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.