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.

Cape of good shit

Five nights is enough in any city in the World.

Honestly. There is so much to do and see all day, all night, that it becomes utterly exhausting, and a change of pace is often the best course of action. So, after an unforgettable few days taking in Cape Town's mountains, prison camps, bars, beaches and shanty towns, it was time to hit the road.

I had a bit of difficulty hiring a car because of the bloody Mining Conference that is going on in Cape Town and seems to be making access to transport facilities so difficult. I couldn't understand it. Then I remembered that South Africa is a country rich in minerals and gold, and so a mining conference here is probably an international draw. My mental image of Arthur Scargill in the Blackpool Winter Gardens sporting a 'Coal Not Dole' sticker on his lapel was doubtless not a true reflection of this event.

Anyway, I managed to hire a small and relatively cheap car to transport me around the Western Cape for the next nine days. At around 10am on the Wednesday, I set off down the Atlantic Coast towards Cape Point. I passed beach after beach of stupendous beauty and had to stop after what seemed like every two minutes to take pictures. All I could think was how marvellous it would be to live here. I felt a strange mixture of amazing contentment and overwhelming fear about returning to the misery of England.

After a couple of hours driving along the most picturesque route I have ever seen outside of New Zealand, I arrived at the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve. On yet another gloriously hot day, I clambered up the steps to the vantage point of the upper lighthouse, which is said to resemble the end of the world. As I watched the sea lap at the rocks below and glanced at the pristine white sand on bays along the coastline, it didn't feel like the end of the world to me. There were signs pointing out how far we were from various places in the world. London was 9,632 kilometres away. Not far enough.

It is at Cape Point that the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet. The currents flowing through the Atlantic make the water exceptionally cold in even the warmest weather, whilst a warm current flowing through the Indian makes the water, erm, you get the picture. The upshot means that, depending on which beach you go to, the water in South Africa can be unbearably cold or very pleasant.

After a couple of great hours looking at this stunning part of the world - resplendent with baboons strolling around all over the place - I bombed up the coastal road straddling the mountains and False Bay back up towards Cape Town. I adore long, picturesque drives on holiday. I turn the car into a mobile version of Cafe del Mar by playing a succession of relaxing and uplifting tunes, and generally feel at one with absolutely everything. Unfortunately, as I headed into the centre of Cape Town to connect me to the N2 motorway that would take me out towards the winelands (my evening destination) I took a wrong turning. This meant I had to go back on myself one junction in order to get on the correct part of the road, and consequently meant I went to the back of an almighty rush hour traffic jam. From paradise to the equivalent of Potters Bar on the M25 in just a few moments. Quite an achievement.

Eventually I fought my way through the traffic and arrived at my hotel in the Stellenbosch area just before 6. After showering and a few welcome glasses of wine, I caught a cab into town.

Stellenbosch is one of the main places people base themselves to visit the numerous wineries in the area. It is the second oldest European settlement in South Africa, and you very quickly clock its Victorian architecture and tree-lined streets. It feels proper colonial. On the other hand, it is home to a very large student population studying at the University of Stellenbosch. So it's a cross between refined and rag week.

My evening out in Stellenbosch was mixed. It evidently sports a terrific array of restaurants, but pretty much all the bars are geared up for the students. This has the predictable pros and cons. On the up side, a pint of beer cost me roughly a pound. On the other, every bar was teeming full of twats. One girl walked into me, spilt her drink and tried to suggest it was somehow my fault. And it didn't get much better wherever else I went. To be fair, none of the behaviour was anything worse than you would see from students back home. As it was a Wednesday night, it brought back memories of Wednesdays when I was at uni, when all the sports teams played games and would then congregate in the campus bars and take it in turns to be as obnoxious as humanly possible. Only this time I was hearing it in Afrikanns.

Fortunately the evening was saved when I found a lovely little restaurant and was able to order the signature meal of this trip - steak, peppercorn sauce and fries. All washed down with merlot and brandy.

Townships

Inequality exists everywhere in the world, but nowhere more so than in South Africa.

I have blogged previously about how startling the gap between the have plenty and have not a pot to piss in here is. Today I was going to get a full-on insight into this by going on a half day tour of Cape Town's townships.

I'd be lying if I said I was particularly excited about doing so. Indeed I had been weighing up whether to go at all. It just sounds so wrong to spend your time on a holiday, as a comparatively very well off person, strolling around taking pictures and looking at other people's poverty and suffering like it is a tourist attraction. In the end I was talked into it by people who, rightly, pointed out that by not going I would be spending money in waterfront bars and restaurants when it could be going towards helping people living in the townships make ends meet. Plus, I do find the history of South Africa fascinating, and was keen to find out more.

I had to be up early for my tour, and things didn't start very well when my first act of the day was to vomit into the toilet bowl. I had had a very uncomfortable sleep, made worse by the heat and some scarily vivid dreams - I dreamt one of my work colleagues turned into a Labrador and gave birth to puppies. Not wishing to dwell on this for fairly obvious psychological reasons, I had a shower and felt much better after a light fruit breakfast.

The first stop on our tour was the Section 6 Museum. Section 6 was a relatively central district of Cape Town with Table Mountain to its back and the ocean to its front. In 1966, probably because it was potentially a picturesque part of town to live in, the Government ruled that it was to be a Whites Only district. Generations of black families were forced out, and what was a lively and popular part of Cape Town was raised to the ground. It was policies such as these which account for how the centre of South African cities are predominantly white, whilst blacks live in townships on the outskirts.

The museum captured the history, significance and human impact of what was, let's be honest, ethnic cleansing in a powerful and dignified way. Ironically, the attempts to create another white enclave didn't come to much. All the black population was dispersed, but widespread construction didn't really happen, and today there is masses of open space that people can by law try and reclaim. For whatever reason, and the impact on the South Africa economy caused by international sanctions seems the most likely, all that was achieved by designating Section 6 a white only area was the growth of the townships.

And so we headed into the township of Langa and were taken on a stroll around by our guide. The place infused obvious poverty with a real sense of community, and it is for that reason I felt like an intruder. Everyone was perfectly friendly, but I wouldn't want a bus full of tourists descending on my front door as the price that had to be paid to survive. Not that I'm really in a position to judge how they should feel about life.

Our guide took us into what was basically a hut, where two women were preparing steel buckets of what looked like a local brew. Indeed it was a mild beer, and we were all encouraged to take sips of it while our guide told us more about life in the township (it tasted like a kind of flat, sour cider). People under the age of 30 are not allowed to drink the local brew here so as to send a message about the problems of alcohol and drug addiction (anyone over the age of 18 can still go to a shop and buy booze, but I admire the intention). Crystal Meth is also very popular with the kids here, our guide informed us, but unlike the beer I am pleased to say we were not invited to have a go on this particular local favourite.

As we walked around the township, our guide showed us the various types of housing people live in. The type of home you are entitled to basically depends on your income, or who you work for (government employees get nicer places). There are also home owners in the area - generally speaking people who grew up in the township, got an education and went on to be doctors or teachers. They could afford to live in a 'nicer' area, but choose not too, which as our guide explained makes them useful role models for the kids growing up in the township today. The presence of better homes in the area acts as an incentive to what can be achieved, not a bone of contention, he argued. Our guide was very big on the need for greater access to education, and the impact it could have on children growing up here. When someone asked him if crime was a big problem locally, he said: "We have just the one police station here, and that is all we need. If we need more of anything, it is schools." I'd love to see that as a slogan in an election campaign - We need more schools, not more police

As we walked around in the sweltering heat, I asked our guide if people in the townships minded tourists coming into visit. I wasn't expecting him to say that they did, but his answer was either movingly genuine, or a brilliant example of PR. He said that he used part of his wages from running tours to help set up a communal kitchen in the local area, which provided food on a daily basis to poor kids who otherwise would go unfed. It certainly made many of us feel a bit better about the whole experience!

One of the biggest issues facing South Africa's townships is not so much tourists, but an influx of what are effectively refugees from other African states, such as Solamia and Zimbabwe. These people are not entitled to housing or benefits as such, but they do have certain legal rights after a period of time from when they have added even more ramshackle homes to the sprawling townships. This has bred resentment amongst the black South Africans, and violence has spilled over on many occasions in recent years. Without wanting to start sounding too philosophical, it is always a tragedy - and it happens in the UK as much as it does anywhere - when the poor take it out on the poor. Especially, as in the case in South Africa, when the fault lies with the rulers of this continent over so many years.

We then visited another township - Khayelitsha - which is home to around a million people and is the largest in Cape Town. This place just seemed mad - people were try into steal electricity from the traffic lights with wires and poles (I kid you not). Herds of cows wandered out onto the dual carriageway. It was chaotic, and yet entertaining in its own way.

We were taken to the first ever bed and breakfast set up in a township, which I had actually read about in various publications before. The owner of the place proudly displayed cuttings on the wall of a Sunday Mirror story from 2010 which reported that England fans would be staying in townships because of the price of mainstream hotels during the World Cup. I asked her how these England fans had got on round here. "They found it a very interesting and educational experience," she said. In other words, they got pissed, started singing 'Two World Wars and One World Cup' and were later found helping conduct electricity from the traffic lights to a shanty town...

Our final stop on the tour was a small school round the back of the B&B. This was the worst part of the day in many respects. We were wielded out to dozens of little kids like some kind of freak show, who swarmed around us, clutching our legs, demanding high fives and to play with my iPhone. If I was going to interrupt a schooling day, I'd have preferred to do something a little more worthwhile than high fiving the pupils - like helping out with a lesson or something. Anyway, we then had to watch and join in with a rendition of 'If you're happy and you know it clap your hands' which I was mightily relieved nobody filmed through fear of it somehow ending up on Facebook...

All in all it had been a hugely informative day. I left the townships feeling taken aback by some of the conditions I saw, but equally glad to see that most of the people living there do have access to a school, free healthcare, clean water, electricity and more hope for the future than previous generations must have had.

Robben Island

I came very close to missing my 11am ferry to Robben Island on Morning. Yesterday's Leo Sayer in 35 degree heat had taken its toll and getting out of bed was somewhat challenging. However, I was still up and eating breakfast in what I thought would be ample time to get to the waterfront and catch the ferry. Unfortunately, there was a Miner's Convention or something on in Cape Town and that meant there was a long wait for taxis.

My only option was to go to the main road in Sea Point and hail down one of the many minibuses that ferry people around the city. Basically, someone drives their own minibus around all day with one of their mates hanging out the window trying to entice people on board. They will take you to most places in Cape Town for around five rand (50p). It sounds dodgy, but it's actually incredibly easy and efficient. I got to the ferry with a couple of minutes to spare.

Before boarding, all passengers were required to have their bags checked. As is typical when going through any security check, the guard asked me if I had anything in my pockets. This is usually followed by a reminder to remove any keys, mobile phones or wallets. On this occasion, I was seriously asked whether I was carrying any knives, guns or weapons. How very helpful - if this guy hadn't prompted me I would have completely forgotten to remove the 16 inch machete, AK47 assault rifle and surface to surface missile launcher that I had in my underwear.

Robben Island is of course famous for being the place Nelson Mandela was incarcerated for the bulk of his 27 year prison sentence. In fact, the island has a long history going back to the 17th century of being a place where people who fell out with the authorities were banished to. The Dutch used to send Indonesians here who objected to their colonial rule. People with leprosy were ferried to the island In the 19th century. In short, Robben Island does not have a tradition or reputation for being a holiday destination.

It is a short ferry journey from Cape Town to the island, and the splendid spectre of Table Mountain looks over it from the blue skies above. However the island itself is pretty unwelcoming. It's terrain is barren and desolate, and it is clear that not much has changed on the island since it was effectively a prison camp. Not that I'm suggesting it should have, mind you. There is a compelling case for maintaining places of historical significance in the manner they gained their notoriety, and the sight of a Nandos at the harbour on Robben Island would have been deeply disturbing.

We were taken round the island on a bus by an extremely informative tour  guide. Of most interest was the famous limestone mines where prisoners, including Mandela, slaved away in punishing conditions day after day. It was here that Mandela inspired a generation of political leaders with his guiding aim of bringing freedom and reconciliation to South Africa - the idea that you forgive, and not take revenge.

The former prison itself has been preserved as a museum, and the smell of it reminded me of the corridors at high school after they had been cleaned. There wasn't a a huge amount to see, apart from Mandela's former cell, but what was interesting was the talk given to us from a former prisoner sent to Robben Island for a variety of charges that essentially mounted up to no more than the security services thinking height be a bit of a troublemaker. He tells his story, which includes being tortured, not because he wants to, but because in a country with unemployment running at 43 per cent he doesn't have much choice.

Before heading back to the mainland, I had a brief chance to see a small exhibition in the shop by the pier. This gave a quite chilling insight into some of the apartheid regime's actions. We quite naturally associate the politics of white only rule in South Africa with racial segregation, but a lot of this government's policies went even further in their reprehensible nature. The security services carried out numerous atrocities both inside South Africa and in neighbouring territories against anyone considered to be an enemy of the regime. I didn't realise, or had forgotten, that South Africa occupied neighbouring Namibia with 100,000 troops, and made various armed forays into Mozambique. The regime also had an extensive nuclear weapons programme. What I'm trying to say, is that while the people of South Africa rightly owe Mandela and the ANC a huge debt of gratitude for their brave struggle for freedom, the rest of the world does too for ridding us of a vile regime that had the potential to threaten international peace.

Sunshine on a snowy day

Sunday 5 February 2012 - a day that will evoke very different memories for many different people. For me, it was getting baked in the amazing African sun. For friends and family back home, it was clearly a different story.

Cape Town sweltered like a kiddie fiddler in a nursery today. From what I have seen on the interweb, Britain seems to have been battered by the full force of Siberia at the same time. It was, I have to admit, amusing to be applying the sun block while reading on my phone that flights out of the UK were being cancelled. Smug, moi?

I strolled from my guesthouse to the Clifton and Camps Bay beaches today. It was a majestical day, the temperatures hit the upper 30s, and my  only problem was the throngs at the bars seeking out cold beer and wine.

What an amazing country this is. I'm truly and utterly smitten. 

You don't need a holiday. You need Cape Town

On Saturday morning I was up a decent hour to have breakfast (a rarity for me) to fortify myself for the day ahead. As it was destined to be another scorching day with not a cloud in the sky, I was going to head up the ubiquitous Table Mountain.

I caught a cab to the cableway, which is about half way up the side of the mountain. There was quite a long queue to get in the cars, and so as it was the weekend and I was on holiday, I bought a can of Castle Lager from the refreshment kiosk. Upon joining the queue, I opened my tin and promptly sprayed a large proportion of it all over the back of a German girl stood in front of me. Expecting a volley of abuse in return, she turned round, smiled and told me not to worry. "It's only beer," she said. That's my girl.

Anyway, Table Mountain. Fuck me. It is very, very difficult to try and describe how utterly incredible it is and what the views are like as you go up it. Words can't begin to do it justice. I suppose it's like reading an erotic story - no patch on watching pornography in the flesh. Unfortunately I'm having problems uploading pictures to this blog for some reason, so words will have to suffice for now.

At the top of the mountain there is plenty to cater for the tourist trade - bar, restaurant, shop etc - without it giving the impression of being tacky and commercialised. I cannot think of a better place to have a spot of lunch.

I clambered around the mountain for a good few hours, taking in the jaw dropping scenery and of course the beautiful weather. I managed to protect myself from the sun reasonably effectively with a hat and shades, but neglected to apply any lotion to my neck, which meant I began to resemble someone who had been strangled after a little while. In another act of incompetence, I wore probably the most inappropriate pair of shoes imaginable for climbing around the top of a mountain - a pair of thin cotton things that are not much sturdier than socks. This meant there was more than one occasion when I feared going arse over tit moving from rock to rock. Fortunately, there was no embarrassment other than the funny looks I got from people marching past me in hiking boots.

After a glass of wine and some cheese and biscuits, I caught the cableway down and a taxi into town. I headed towards the Long Street area - renowned for being the main haunt of backpackers - for a bar that might be screening the Norwich v Bolton game back home. Sadly, the match being shown was Stoke v Sunderland, but it was amusing to see the cold and wintery conditions back in England while basking in such fantastic weather.

I wasn't sure what to make of Long Street. It certainly had 'an edge' to it - at least four people tried to sell me weed - but there was a good vibe, and people from all kinds if backgrounds mixed merrily. As I tucked into a delicious burger and onion rings in the Long Street Cafe, I was struck by so happy I felt. It had not felt so content in such a long time, and the fact I had two more weeks of this still to go made me feel even better.

The Mother City

I landed in Cape Town at around 9am local time on Friday. My first thought was that I had now set foot on every continent in the world (if you exclude Antarctic and the Arctic, of course). Getting through passport control was quick and easy, and I made my way out of the airport terminal to get a taxi into the city. The sky was immaculately blue, and it was a gloriously warm day - the rays of the sun caressed my winter ravaged skin like an expert masseur in a posh brothel. Or something like that.

I had been warned by many visitors to Cape Town that the journey from the airport is a real eye opener. Sure enough, as my taxi joined the M2 motorway heading towards the city I saw the ramshackle townships beside the road that are home to thousands of South Africans. I wouldn't say I was shocked (my journey through a slum in Mumbai a few years ago toughened me up when it comes to witnessing abject poverty) but it was an early glimpse into how incredibly unequal this country is.

I arrived at my little guesthouse in the Sea Point area around 10am. The owner was quite taken aback that I was able just to walk straight in and into reception (somebody obviously hadn't locked the door properly). I suppose his attitude was an early glimpse into the need for stringent security here.

The owner then sat me down and marked out where we were on the map, and pointed out basic things such as decent local restaurants and where to get the bus from etc. He then proceeded to mark out where the gay village is in Cape Town, which I interpreted as being rather presumptuous. I don't think I had any glitter in my hair or had announced my arrival by skipping around the swimming pool, but it was nice of him to be so thorough in briefing me about the best places to go.

After dumping my stuff and getting changed, I headed down to the sea. The heat was very strong and it was made deceptive at times by strong wind, so I applied loads if factor 50 in a bid to avoid getting fried alive. 

I had a spot of brunch in a nice cafe bar, posted an obligatory gloating Facebook update, and then walked over to the Green Point area where the city's World Cup stadium is. It looked very impressive from the outside, but unfortunately there are no tours or access to the arena itself, so I didn't get to have a look inside.

From Green Point I strolled over to the famous Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, which is resplendent with bars, restaurants and shopping malls. I spent the entire afternoon here - gleefully lapping up the gorgeous weather and cheap fine wines. Cape Town would be a very nice city in its own right, but what makes it such a beautiful place is the stunning backdrop that is Table Mountain. I sat in awe of this incredible sight for hours, simply captivated by it.

I returned to the guest house around 5 and had a doze. After showering and getting changed, I then headed out with the intention of going to the Camps Bay area. I very quickly realised that strolling around the streets at night trying to find a cab is not probably a very good idea, but I found one relatively easily. 

Camps Bay could not be more of a contrast to the townships that I saw earlier in the day. It is a stunning resort sporting a load of swanky restaurants and plush houses. One of the great things about Cape Town is that eating out and drinking is relatively cheap, so I was able to gorge myself on steak and fine red wine for a decent price. After a great dinner and a glass if brandy to finish the night off, I got a taxi back to the guesthouse. It had been an amazing day. 

And so it begins...

Terminal 5 is one of the few parts of the British transport network that is genuinely world class. 

Ok, it's a sprawling fusion of metal and glass stuck at the bottom of a strip of tarmac in the arse end of Middlesex, but it ain't Birmingham New Street. So I guess that classifies it as some kind of 21st century British success story.

I got here a good three hours before take off. Time at the airport before a long flight to chill, drink and buy the last few essentials is for me not only essential, but one of the best parts of the trip.

I dropped my luggage off, and presented my passport and boarding pass to a rather grumpy looking British Airways member of staff. He then proceeded to go through my passport, page by page, reading every single stamp in it. Now I proudly admit there's quite a lot to look through, but this wasn't a social event - I wanted to get through into departures and start the drinking. 

"Been to South Africa many times, Mr Nicholls?"
"No, this will be my first time," I replied, which given that he had gone through every page of my passport, shouldn't have come as much of a surprise.
"The South African authorities require you to have at least one blank page in your passport. Please remember that."

I took my passport off him and wandered over to security. Curious, I leafed through my passport and, despite the multitude of stamps from South East Asia, found there were in fact nine blank pages in it. Quite what this muppet was on aboutI don't know. Bored shitless, I assume.

Given that a gruelling few months had taken its toll on me, I decided that my impending holiday merited a celebration, and so I treated myself to a glass of champagne at one of T5's bars. Ten quid for a 125ml glass of bubbly was not only excessively indulgent, it was also extremely daft as I wolfed it down in a few minutes and then found myself in search of a Wetherspoons to spend the remnants of my Sterling.

At a little after 7.30pm, we took off and left the cold and misery of London behind. The flight was reasonable - I got pissed and was actually denied access to the bar by a stewardess as we flew somewhere over the Democratic Republic of Congo. "I think you've had enough to drink, sir. Try and get some sleep." I had, and I did...