Don’t have to be Bel Air for Delaires

no the glasses hadn't been full...

After the bracing dip, there was just about enough left of the afternoon for a little wine tasting. With the clock against us I put aside Rustenberg winery for the next day and we randomly chose a place signposted on the motorway. With my usual customary notice of ‘quick turn right, no left here’ followed by bluster and grumble from the other one, we turned into Delaires and were waved on way up the flower bedecked driveway by security.

view from the entrance looking out

Stepping out of the car was like stepping into an episode of Brothers & Sisters. A grand terrace was abuzz with lunchtime diners eating under oversized shades, while statues lined the entrance to the minimalist lobby whose massive bronze doors yielded a vision of monochrome and display cases stuffed with De Graff diamonds. It felt like being one of those pesky Bros & Sis illegitimate kids welcomed into the fold of the richWalker family but with no sense of entitlement. Luckily, we were whisked away by a Sally Field type martyr, our affable and friendly wine waitress and on the terrace of the wine lounge she put us at our ease explaining how everything worked. We hid our backpacker roots and tried to affect a Conde Nast traveller non chalance hoping that our shorts and trainers attire could be passed off as the idiosyncrasies of the geeky rich.

In reality, no-one cared, least of all us, being too mesmerised by the views. Even the wines were secondary to the seductive wiles of earth’s natural beauty, its mountains blushing pink under the steady gaze of the afternoon sun.

We were most content.

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Motoring to Stellenbosch

the indian ocean it was not

Stellenbosch, in the heart of the wine lands was our next stop and the site of our most fancy accommodation, De Kraal Lodge (see reviews also). Set among botanical gardens, our room was massive with bijou living area and a welcome bottle of wine and the place had a pool too. Hot from our non air con car, I was well up for a dip, until I wagered a toe in the water and shrieked like a big girl’s blouse. It was the coldest water ever. I tried again to knee deep and ran back out, the other one thinking it hilarious. I was determined though and third time lucky I flung myself in, flailed like an out of control Octopus, screamed, gasped, tried to act casual, gave up and ran like crazy out (note: there wasn’t anyone else there).

After that, of course I harangued the other one mercilessly that he had to try it too and he did get in eventually, by which time a few years had passed, we’d endured a conservative government, Ferguson had retired from United (now languishing in mid table) and Les Dennis had finally cracked a joke that was funny.

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A Dassie. A what?

Before adventure though, here’s a wildlife fact. Ever heard of a Dassie? I hadn’t. This is what it looks like. It’s formal name is a Rock Hyrax.

On closer inspection a bit rodenty for my liking

It lives on Table Mountain and across Africa and the Middle East and is closely related to an elephant apparently. Go figure.

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Wandering atop Table Mountain

Just one of the world cup stadiums (or is that stadia?)

Relieved, I leave the restaurant, toilets and gift shop compound to find the other one and we wander about around the immediate area, skirting the edges of the mountain, marvelling at the pristine views of the sea and coast. Peering over one of the ledges, I spy the top of a head but know not to panic, I’ve seen the signs. This is not the madness of a man driven to the brink about to throw it all away but the madness of a man who runs abseiling trips down the rock face. Crazies. The other one can’t bring himself to look.

Hmmm just how crazy am I?

Rocky paths pick their way through the fynbos strewn across the mountainous range amd into the distance beyond. I’m surprised as I’d imagined TB to be an ‘arrive, take some pics and leave’ kind of place but instead it’s a wilderness gem with possibilities to hike a number of different trails, though I’d be sure to find out the exact hearing range of the siren device that if it goes off means get off the mountain nooooowww. That might be the time to make friends with the abseiling dude.

With the wind whipping up, we potter for about another 45 minutes finding the views of the city, Robben Island and the new World Cup stadium before returning back to the car and the next part of our adventure.

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Cable car to Table Mountain (TB)

Clear skies and a later start than intended but we rocked and rolled off towards Table Mountain before any sulky grey cloud could decide otherwise. Cars lined the vertiginous approach forcing us to park quite far from the entrance, but, having already booked our tickets online we smugly passed the lengthy queue, huddled under the large umbrellas thoughtfully provided. Joining the queue for cable cars I had to navigate a puddle of vomit causing me to gag and wonder just how bad this ride was going to be. An hour later, I was about to get my answer.

Up up and away...

The doors of the rotating, Swiss engineered car slid open and everyone piled in, racing to get o a window. As it started up I felt a lurch in my belly and grabbed the other one’s hand, ironic given that he’s the one with the vertigo. The climb was steep but slow and really not that bad but still I focused on the rock approaching rather than the city diminishing. The sides of the car rotated (or was it us?) either way one minute you were looking out the window, the next out of nothing – literally. One part of the car had no window at all to offer even more enticing views. I was happy with the window…

Less than ten minutes later and we emerged on to Table Mountain and hurrah I needed the loo… Honestly, my bladder. Not a life of intrepid exploring for me…excavating the Pyramids, ‘sorry, old boy before you crack open that tomb, just a moment’ or about to conquer Everest, ‘whoa, hold your horses there, just got to go pee’ (actually not sure if you have ‘special arrangements’ in very cold places?). I lay down the challenge to medical science to find a human adult bladder smaller than mine…

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A 90’s themed bar – you what?

A longer evening ahead of us then planned, we hit Long Street early. First stop, Daddy Cool at hotel Granddaddy’s, and it’s a quick one. We look in and leave. Maybe we were too early or it was cool once, now it just seemed clichéd, all disco ball and velvet, home to a suited crowd who’d just finished work. Undeterred, I venture back up the stair as I’d heard whisper of another place on the roof. I was on to something as the carpet turned to Astroturf and we found ourselves on the roof flanked by Airstream caravans among which were scattered sofas and tables. Again, it was dead but we left making a mental note to check it out on our return to Cape Town.

we can all play at mcdreamy now...

Back on Long Street, we remembered seeing a place calling itself a 90’s bar that had to be worth a laugh right – I mean what’s one of them?

It seems a place with pool tables. Lots of them.

How silly of me, smack of head, the 90’s was synonymous with pool, no? There was a bar in Old Street, its name escapes me but its unisex toilets were the talk of the town. That must be it.

Turns out it was student night so we stayed for the novelty (we so wouldn’t make it past the door in the UK!) and the 8 rand beers. I’m sure the

let the carnage begin!

Manchester Utd vs Bayern Munich game and a bunch of good looking lesbians had nothing to do with the other one’s reluctance to leave. He was probably just happy in his role teaching me how to hit a pool ball and making sure I kept them on the table.

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Abort Table Mountain

As Table Mountain is on our way back and the cloud has lifted we ‘nip in’ to see what’s doing. The approach could be billed Little Chapman if you ask me as we climb steadily and eventually park just feet away from the mountain’s edge. Optimistic though we were, we should have thought about the wind. The cable car is closed, not even Swiss engineering can defeat the elements. A few pictures and home James then.

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Penguins not on the menu thankfully

But squid steak is. I order it because it’s cheap and I’m curious (reasoning responsible for so many mistakes culinary or otherwise!).It arrives looking very like fried strip steak though pale and creamy in colour and tender to bite, I like.

It's a hoot! (see what I did there?)

We’re sat in the Mariner’s Wharf, a tourist beacon in Hout Bay, it being a massive  building right on the beach. Inside its dark timber recesses and matching tables and chairs scream traditional English pub and it’s festooned with all manner of nautical tat whose theme I have to report sadly includes the staff. Sporting stripy nautical jumpers, I expect them to break out into a jaunty hornpipe at any time. Really, it’s not that bad though and if the Pirate’s Arms even came close to this place at the very least it’d deserve its name.

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Chapman’s Peak

We'd just driven that bit...

My main concern was whether to eat before or after Chapman’s Peak as I have a very demanding belly but as we couldn’t find the place I’d earmarked to grant with our presence, I had to delay gratification. Spotting toll signs we guessed we were approaching Chapman’s Peak, billed as a thrilling coastal drive and I made like Grace Kelly in that film with Cary Grant when they’re racing around the hills somewhere – or was it Audrey Hepburn? Anyway, the other one’s Cary Grant impression, worse than Tony Curtis’ in Some Like It Hot and our crude approximation of an open topped car, having the windows wound down resulting in my hair whipping me about the face (missing as I was the key accessory for dangerous cliff drives, the chic headscarf) meant the fantasy ended pretty much as soon as it started. But it brings to mind one of life’s little puzzlers:

Why is it Grace or Audrey look fantastic in headscarves yet mere mortals look more like fisherwomen slapped in the face by one too many fish? Hmm?

this

Sorry, back to the thrilling drive.

A little underwhelming at first, but that’s maybe because the drive on the Sans Souci road to Port Glaud on Mahe, without the safety barriers and precautions that Chapman’s Peak has, is more ‘thrilling’! However, the majestic drama of the hills, crashing surf and views down to beaches nestling neighbouring towns are quite incredible and the viewpoints thoughtfully provided remind you of the feat of carving out such a road. We stopped, took some pics and motored on to lunch. I was hungry dammit.

or this? AND she's a model!

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P p p p pick up a penguin

ahhh look at them - 'the snugglers

Two km later, I saw a sign for penguin viewing and though this was our mission ignored it because it didn’t specifically say Boulders Beach and I do everything my guidebook tells me. A kilometre later and a sign for Boulders Beach (vindicated!), we turn in, park and are surprised that we have to pay an entrance fee (for a beach?), I hope that locals don’t have to.

We make for the beach cove, going through two metal gates that we have to make sure are shut so that penguins (PENGUINS HE HE!) don’t escape. Very different from beaches we are used to, everything seems ruddier – the people, the sand – more workaday and whimsical than the picture perfect Seychelles variety.

But PENGUIN ALERT! To my left by some rocks I see my first African penguin (formerly Jackass – don’t ask me why the change I don’t know, too rude?!) and so go and talk to him (it’s a habit of mine). He ignored me. I tried harder and started to follow him but he was playing hard to get, maybe he was shy I was filming him or perhaps he was just running scared from the stupid woman who walked right in front of me screeching inane comments, ruining my Attenborough moment. Grrrrrr.

Resolved to get some quality penguin time, this part of the beach clearly wasn’t harbouring the hundreds of penguins promised, we clanged back through the metal gates and hung a right along a wooden pathway that looked far more promising. It was. We stopped at least a dozen times along the shaded path, spotting penguins behind the wire fence in various forms of repose; zen penguin, on parade penguin, sleeping penguins, loved up penguins, waddling penguins, snuggled penguins, sneezing penguin and territorial penguin, I could have spent all day naming my penguin poses but the other one might have filed for divorced.

The path soon opened out to a visitor centre and another entrance; this presumably being where first sign that I’d seen on the road would lead you. We flashed our receipts and were let in and this time the path took us to vantage points on a wide expanse of beach where hundreds of the little fellas were hanging out. We hung around for a while but the wind whipping up we decided it was lunchtime.

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