Thursday morning and I'm stuck with admin -
banking stuff, mostly, but time ticks on as one thing after another joins the to-do-right-now list. Backpackers file in for their breakfast, in
dribs and drabs, then depart on day trips.
I'm still working, telling myself that the weather's not going to
improve until late morning, so I've no rush.
Gareth heads to the Cango Caves - but I'm giving them a miss... Seen one unique set of stalagmites, seen 'em
all, right? Hmmm.
Out to the nearby mountains - the
Grootswartberg mountain pass is in my sights.
I'm on a deserted road, virtually, and the grey asphalt seems luxuriously
smooth and wide. No cars come towards
me, and I'm feeling smug: I happen to
know the mountain pass is officially closed, yet I'm perfectly happy to just
ride one side of the up-and-over. I'm
here for fun, not transit. Few folks do
this, hence the quiet.
Sure enough asphalt turns to well-graded
stone chip, and I put myself ahead of a white 4x4 as we both start the steep
grind up the mountain. The pickup looks
like it's a construction team vehicle, perhaps on the way to the works that
have closed the pass? 'I never hurts', I
remind myself, 'to know that a car is
coming along soon... should the unexpected happen'. I accelerate away smoothly, the GS finding
sure footing on the muddy corners; I'm careful to find my own comfort level,
which is a little tentative after a few weeks away.
Up through the granite, rocks interspersed
with yellow-flowering plants; switch backs coming at regular intervals, and the
cloud clearing above to reveal blue skies.
Below, the farms are spread out neatly, the view unobscured over the
sharp drop offs on my left. It's a very
peaceful ride and the chill air adds a purity to the experience. No wonder this is a tourist attraction in
summer.
I crest the pass and wait for the 4x4. The driver pulls over too and we admire the
views. He's a civil engineer working on
the road repairs further on, and tells me I'll have no trouble getting down the
other side: just give the graders a respectful
distance and they'll wave you through.
I'd half-hoped this would be the case, and I'm grateful for the
confirmation.
In fact, I've got an extra agenda item
planned. A few kilometres up the road I
spot the turn off I've been looking for.
It's a rough rock road helpfully identified by the sign: "Dangerous
Road: Proceed At Your Own
Risk". Heh! Like that's ever deterred me...
This is a trip into hell, or Die Hell to be
precise - Gamkaskloof is another name it's known by. The valley is part of the Swartberg Nature
Reserve, and this single track leads 25km to a dead end. Nothing to do, other than admire and enjoy
the isolation and silence, wild flora and soaring mountains on either
side. I step up on the pegs and take in
the first dozen kilometres or so before tracking back. It's a great little ride and I'm lucky the
weather has been so fine.
Onwards and downwards, then. I beep a cheerful hello to the road crews as
I descend the razorbacks into a deep gorge.
The views are magnificent and, still clear of cloud and snow, the road
down is great fun. With few other
vehicles occupying the road I make good time into Prince Albert, the quaint
little town at the bottom of the rocky chute.
 |
| Look Ma, no hands! Clever, huh? |
The town looks very traditional - though
I'm hardly up on my rural architecture notes.
A white church stands out stark against the sky, but seated at a relaxed
cafe porch I'm touched by the gentle colours and delicate detailing around all
the homes. Children play on the garden
swings and an attentive staff bring me out a hearty home-made soup. Fresh, multi-grain bread and farmer's butter
complete the lunch set. I'm loving the
warm sunlight and patter of rural life here.
My bike attracts the usual clucks and
whistles from passers by. A small group
of teenage boys hover around it. Their
dress is sparse, shoes a bit scraggy and bits of straw from the passing
trailers decorate the texture of their black African hair. I'm slightly wary of little hands picking
over my bike, but the kids are respectful and innocent. A departing customer discreetly passes them a
box of unfinished lunch items, and the kids wander away to chomp merrily on the
treat. I have much to learn about this
wonderful country, but the proximity of have's and have-not's is an aspect I'm
really finding out about.
A couple of cheery Africaans men chat to me,
too. They nod with approval when I tell
them my afternoon's plans: 'Oh yeh,
that's a ex-cellent road, my friend', one says. 'Make sure you look out in the
gorge for the rock formations - they're world class, I assure you'. I'm starting to enjoy the lilting South
African accents, and associate them with this kind of friendly enquiry and
advice. The popular film villains of the
1980's seemed to come mostly from country, and the correction in my head is
long over due!
The R407 sweeps along the mountain
row for 30km or so, before diving into the rust coloured contours. It cleaves the steepling summits in two and
forces a jack-knife of asphalt between the walls. I'm watching as the red rock formations buckle and fold around me - illustrating geological upheaval with ripples and
runkles that must chart thousands of million of years in just a few meters.
The drama slips away as quickly as it
started, the landscape calming down as I exit the gorge and scythe smoothly over
the foothills, and onto the R12 towards Oudtshoorn. I
pass a contrasting pair of landmarks: on
my right one of the local wineries that produces some of South Africa's finest
port; on my left, bathed in golden late afternoon sunlight, an extensive
township of technicolour shacks and washing lines.
I'm in high spirits when I reach
Oudtshoorn and figure I have almost two hours of daylight left. The weather is still good, if breezy, so I
opt to blaze onwards towards the coast.
Despite a few days of riding I'm not so very far from Cape Town, and
it's likely bad weather will follow before long. Better to make hay and head for the sea on
dry roads. There's still one pass left
for the day.
My map confirms that I'm back on the
R328. I've done a loop today, and now
I'm heading south. White reed rushes
twinkle in the sun and I race away across the Little Karoo plains towards the distant
hills. This time I'm climbing into the
Outenqua Mountain range, and over the Robinson Pass. The forested Ruitersbos Nature Reserve
surrounds me, but I'm more concerned about the low cloud swirling ever
closer.
A few drops speck my visor, and as I crest
the ragged mountain a light rain attempts to gain a hold. I'm having none of it and refuse to stop to
put on waterproofs - experience has taught me that this situation is better
handled by brazening it out. Sure
enough, the rapid descent towards Mossel Bay quickly leaves the precipitation
behind, and I have just enough daylight to reach the coast without trouble.
I'm keen to finish the day as the glistening
road warns me there are other weather fronts in the vicinity. I circle the town warily, trying to find the
local backpackers. I'm looking so hard I
ride past it twice before realising my mistake!
With the rain about to break again, the helpful staff show me a secure
parking spot and help with my bags. Man,
this place is another gem. Great beds,
an off-season tranquillity I'm looking for, and the best value wifi I've encountered
yet.
Oh, and another owner who's into motorcycle
adventures - this leads to a mutually beneficial arrangement whereby I supply a
piece for the local paper, and they supply me with a free night's stay. Well, to be honest I'd have probably helped
out for free, but there you go.
Rain lashes down for the next two days,
leaving me time to mend some kit and organise a few things back in the UK. Anything to avoid having to take some
exercise...
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