Giant's Castle

Giant’s Castle 28th October 2006

The minibus rattles and crunches over the unmade roads that lead from the Jo’berg to Durban Highway to 'Giant’s Castle' resort in the Drakensberg  Mountains that lace between Lesotho and Kwa-Zulu Natal. 

The afternoon sun slips intermittently between the mountains, reddening as it dips, casting lengthening shadows and giving rise to the fear that this group of twelve head teachers, on a break , wouldn’t make their destination before nightfall.

We amble through small villages, each a cluster of thatched mud-bricked roundhouses, each with its own lush garden, each connected to the next, to the river, to the road, by a network of well-worn paths that snake over the landscape like cracks in a glaze.

Sharp scrutiny of the sky and the bush are rewarded with sightings of various unidentifiable antelope leaping from view, and a brace of eagles riding the thermals.  Each is inevitably accompanied by a shout of excitement from the spotter and a collective groan of disappointment from 
those who’d missed it.

 Driving erratically, climbing steadily, we arrive just before dusk. The thatched cottage I share with Maxine, is simply furnished in a faux-African style that is both austere and comfortable.  Greedy for light, I make the hastiest of preparations for the evening meal, and step out into the cool, brief evening, within minutes of setting my cases down.

The air is moist, with an abrasive tang of wood smoke and as I turn my face towards the peaks, I draw in a deep, deep breath that is rewarded with the faint aroma of an exotic bloom, one that I  shall ultimately fail to identify, that will, within the hour, offer a feast of nectar to the night-feeding insects that emerge with the stars.

‘I’ll leave at five, it should be light by then, walk for two hours, then turn around and come back, I’m not bothered about breakfast. I’m going to make the most of the few hours we have here. ‘
‘Remember, the bus leaves at ten!’  Maxine calls back, as she makes her way over to the restaurant for pre-dinner drinks
.
Magic!   My fifty-sixth birthday dawns, and its magic.  

Stepping out onto the deck, my ears are assailed by the high-pitched ‘zing-zing-zing ‘ of an orchestra of bush  crickets that were awake long  before I was.  Instead of staying with the moment, I rush off to pick up my voice recorder. Predictably, on my return, the cacophony has 
ceased. 

Shrugging off disappointment , I walk briskly down to the trail that will take me to the caves where, centuries ago, the Bushmen sheltered.  There are no physical traces of them now, apart from the stunning cave paintings that are sacred testimonies to their nomadic lives. They were 
daubed with skill, by the light of firebrands,  in the colours of the earth; yellow ochre, blood red, chalk white and charcoal black. Here are ghostly eland, masked shaman and birthing women, each pictogram carrying meaning that can only be guessed at by most modern observers.

Not for my eyes though, not today.  I shall be leaving for the airport at the precise time that the caves, safe behind their steel barricades, open to the public .

The mountains, stark companions on my solitary walk, are  swathed in mist. The strengthening sun energises it with a golden glow, so unearthly, I catch my breath in wonder. The path is an easy meander, a slow descent for about an hour to a river basin where a fast flowing stream stays a moment, in a hollow, in a glade, before pouring over a lip and hastening on to meet another wanderer far  below.  

Here I rest, reveling in the beauty of the place.  Across the valley, bare of trees, the precipice is radiant in 
full sun. I am warmer too, so I remove my jacket and drink deeply from my water bottle.  I listen for the chatter of women and children, pausing here from root-digging, berry-picking, to refresh themselves.  I am being fanciful; nevertheless, I sense that their laughter is only just out of hearing.

My walk is not without purpose.  I have photographed many of the flowers that I have discovered (all but one, unknown to me) and before I move on, I pull out my field guide to check them out.  I amuse myself by allowing the !Xhosa names to roll over my tongue, iqalaba, (sugar-bush) isichwe, (candelabra flower)umsobo wesinja (sobobo berry). 

This day, this time, this place.  Pure gift.

Tac-o- Bet

Tac-o-bet, is the Native American name for Mt Rainier, Tac-o-bet was a beautiful woman, who when her life ended, chose to become a mountain who could, forever sustain her people. Rainier was an Englishman who was never here...

The sun shone all day: temperatures rose to the upper umm thirties.  Two amazing pieces of luck - the weather is unusually warm and clear, and the late snow melt this year meant the flowers bloomed later, and there were many still going into late September.  Tonight, Darlene and I go shopping for the Devonshire Cream Tea which I am catering tomorrow for everyone who helped with the wedding. Casually starting packing.  We leave at 4:30am on Thursday for a 7am flight (via Cleeveland and Newark NJ) We touchdown in Birmingham at 9am Friday. Though I don't get home until after Daniel's weekend at Llansor Mill.

Mt Rainier

Today was perfect... 'The Mountain was out'! Well and truly out.  Warm, sunny, clear - days like this are rare enough, and the fact that the same is forecast or the next two days, rarer still! The B&B is the home built for the Timber Company Boss who stripped the area bare back in the 1900's.  It is beautiful, and the couple who run it, lacking tv reception, gain all their information about the world from the BBC, so we're well in! The rest is up to the photos, I really can't convey how spectacular, how sacred this place is, and not just to the Native Americans.

Dancing Across The Sinai

Cliches are not my style, so in claiming 'Holiday of a Lifetime' I am serious.

Ten days, in Egypt, with my Arabian Dance Class - it WAS incredible. The journey into the desert was eventful enough - the flight to Cairo within weeks of 9/11, for a while, seemed unlikely to happen at all.. From Cairo to Sharm-el-Sheik by minibus was more demanding on my tender rear than camel riding turned out to be. Fortunately.

The 'mock bedouin camp' hotel in S el S was a culture shock. I was propositioned by a young man who would have done most things for $10 ... I tried not to be REALLY shocked. I didn't know where to direct my anger, so I kept it to myself.

The Bedouin who hosted our group were commissioned by a charitable trust, and paid fairly.

'Day Three, 'Meet The Camels'.

So said the itinerary. Sinai camels, I was reassured, are gentle beasts, not like their vicious Sahara cousins. Fair enough - apart from a tendency to hang me up in thorny acacia trees as he reached for a snack, Azell and I got on well enough.

(I shall never forget the 'three lurch' mount-and rise motion. Lurch one, I scramble into the saddle and take up the reins. Lurch two, Azell raises himself up, from kneeling , onto his front feet, lurch three, Azell raises himself onto all fours, and with a little encouragement, we're off!)

For seven days Faranjela's clan pitched camp for the group, cooked for us and watched, amused, as we pursued our plans. Early each morning we would  rise at dawn and rehearse; an exotic addition to the spectacular desert scenery. We would then camel from place to place, going where all tourists do, then in the evenings we would dance, in costume, to oud and drum, round the camp fire.

I have clambered up ancient sand dunes, visited prehistoric villages, climbed Mount Sinai, danced with Bedouin women, bought countless beaded items, swam in the Red Sea and slept under the stars.

A friend told me before I went, that no-one returns from the desert the same person that entered it. It's true. It's true.

Travels With Ruth

The gentle homely mountains of Wales, the rolling hills and country pubs of Staffordshire - and now, Switzerland. where the mountains really mean business and the lakes house botanical gardens.

Yesterday, I left the beautiful village of Brione Sopra Minusio nestling among the chestnut forests, pouring streams down into the lake with joyous regularity: it is a paradise.

The four days in the beautiful home that Ruth's friend Corina lent to us, were delightful. Sitting in the sun, eating on the terrace, we were in heaven, that's for sure.

Thank you Ruth. Thank you Corina.

I have run out of words, except perhaps this one:

Arriverdeci

The rest is best left to pictures.