park, and turned off. Swanning around with these creatures for a while was bound to take my mind off whatever existential dilemmas I happened to be mulling over.

This elephant park gears itself up for at least 15 tours a day, and as a result I knew it was going to be a very different experience to the six hours I enjoyed at a sanctuary in Thailand last year.

As we strolled around the fields - which were unfortunately covered by dark and overcast skies - with the elephants, our guide started asking me questions. Where was my wife on Valentine's Day? Which football team did I support? In the case of the latter question, for once I was on safe ground given the immense performances of Norwich this season. "Ah you support Noorweech! You will definitely stay up!" There you have it - confirmation from an African elephant guide that Paul Lambert's green and yellow army are safe.

I made it to Plettenburg Bay by early afternoon and was instantly bowled over by the place. In essence, it is a small town overlooking a cliff that bestrides a gorgeous stretch of sand beside the sea. Or words to that effect...

I stayed in an amazing place that was semi-restaurant, semi-hotel. It was an incredibly friendly bolt hole, and I was instantly glad to have made the decision to spend the night here rather than an additional one in Knysna.

I was tempted to order room service rather than humiliate myself by going down to the restaurant and eating alone on Valentine's Day. In the end I decided to man up and get on with it. As things transpired, I was befriended by an American couple in the restaurant who basically took pity on me, and the evening was perfectly pleasurable. Apparently I was 'brave' to go out on my own on Valentine's Day. Fuck me sideways...

Knysna

Knysna is another deeply unequal place. At the top of the hills overlooking the lagoon are the black townships, where many of the people who work in the area's hotels, bars and restaurants live. Then around the lagoon itself, and up around the stunning Knysna Heads, lie the luxury flats, swish eateries and golf courses that are almost exclusively frequented by whites.

The two sides of Knysna seem to coexist reasonably well. Both are, to a large extent, reliant on each other. It is still a very stark sight, and you cannot help but wonder how long it will take for things to start evening themselves out a bit more in South Africa.

Jutting out into the of the middle of the Lagoon is Thesen Island, which is home to a plethora of restaurants and luxury accommodation. It looks to be a relatively recent development and everything seems to have been built at the same time. It oozes comfort and wealth. But even though it is the height of summer, there don't seem to be many people around. That, coupled with the fact that most of the people staying on the island look old and moneyed, means it lacks any kind of vibe or atmosphere. It's a bit like watching Chelsea play football - plenty of riches, but no soul.

That all said, Knysna is unquestionably a place of amazing beauty and charm. On Monday I drove out to the Heads - where the fresh water of the  lagoon meets the Indian Ocean - and took dozens of pictures. It was a shame the weather was overcast, but the sight of waves crashing against the rocks was still a spectacular one nonetheless.

In the evening I went on a boat cruise back out to the Heads. This was a wonderfully relaxing way to spend an hour and a half. There was a bar on board, which meant I could enjoy a couple of glasses of chilled Chenin Blanc as we gently made our way out to sea. Thankfully, many of the other tourists on board were Muslim women, which meant I had easy and unfettered access to the drinks.

After we got back to the harbour, I went to an Italian restaurant for a sublime meal of bruschetta and pizza. As Mondays go, this had been the best one I'd had for a very long time...

To the Garden Route...

On Sunday I had a day of driving from Franschhoek to my next destination of Knysna, which is the principal town along the famed Garden Route.

After a pretty average breakfast in a restaurant that had been recommended to me as the best in Franschhoek - a place resplendent with a group of northerners who loudly debated whether 10am was too early to "get the beers in" - I was of the road.

My route took me along the stark mountainous scenes of the Franschhoek Pass, where the clouds seemed to be within touching distance. Even though it was a Sunday morning and I wasn't at my most alert, I was still amazed, and not just because I'm a Norfolk lad who grew up climbing nothing steeper than a flight of stairs. Where in the UK could you possibly get views like this? The answer is probably Scotland, and I made a mental promise to myself to fulfil a long standing ambition to explore the Highlands later this year.

Anyway, I digress. After about an hour, I was on the N2 - a road that stretches from Cape Town in the west to near Durban on the other side of the country. A sign greeted me with the news that I was 336km away from the city of George, and this place is before my actual destination. It was going to be a long day in the car.

The N2 is technically a single carriageway road for most of its length, but it is as wide as a motorway. This means it is easy to pass slow moving traffic, and the extreme nature of the terrain results in some steep descents down the side of hills. At one point I clocked up 170km an hour in my distinctly un-flash little car without so much as caressing the accelerator.

I broke the journey up by stopping for a little while in Mossel Bay, which is a seaside town just outside George and the beginning of the Garden Route. It had all the faded grandeur of a UK seaside resort. Evidently it was still a popular destination for (white) South African families, but I saw little that could possibly detain me for longer than the half hour I spent there. A lot of seaside towns across the World could honestly do with being raised to the ground to allow a completely new page to be turned. Mossel Bay was no Great Yarmouth, but it still lacked any kind of charm or character.

I got to Knysna around 6pm, and realised that this was a place that oozed charm and character like a prostitute oozes promiscuity. Or something like that. What an amazing place - a town nestled between the green, expansive hills and a lagoon stretching out towards the sea. I ate, drank and relaxed with just the one impending concern - in a week's time I would be back in the UK and not here...

Wine club

The wineries around Franschhoek and Stellenbosch are spread out over a large area, and are thus not navigable by foot, apart from where there are clusters of them. This leaves visitors who prefer not to drink and drive with two options. Spit out the wine, or go on an organised tour.

On Saturday afternoon I paid the better part of £50 to go on a tour. Given that this is the equivalent of a weekly wage for some taxi drivers in Cape Town, it's hardly surprising that many locals end up driving between the wineries under the influence.

I was picked up from my guesthouse around lunch time by a very friendly South African lady called Dannelle, who was to be my guide for the afternoon. We then drove towards Paarl, where we would be picking up the remaining two people coming on the tour. All sorts of thoughts and concerns raced through my head as we made our journey. We had no idea what these people were going to be like, but regardless of whether they were charming or insufferable, we were going to spend the whole afternoon with them, drinking. I needn't have worried. It became evident from within a few seconds of the couple getting in the car that all was fine. They were personable and friendly from the off, a little bit older than me, one a teacher, the other a freelance journalist and from the Cotswolds. We were exchanging anecdotes and stories about our respective holidays within a couple of minutes, and I felt relaxed.

We visited three fantastic wineries over the course of the afternoon, tried 14 different wines and also noshed on cheese and biscuits. The conversation flowed easily, the surroundings were perfect. It was a proper grown up, civilised afternoon. I felt comfortable and content, and in my mind I contrasted it with how out of place I felt in Thailand last year amongst the backpacking hordes. Perhaps I was accepting my age...

Winelands

I had earmarked four days to spend in the legendary winelands just east of Cape Town. Two in Stellenbosch, two in Franschhoek.

Everyone I had spoken to about this area waxed lyrical about it. Actually, let me pause for a moment. Where the fuck does the phrase 'waxing lyrical' actually come from? When you look at it on a computer screen, it just looks weird. Anyway, I digress.

On Thursday morning, I drove into Stellenbosch and had a mooch around. It's a charming little town, and it looked a lot better in the gleaming sunshine than it did with hordes of students stumbling around it the night before.

I picked up some guides for the area from a tourist information centre, and then set off in my car out of town to a winery area. I was slightly dubious about the idea of going somewhere to drink and then drive back from it, to be honest. I resolved to try no more than the equivalent of a glass of wine, and then go back to my hotel where I could explore on foot some of the wineries in that area. Of course, there was the option of driving around all day to various places and spitting out the wine, but I put it to you: What is the fucking point? The thought of gobbing a vintage variety into a bucket, and then turning to someone to complement its pallet, is beyond alien to me.

I rocked up at a delightful place just south of Stellenbosch called the Mountford Estate. If it were not for the imposing mountains in the background, I could have been forgiven for thinking it was the south of France. The place was absolutely beautiful, the wine was lovely, and pleasingly the tastings came in small enough sizes to allow me to safely get back behind the wheel once I'd finished.

After dumping my car back at the hotel, which was a good few miles out of town to the north east of Stellenbosch, I practically sprinted to an inviting looking winery nearby. Again, it was a stunning place, and I gladly shelled out for a bottle of one of the tipples I tried.

I had a pleasant if non eventful Thursday night in Stellenbosch, and in the morning headed up towards Franschhoek. It was less than half an hour's drive from hotel to hotel, so I decided to take a short detour and have a look at the nearby city of Paarl, which is the largest place in the winelands. I'm glad I did, if only to give myself a sense of satisfaction that I wouldn't be spending the night there. Lonely Planet describes Paarl thus: "Long overlooked by people heading for Stellenbosch and Franschhoek, its charm is now being rediscovered." I put that sentence through my inbuilt bullshit interpretation app, and this was the result: "Long considered to be a total dump compared to other places in the area, some people now don't think it's quite as bad as they once thought after bits of it got tarted up." Why can't these guide books call a turd, a turd? I mean, Paarl is just a nondescript, faceless town that just happens to be very well connected to other places. It is the Basildon of Africa.

I arrived in Franschhoek around lunch time. This small town is thought of by many as the highlight of the winelands. It has French roots, and contains a plethora of small restaurants, art galleries and museums. I was looking forward to spending a couple of days here.

One of the consequences of having an open itinerary on this trip is that when I do decide at the last minute where I am going to spend the night, my accommodation options are limited. Especially in a small place like Franschhoek. I ended up booking a room in a nice sounding guesthouse for my weekend here. Now, I don't normally go in for guesthouses. Some people like the idea of being made at home in the house of complete strangers, but I don't. I'm not a swinger, and I prefer the anonymity that a hotel gives you any day of the week. However, the guesthouse I stayed in in Cape Town had been great, so I was optimistic about this one in Franschhoek. When I arrived, I was greeted at the door by an old geezer who looked at me in such a way as to suggest that I really shouldn't be staying in his house. If we could have come to a mutual agreement there and then to go our separate ways, I would have taken it. He eyed me up and down and asked me my name.

"Hi, I'm Matt"
"Uh?"
"Matt"
"Uh?"
"Matt"
"Welcome, Natt"

I was shown up to my room. It looked really nice as the door opened, and then as soon as I walked inside, I was terrified. On a dressing table was a Mills and Boon novel. On the bedside table was the Bible. This was surely a statement. The first thought that entered my head was 'I don't think I'll be bringing any one night stands back here tonight'. Which, in reality, was a pointless eventuality to contemplate as I would have more chance of pulling the Pope than getting laid in Franschhoek.

I left the guesthouse after dumping my bags, took heart from the fact there were at least six other people staying there, and went in search of a bar.