10 Days 2

Price Albert is host to a supercar event, staging a vulgar display of wealth. Some of the cars sound good, though. Once the overwhelmed petrol attendant finally manages to squeeze me in between this Milan Show collection all competing for fuel, we set off along the tourist route. Meiringspoort  (Mayring’s Canyon), with its awesome views, offers a feast of delectable twists and turns. I kick myself for overpacking the poor Bandit. She doesn’t complain. I do.
 
We weave through the mountains and emerge onto a stretch of open road that would invite speed, but unlike the rest of South Africa, the province called the Western Cape is a first-world-like country unto itself, and has first-world-like police. Further north, we’re used to barely-literates who, for the price of a six pack, can be persuaded to overlook your misdemeanour. Here in the Western Cape, if you get stopped, you stay stopped. 
 
The whole Cape consists of touristy towns. Montagu is one of them.  We ride into the driveway of a dandy guest house, operated by a Belgian chick who greets us in a musically lilting voice. We have lovely buildings in Belgium, but not this, she enthuses, motioning toward the mountains. We’re glad you appreciate them, we reply, it took us ages to build them.  
 
Here we park off for the next couple of days. The adventure bike set off on a dirt road route. I opt for a walking tour (pub crawl - Ed) of the town. Biltong is a dried, cured meat snack, similar to, but better than, the American jerky, and in towns like this you get the good stuff.
 
More good stuff awaits. 
 
In 1984, Clive Foord married Mandy Harris. They have been married for 40 years. This brings two benefits into my world. One, it offers proof positive there is good in the heart of man. Two, we get invited for an anniversary dinner. Knowing what a skinflint Clive is, I try to think of a way to tactfully tell him I don’t do McDonalds. Thankfully, the roadhouse we went to was a bit better than McDonalds. Congrats Clive and Mandy. Your first 40 years passed successfully. In another 40 years I look forward to my dinner invitation for your 80^th anniversary.


It's as if they knew we were coming.


 Lamb chops, my perennial fave.





Behind me is Clive, with Mandy just visible. Happy Anniversary.

Montagu was a charmer, but there’s lots more of the Western Cape. Beautiful wine farm country set against mountainous backdrop stretching as far as the eye can see.  Road works are a frequent occurrence here, contrasting starkly with the unmaintained roads that characterise ANC territory outside the Western Cape. We call them Stop Go’s, because one lane is rebuilt at a time while the other is shared by traffic travelling in both directions. You’ll STOP while the oncoming traffic bottlenecks through the one operational lane, then GO when the construction worker (in the Western Cape they actually work) sends a walkie-talkie message stating the correct count of vehicles has passed through.

 
Prince Albert Hamlet is a tiny village - well, hamlet - that we're in no hurry to get to, not because there's anything wromng with it, but because getting there is half the fun. On the way we stop at the Roadkill Café, an 1880s farm shed now operating as a roadside stop. As a lunch stop, it’s unremarkable. As a holiday landmark, it’s unmistakably Western Cape. 




Road Kill Cafe. Gooi los. Let loose.

From there to Bredasdorp (“BriDARZEdorp”), and the dirt road leading up to the guest farm. I love guest farms. They’re totally isolated. The farmer loans us his bakkie (ute) to go to the hamlet for supplies. The supplies consist of meat for the braai (barbie), and just a little liquid refreshment. Just a little… ahem... we had to borrow a ute.
 
Prince Albert Hamlet is a fine spot for an overnight stay. Unless you’re a farmer, there’s not much to keep you there for longer, but for a night, perfect. They're harvesting, and the packing plat works through the night, packaging our best produce for the tables of Europe. (We get the leftovers.) 

The next days ride takes us back to Bredasdorp, on course for Cape Agulhas, not a first but a de rigeur stop for any Cape Trip. Cape Agulhas (correctly, “Agul-yus,” being Portuguese; naturally, everyone calls it “Agullis”) is windy. You’d expect it to be. It is the southernmost point of the African continent. Stand at the photography spot, face south, and know there isn’t another human being, barring seafarers, between yourself and the Antarctic.


 
Windy Agulhas is touristy. That means great food.  The winds make Agulhas’ weather unpredictable. A misty rain sets in, and remains in place the next am when it’s time to roll. I mutter plaintively as I squirm into my rain suit. Rain suits act like a funnel, collecting rainwater and dumping it down the collar. Turns out I was a hypochondriac to even put the thing on. Within an hour the mist, which never metamorphosised into rain, gave way to sunshine. Barrydale, a quaint little village, offers an op to get rid of the rain suit. The Country Pumpkin is a dandy little restaurant in Barrydale. Across the road is a tourist trap selling silly little fridge magnets and curios. “Ve do surgery!”, an accented voice calls jovially as I eye sheepskin slippers for the missus. “If zey don’t fit, ve reduce your feet!”
 
“I’m allergic to anaesthetic,” I reply. “You’ll have to operate without anaesthetic.”
 
I succumb to temptation and pick out a little something for the missus. It goes into the soft pannier. Belly full, rain suit off and sun shining, the day looks good. Hermanus (“Her MAR nis;” Herman), near Cape Town, lies ahead. Hermanus will be a launch point for a day ride into Franschoek. I’ll tell you about it next time.
 
 
 
Regards
Stan L
South Africa

Hi Stan,
Another action packed episode