Travel Life and Stuff
Explore My Adventures and Life Moments
Explore My
Adventures and
Life Moments
Welcome
to Travel, Life and Stuff
Welcome to my journey! Join me as we explore the incredible places I've visited and the fascinating people I've met along the way. Through photos, interviews and captivating stories, we'll uncover the uniqueness of life together. This website will continuously evolve, showcasing road trips, nature, and the beautiful narratives that inspire us, through my eyes and lens.
The Road Trip
Three years ago, we set off on a little adventure, visiting Mossel Bay, Sedgefield and Port Elizabeth. It was one of those trips that, once it is over, leaves you with a strange little itch to do it all again.
And so, over the next three years, we found ourselves talking about another trip.
And talking.
And talking…
Eventually, the talking became “We really should do it again.”
And then, finally, “Let’s do it!”
But this time, we decided it needed a name.
And so it became…
THE ROAD TRIP
I know. I know.
Not exactly a title that will win any literary awards.
A little plain, perhaps?
I can almost hear you mumbling in the background:
“Couldn’t you guys have been a little more creative?”
Well, perhaps.
But sometimes the simplest names are the ones that stick.
Besides, there was a lot to get through before we could even think about getting into the car.
You see, a lot had happened during those three years.
For about 14 months, life seemed to consist largely of maintenance.
And then some more maintenance.
And then, just for good measure, a little more.
There were things to fix, things to paint, things to replace, things that had apparently decided they were no longer interested in functioning properly.
Eventually, we realised that we weren't just maintaining a house anymore.
We were practically running a small construction company.
But there was a plan.
We were waiting for the right time to put the house on the market. And, as it turned out, timing was important—not only because of the property market, but also because of our garden.
Our garden had an opinion.
More specifically, our Cliveas had an opinion.
We had lots of them, and when they burst into flower, the garden suddenly looked as though it had been given a very generous splash of colour.
Our agent suggested that we aim for September 2025, when the Cliveas would be showing off their best.
So we waited.
And waited.
Eventually, the house went onto the market.
And then, rather surprisingly, someone actually wanted to buy it!
The house was sold.
Which meant, of course, that we now had another small problem.
We needed somewhere to live.
So we went house hunting.
And after looking, comparing, discussing, reconsidering, probably discussing some more, we eventually found it.
OUR house.
The one that made us stop looking.
The one where we could imagine ourselves unpacking boxes, hanging pictures, finding places for things—and eventually wondering why
we had accumulated so many things in the first place.
But moving house, as we discovered, does not mean the maintenance stops.
Oh no.
It simply means the maintenance changes address.
So there we were, dealing with the joys of a new house when the rain arrived.
And it didn't arrive quietly.
It arrived with enthusiasm.
At one point, we even had a mini flood in the house.
Nothing quite like discovering that your new home has suddenly decided to become an indoor swimming pool.
But we survived.
The house survived.
And, eventually, the rain moved on.
Which meant there was only one thing left to do.
Plan the Road Trip.
Out came the map.
Then the GPS.
Then the calculator.
Then the internet.
And then, because apparently we didn't trust any of the above, everything was consulted again.
Routes were discussed.
Distances were calculated.
Fuel consumption was considered.
Accommodation was searched for.
And, naturally, plans were changed.
Because what is a road trip without changing your mind about where you're going?
At one stage we were heading one way.
Then another.
Then we looked at the map again.
Eventually, after all the plotting, calculating and second-guessing, we settled on our route.
The proposed destinations were:
Beaufort West.
Kimberley.
Gauteng.
Pietermaritzburg.
Sedgefield.
Accommodation was booked.. The route was decided.. The car was packed.
And finally, after all the waiting, planning, repairing, moving, searching and calculating…....we were ready.
On 4 August, the Road Trip finally began.
There was no turning back now.
Well… technically, there was.
We had a car.
We had a GPS.
We had roads going in both directions.
But you know what I mean.
We were off!
And if I had to give the video that follows a title, there really could only be one.
Because on that first morning, as we set off on our long-awaited adventure, the sky wasn't exactly blue, the light wasn't exactly bright, and the morning had that slightly mysterious feeling that comes when you don't quite know what lies ahead.
So, ladies and gentlemen, buckle up.
The journey begins…
“It Was a (Semi) Dark and Misty Morning…”
Worcester to Travalia
The second part of Day 1 is, to be perfectly honest, not exactly the most exciting part of the journey.
After leaving Worcester, fortified by a good cappuccino at Mugg & Bean, we felt more than ready for the long drive ahead. The road stretched out in front of us, seemingly without end. It is one of those stretches where your body is moving forward, but your mind has plenty of opportunity to wander — provided, of course, that you remain sufficiently alert to notice the traffic coming towards you!
For travellers heading towards Cape Town, this section of road often comes at the end of a gruelling 16-hour journey from Johannesburg. By then, fatigue has become a serious enemy. Some people, convinced that they are tough enough, simply keep driving. Others unfortunately fall asleep behind the wheel. This stretch has a reputation for serious and sometimes fatal accidents.
So, having dealt with the gloomy stuff, let's get back to our road trip!
Leaving Worcester behind, we began noticing the scars left by the floods only a few weeks earlier. Some of the rivers had burst their banks, sending water into the surrounding vineyards. The vines had taken quite a beating. Being winter, the vineyards weren't exactly in their most glamorous state anyway, and recovery will take some time.
But if there is one thing you can say about South African farmers, it is that they are remarkably resilient. Give a Boer a problem and, sooner or later, you'll hear the words:
“’n Boer maak ’n plan.”
And somehow, they do.
As we travelled further north, the landscape began to change dramatically. The lush green vineyards gradually disappeared, replaced by the dry, scrubby vegetation of the Little Karoo. It is almost as if someone had changed the scenery while we weren't looking.
The Karoo may appear harsh and barren to the untrained eye, but there is life everywhere if you take the time to look. Sheep were grazing on what, to us, looked like little more than dry bushes and scrub — yet they appeared remarkably healthy. Clearly, they knew something we didn't!
And, of course, there is another very important aspect of travelling through the Karoo...
Food.
We had already stopped for coffee in Worcester, and we hadn't been on the road for very long before thoughts began turning towards the next meal.
It was still about two hours away.
Travelling is definitely not good for weight loss. Somehow, sitting in a car makes you hungry. You don't do any exercise, you don't burn any calories, and yet the desire to snack becomes stronger with every kilometre.
In our case, I blame Rita.
She had bought chips and sweets.
Need I say more?
Laingsburg
Eventually we arrived in Laingsburg, and for me this was more than just another town on the route. It brought back memories of the devastating flood of 1981.
On 25 January 1981, Laingsburg was struck by one of the worst floods in South African history. At least 104 people lost their lives, 72 bodies were never recovered, and 184 houses were destroyed.
Those figures are difficult enough to comprehend even today. But for me, Laingsburg isn't simply something I remember from a history book.
I was there, although only a few months later.
In August 1981, after the disaster, I passed through Laingsburg at about three o'clock in the morning. The roads were still badly damaged and the effects of the flood were very evident. Somewhere along that journey, the car's exhaust decided that it had had enough and broke off completely.
From then on, the rest of the journey became rather memorable.
The car sounded like a truck!
So, driving through Laingsburg again brought back a few of those old memories. It is strange how a particular town, road or even a smell can suddenly transport you back decades.
We stopped in town again, although this time thankfully without any broken exhausts, and had a really good brunch.
Amazing what food can do for one's attitude!
After brunch, Rita and I swapped seats, and she took over the driving duties as we headed towards Beaufort West.
Now, I have to admit something.
I don't particularly enjoy this part of the journey.
In fact...
I find it BORING!
Every now and then, some strange building or isolated structure would appear in the middle of nowhere. You couldn't help wondering who built it, why they built it there, and what stories those four walls could tell.
There is only so much dry Karoo landscape one can admire before the brain starts looking for something else to occupy itself.
A lonely building in the middle of nowhere....
Church or school, who knows...? It was miles from anywhere
Sleeping is obviously not an option when you're supposed to be helping the driver stay awake, so the next best thing is talking. We chatted, watched the scenery, kept an eye out for anything interesting and, naturally, looked for opportunities to stop and take photographs.
Every now and then the landscape rewarded us — like this rather spectacular cloud formation hanging above the otherwise dry and seemingly endless veld.
It reminded us that even in the most barren-looking places, there is always something worth looking at.
Beaufort West
Eventually, Beaufort West appeared on the horizon.
The town has much the same dry Karoo character as the surrounding countryside. It is dusty, weathered and, in places, somewhat neglected — not helped, it seems, by the lack of municipal services.
But Beaufort West has an interesting history.
It was the birthplace of Christiaan Barnard, the South African heart surgeon who performed the world's first successful human heart transplant in 1967.
So, from the dry Karoo came a man who changed the history of modern medicine.
Not bad for a town in the middle of nowhere!
Read more about Christiaan Barnard
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christiaan_Barnard
Beaufort West also has another rather unusual claim to fame. It is said to be the only town in the world where a prison sits right in the centre of a national highway.
You don't often get that on your average road trip!
By now, the coffee craving had returned, so we stopped for yet another cup before finally heading off towards our accommodation for the first night.
And what a contrast it was.
After the long road, the dry landscape, the traffic, the memories and the kilometres, we finally arrived at a place that was beautiful and peaceful.
Exactly what we needed.
The road trip had only just begun.
Please leave comments below. Also check out my GALLERY (Always under construction) and my BLOG
Send me your photos and I will put it in my GALLERY. I will give credit to you
Three Sisters to Kimberley … and Beyond!
OR
A Road Trip, a Rugby Memory, and a GPS Having a Nervous Breakdown
Did I mention somewhere that parts of this road trip could be boring? If I didn’t, allow me to correct that oversight. If I did, consider this segment the official warning label!
We left Three Sisters early, with one mission firmly in mind: find coffee! Not that dishwater-soap-water stuff that some roadside establishments dare to serve under the noble name of coffee, but the real deal. Something strong enough to convince the body that it was, in fact, awake and participating in this adventure.
Our salvation came at the Ultra City Shell garage. At last, decent coffee! We politely declined the greasy breakfast that threatened to settle in our stomachs for the rest of the day and settled for two rusks instead. Sometimes, on a road trip, survival is about making wise decisions. Coffee first, rusks second, and no unnecessary wrestling with fried eggs.
Before leaving Cape Town, we had done our homework on road conditions. This is South Africa, after all, where a road can go from perfectly respectable to something resembling the surface of the moon without so much as an apology. We had been warned about this particular stretch.
Imagine our surprise when the road turned out to be in surprisingly good condition! For once, the rumours had been exaggerated. We continued north, feeling almost cheated out of the adventure we had been promised.
Our route took us through Victoria West, a town that, as far as our research and hunger levels were concerned, offered little in the way of a tempting restaurant. It does, however, have a cinema. So, if the food fails you, at least you can watch somebody else's troubles for a while.
Then came Britstown.
Now, Britstown and I go back a long way. In about 1989, while working in De Aar, I heard that a Cape Town school rugby team would be playing against the local boys in Britstown. The distance was a mere 55 kilometres, with an indicated travelling time of 40 minutes.
Naturally, I took that as a personal challenge.
I proved them wrong that day!
I arrived with time to spare, or at least that's how I remember it. Memory can be a wonderful thing, especially when it edits out the embarrassing bits.
But the visiting rugby team must have experienced a culture shock of its own. These were Cape Town boys, accustomed to their own idea of what a rugby field should look like. Instead, they found themselves facing a Karoo winter landscape where the little patches of grass had turned brown in the cold.
One can only imagine their thoughts: Did we come to play rugby, or have we accidentally arrived at a livestock grazing demonstration?
Nevertheless, they dug deep, battled on, and managed to secure a victory. The grass may have surrendered to winter, but the boys certainly hadn't!
Back to the present, we had little reason to expect Britstown to offer much in the way of culinary excitement. And then, just when we thought the day was destined to be a long stretch of road, dust, and passing scenery, we struck gold.
We discovered a delightful little restaurant housed in what used to be a prison.
Yes, a prison!
Of all the places to enjoy a late breakfast, we chose somewhere where people had once been locked up. Fortunately, the only thing we were sentenced to was an excellent meal. The food was so good that, for a brief moment, we considered whether we should commit a minor culinary offence just to stay a little longer.
But freedom called, and so did the open road.
We headed north into the hinterland, borrowing a phrase from Cecil John Rhodes, and passed through one little village after another. Some were interesting, some were quiet, and some seemed to be competing in a national competition for the title of Most Likely to Be Missed by Passing Motorists.
By this stage, even our video cameras had apparently decided that enough was enough. The recording stopped. Perhaps the scenery had become too repetitive, or perhaps the camera operator had finally accepted that not every kilometre of a road trip deserves its own documentary.
And so, without much photographic evidence, we pressed on.
Gauteng: Enter at Your Own Risk!
As we approached Gauteng, I began mentally preparing myself for the shock of returning to familiar-but-not-so-familiar territory. I had not been there for decades, and I wondered what awaited us.
The answer, it seemed, was trucks. Lots of trucks.
Mining towns appeared along the way, heavy vehicles dominated the roads, and the landscape reminded us that this part of the country has a very different rhythm from the quieter stretches of the Karoo.
Then there was our GPS.
Oh, our poor GPS.
We had entrusted our entire journey to this electronic marvel, expecting it to guide us confidently to our destination. But the closer we got, the more it seemed to be working overtime. Nothing looked familiar. Not a single landmark rang a bell. There was nothing to point at and say, "Ah yes, I remember that!"
We were in the hands of a machine that knew exactly where we were going, while we had absolutely no idea where we were.
It was a strange arrangement.
Every instruction was followed with the sort of faith usually reserved for religious experiences and recipes handed down by grandmothers. Turn here. Continue straight. Take the next exit. Recalculate.
Recalculate? Again?
At some point, I began to wonder whether the GPS was taking us to our destination or simply giving us a guided tour of every road Gauteng had ever built.
But, to its credit, it eventually delivered us safely. We made it!
The GPS could finally take a well-deserved rest, and I could stop staring at the screen as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
Gauteng: Worth the Journey, but Not the Move!
And what a wonderful time we had!
We saw family and friends, enjoyed good company, and ate enough delicious food to make all those roadside rusks seem like a distant memory. There were conversations, laughter, and the sort of moments that remind you why travelling is about far more than ticking places off a map.
There was just one small inconvenience: winter.
For a day or two, we endured temperatures of around 5°C. Five degrees! That is not weather; that is a personal insult.
We wrapped up, endured, and survived. South Africans can be remarkably resilient when there is good food and family involved.
Would I move to Gauteng?
Let me think about that for a moment.
No.
Absolutely not.
Don't get me wrong. We had a wonderful time, and the people made the visit special. But after all the kilometres, the trucks, the unfamiliar roads, and the five-degree shock treatment, I came to one firm conclusion.
Cape Town remains the best.
There, I've said it. Let the debate begin!
The Final Stretch … Almost!
Our Gauteng adventure was behind us, but the road trip was not quite finished. We still had Harrismith, Pietermaritzburg, the surrounding areas, and then the long journey home waiting for us.
More roads. More discoveries. More stories. And, hopefully, more decent coffee.
Will the next stretch be exciting? Will we find hidden gems? Will the GPS behave itself for once? And will the weather spare us another round of winter punishment?
Stay tuned.
Our next story will take us through Harrismith, Pietermaritzburg and surrounds, before we finally point the wheels homeward.
Until next time … soon!
And remember: the journey may be long, the coffee questionable, and the GPS confused, but the stories make every kilometre worthwhile.
Play the link below (PLEASE)for a musical interlude of sorts...........the name describes our trip
Video- Three Sisters to Kimberley and beyond
From the Goldfields to the Last British Outpost
Soup, wine, treacherous passes and boots that refuse to retire!
After four days of exploring the Johannesburg area, with the occasional excursion into Pretoria and Delmas — and certainly no complaints about the quality or quantity of the food — it was time to point the nose of the vehicle towards Pietermaritzburg.
But Mother Nature had other ideas.
For two days, we remained more or less imprisoned indoors by a cold that seemed determined to freeze the enthusiasm right out of us. Our survival strategy was simple: soup, wine, repeat. It was hardly the stuff of heroic travel documentaries, but one must make sacrifices in the name of tourism! This photo shows the extremes of the cold......ladies in nightgowns
Eventually, the time came to move south. There was, however, one small obstacle: Harrismith and its notorious mountain pass, a place where winter occasionally decides to close the road without consulting anybody's travel plans.
Our original strategy was to take a two-hour detour and avoid the whole business. Then, just an hour before departure, our hosts produced the road authorities' telephone number. One phone call later, we learnt that the pass was OPEN!
A minor miracle. Or perhaps just a stroke of luck. Either way, we weren't about to question it.
After saying our goodbyes to our wonderful hosts, we fired up the GPS, braced ourselves for the inevitable potholes and headed south-east. The GPS sounded confident. Of course, it always does. It never has to replace a tyre.
Getting out of greater Gauteng was a slow affair, but eventually we reached the highway. The familiar mine dumps and dry, lifeless grasslands stretched across the horizon, reminding us that this was still mining country, not exactly the Garden of Eden.
Nevertheless, onwards we went.
Harrismith: The Great Brunch Disappointment
Having passed through Harrismith countless times over the years, we had already decided where brunch would be served. We knew the place. We trusted the place. In our minds, the coffee was practically brewing already.
Except the place was gone.
Gone! Vanished! Erased from the culinary map!
There is something deeply unsettling about arriving at a trusted eating establishment only to discover that it has apparently decided to pursue a different career — or cease to exist altogether.
After asking for directions, we retraced our route by another two kilometres and stumbled upon restaurants in such abundance that choosing one became a problem of its own. Every familiar fast-food brand seemed to have planted its flag there. Some even made a guest appearance in the video below.
Coffee first, naturally. We needed to thaw our fingers, restore our spirits and prepare our stomachs for the next phase of the adventure.
Harrismith, along with nearby Bethlehem, is notorious for its bitter winter cold. I suspect the local weather department measures temperature using a special instrument calibrated in degrees of misery.
And just when we thought things were going rather well, the rain arrived.
Van Reenen's Pass: Concentration, Please!
The descent down Van Reenen's Pass, at an elevation of roughly 1,700 metres, suddenly became a serious business. Rain, winding mountain roads and slippery conditions are not an ideal combination when you're trying to enjoy a scenic road trip.
The sightseeing had to wait. This was now a driving examination, and there would be no marks for admiring the scenery while missing a bend.
We negotiated the descent carefully and continued towards KwaZulu-Natal, with the weather doing its best to dampen both the landscape and our enthusiasm.
Then came the toll roads.
I had made it one of my personal missions to avoid as many tolls as possible. A noble objective, you might think. Save a little money, enjoy the journey and perhaps discover a quieter alternative route.
Would we have preferred flying...........and miss all the fun, food and potholes?
Well, let me tell you something: sometimes saving money is an expensive exercise!
Our alternative route delivered us onto what was probably the worst stretch of road we had encountered on the entire trip so far. Potholes competed for supremacy, and the Stop-and-Go sections added their own special brand of frustration, while road repairs appeared to be progressing at a pace that would make a tortoise look impatient.
We travelled through Estcourt, Mooi River and Nottingham Road — places I remembered fondly from 26 years ago, when I still lived in the area. Back then, these roads and surroundings held a special charm for me.
Now? Let's just say that nostalgia was doing some very heavy lifting.
The deterioration of the infrastructure was impossible to ignore. Some things improve with age; unfortunately, roads don't always get the memo.
The Boot Affair: A Matter of Personal Honour
There was, however, one mission I was determined to accomplish.
While planning the trip, I had made it clear that we would stop at Groundcover Leather Company in Curry's Post. This was not merely a shopping excursion. No, this was unfinished business dating back to the 1990s!
I had bought two pairs of handmade boots from the company over the years. They had served me faithfully for decades, accompanying me through countless adventures and earning their keep many times over.
Then came the devastating verdict.
I was informed that my beloved boots were now suitable only for gardening — or perhaps for giving away.
Giving away?!
After all those years of loyal service, this was the gratitude they received? Reduced to glorified gardening equipment? I was personally offended on their behalf.
Those boots had earned a pension, perhaps, but certainly not public humiliation.
So, Groundcover was on the itinerary. We were going to acquire new footwear, and that was that.
The final approach was along a muddy, rain-soaked road that seemed designed to test both the vehicle and our determination. But we arrived with approximately 30 minutes to spare.
Success!
New boots were purchased, old loyalties honoured, and my feet were ready for the next chapter.
And then something extraordinary happened.
I apologised.
Yes, you read correctly. I actually apologised for overruling the GPS and following my own route.
This is not something I do lightly. In the long-running contest between my judgement and the electronic voice issuing instructions from the dashboard, I generally reserve the right to have the final word.
But on this occasion, I conceded defeat.
The GPS, I must admit, had made a rather compelling case.
Racing the Sunset
With new boots aboard and the day drawing to a close, we continued south.
This region is well known for its early sunsets, and we were cutting it rather fine. Fortunately, we arrived just before darkness settled in at a manor of sorts — a place so enormous that it looked as though it could comfortably accommodate an army.
We needed only one room.
I briefly wondered whether we should have invited a few hundred extra guests to help justify the size of the establishment. But no, a bed and a roof over our heads would do nicely.
We were told that the sunrises were beautiful.
Now, I have learnt that when people promise spectacular sunrises, one should approach the claim with a healthy degree of scepticism. Sometimes the sky produces a masterpiece; sometimes it delivers a grey blanket and a silent apology.
But at six the following morning, nature came through with flying colours.
The sunrise was beautiful, and the early start was richly rewarded. It was one of those moments when you forget the potholes, the rain, the detours and even the indignity suffered by a pair of retired boots.
The photos tell the story far better than I can describe it.
And just when you think the adventure is winding down, remember this: there is still one last blast to come!
So don't pack away your sense of humour just yet. The road trip isn't finished with us.
Trucks and taxis always in good supply
Nothing for Mahala( nothing is free)
But not so busy....
Four Days of Leisure, a Waterfall, and Two Pensioners on the Loose!
Arriving at our accommodation just as darkness was settling in, we were mentally preparing ourselves for a little adventure: finding our own way to the rooms we had been allocated. After all, we were strangers, it was getting dark, and who knew what awaited us inside?
But no! Our two hosts were actually waiting outside to welcome us and then proceeded to escort us up three flights of stairs. Now, that is what I call family love — brotherly and sisterly love taken to the extreme! We had barely arrived, and already we were being treated like royalty. Either that, or they wanted to make absolutely sure we reached the correct rooms!
The following morning came with instructions: Be awake before six to witness the sunrise. Now, I am not sure who decided that sunrise was worth getting out of bed for before coffee had entered the bloodstream, but we obeyed.
And what a sunrise it was!
Few places offer a spectacle quite like this. Watching the sun slowly emerge from behind a mountaintop, painting the morning sky in glorious colours, was something special. Even before that first cup of coffee, we had to admit that some things in life are worth sacrificing a few precious minutes of sleep for. Just don't expect me to make a habit of it!
The Weaver's Construction Company
A little later, the weavers began their morning activities on the opposite side of our building. And when I say weavers, I mean a whole construction company of them!
I eventually gave up counting the nests. There were simply too many, and the birds seemed to be operating on a schedule known only to themselves. They would disappear from sight, only to return a little later with more building material.
My curiosity got the better of me, so I followed their flight paths. That was when I discovered their clever little supply chain: they flew around to the front of the building, where they stripped leaves from the palm trees to use in constructing their nests.
No building permits, no contractors, no invoices, and certainly no arguments about the cost of materials. Just an astonishing display of instinct, determination and craftsmanship.
Watching them at work reminded me once again that creation and nature are beautiful. Sometimes, all we need to do is slow down and pay attention to appreciate the wonders happening right under our noses — or, in this case, just outside our window.
Four Days of Doing Absolutely Nothing — Almost!
We had four days to be lazy.
Now, laziness is not exactly my natural state of being. At home, there is always something to do, something to fix, something to clean, or something that has been waiting far too long for attention. But we were on holiday, and that changed the rules considerably.
We had places we wanted to see, but we didn't know too many people in the area, so there were no endless social obligations to squeeze into our days. It suited our plans perfectly.
Besides, Rita and I are quite comfortable in each other's company. We can talk, laugh, sit quietly, or simply enjoy the stillness without feeling the need to fill every available second with conversation.
It is a wonderful thing to reach a stage in life where silence is not awkward, conversation comes naturally, and nobody feels obliged to ask, "What are you thinking about?" every five minutes.
Of course, there was one very important part of our daily routine that demanded considerably more discipline: deciding where to eat!
The staff at the two Wimpy restaurants soon became familiar faces as we alternated between them for breakfast, lunch and supper. Other establishments also benefited from our presence, particularly those offering takeaways.
I suspect the staff eventually recognised us before we even reached the counter. Perhaps they were thinking, "Here come those two again. I wonder what they're ordering today?"
Our loyalty to these establishments was admirable. Our self-control, unfortunately, was not quite as impressive.
As the days passed, our clothes seemed to become a little more interested in hugging us. Waistbands tightened, buttons became more determined, and certain garments began questioning our holiday eating arrangements.
But what is a holiday for if not to enjoy yourself? We would deal with the consequences later — preferably after another meal!
Howick Falls: Beautiful, Powerful, and a Little Controversial
It was Rita's first visit to Pietermaritzburg, and I wanted to show her some of the sights. After all, I had lived in the area years ago, so I felt reasonably qualified to play tour guide. We decided to start with Howick Falls.
And it certainly did not disappoint.
The waterfall was impressive, the setting beautiful, and the sheer force of the water reminded us of the power of nature. It was well worth the visit.
However, not everyone around us was appreciating the scenery in quite the same way. Some people were complaining about women washing their clothes in the river above the waterfall.
I found myself wondering what, exactly, these critics expected the women to do.
Yes, Midmar Dam is nearby, and yes, the region has water resources. But that does not mean clean, accessible water is available to everyone, everywhere. Having a dam in the vicinity does not magically produce a tap outside every home.
It is easy to criticise when one has the luxury of turning on a tap at home. Perhaps a little understanding and compassion would be more useful than complaining about people trying to get through their daily lives.
Sometimes, a visit to a beautiful place teaches us more than we expected — and not always about the scenery.
Pietermaritzburg: Seeing the City Through a Different Lens
We spent those four days sightseeing mostly from the comfort and relative security of our car.
It had been 26 years since my last visit, and although I had memories of the city, I was no longer entirely sure how safe it was to explore on foot. We had heard enough horror stories from other people to make us cautious.
Both Rita and I like to believe in people and their good intentions. We prefer to give others the benefit of the doubt rather than approach the world suspiciously. But there is a difference between trusting people and being unnecessarily reckless.
We were visitors in a place we no longer knew well, and we decided that a little caution was wiser than a grand adventure ending in an unwanted encounter.
So, we explored from the car, observing the city as it passed by our windows. Not quite the adventurous tourist experience advertised in glossy brochures, perhaps, but practical all the same.
We also visited the schools our children had attended and the houses I had lived in years earlier.
That was a rather emotional experience. Places that had once been part of our everyday lives were now reminders of another chapter — memories of family, growing children, ordinary routines and years that had somehow disappeared far too quickly.
But it was sad to see how neglected some of the areas had become. The surroundings had not been cared for as one might have hoped, and the condition of certain places suggested that the values of those responsible for maintaining them had changed considerably.
It was disappointing. One cannot help wondering how places that once meant so much to people can be allowed to deteriorate like that.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. You return expecting to reconnect with the past, only to discover that the past has moved on — and sometimes it has left the garden rather untidy!
Sunday: The Great Escape Begins
Fast-forward to Sunday.
Our plan was to leave at 10:30, after attending the church service our friend was leading. We had calculated that the journey ahead would take approximately eight hours.
For once, our calculations were spot on. Either we were getting better at this road-trip business, or the calculator had finally decided to cooperate.
There was no time for a leisurely Wimpy lunch, no lingering over a proper sit-down meal, and certainly no opportunity to debate the menu.
We resorted to takeaways and ate in the car as the kilometres rolled past. It was not exactly fine dining, but the service was excellent: our food arrived quickly, the scenery was complimentary, and the restaurant moved with us!
By 19:30, we had arrived at our destination, having spent most of the day in practically the same position.
We climbed out of the car feeling as stiff as two planks of timber. Our backs, legs and other previously uncomplaining body parts had apparently decided that enough was enough.
There comes a time when even the most comfortable car seat begins to feel like a medieval instrument of torture. We had reached that point several kilometres earlier.
And now for the disappointing news: if you are planning to watch the video below to see this part of our journey, I am afraid you may be disappointed. Somewhere along the way, I managed to lose some footage relating to this section of the trip.
I could blame technology, carelessness, or perhaps an overenthusiastic editing session. Whatever the reason, some memories will have to remain in our heads rather than on the screen.
You'll just have to use your imagination. After all, by this stage, you know we were eating, driving and getting progressively stiffer!
Colesberg, Sedgefield, and the Final Stretch
We spent the night in Colesberg, slept well, and left after a thoroughly enjoyable breakfast. Refuelled and ready for the road, we headed eastwards towards Sedgefield.
Along the way, we passed more dusty little towns, each with its own character and its own place in the landscape. There were sights to see, roads to cover, and kilometres to conquer.
But I am going to spare you the unnecessary details of this section. There are no photographs or video footage to accompany it, and I have no intention of boring you with a minute-by-minute account of every town, road sign and pothole we encountered.
Besides, by now, we were beginning to feel the magnetic pull of home.
The thought of our own bed, familiar surroundings and the freedom to unpack at our leisure was becoming increasingly attractive. Even the dirty laundry was starting to look like a familiar friend — although not one we were particularly eager to embrace.
And so, after two weeks and seven hours away, we finally completed our journey.
The Final Tally
Two weeks and seven hours.
4,321.6 kilometres later.
A mountain of dirty laundry.
A car that was considerably dirtier than when we left.
And two very contented pensioners.
We had travelled across a good portion of the country, visited old haunts, discovered new places, enjoyed beautiful scenery, watched nature at work, and eaten enough Wimpy meals to qualify for honorary membership of the chain.
We had shared countless hours on the road, conversations, silences, laughter and the occasional difference of opinion.
And here is the real achievement: we did not disagree much, and we did not argue!
That, dear reader, may well be the most remarkable statistic of the entire trip. More impressive than the 4,321.6 kilometres, more reliable than the GPS, and certainly more satisfying than any restaurant meal.
