I could sing about those roads, taking you home. But I won't. And they didn't, but they sure made for a wonderful alternative to commuter-crushed highways and byways of the city.
Every so often I head out into nowhere just to get away from it all - sounds like the lyrics of a whiny song, I know, but it's true.
My most recent venture into the country took me to Bonnievale and McGregor, two smallish towns tucked in the folds between the Lange- and Riversonderend Mountains of the Western Cape.
Looking at my car pre-departure, it was easy to think that I was leaving for good. Call me a chick, but I do not travel light when going away, even if it is only for a few days. It's a running joke among those who've ventured out into the wilds with me that I do pack everything, including the kitchen zink. Laugh they will, but thank me they do too when I whip out almost anything from a small hand-axe to a colander. And this trip was no different. The car was stacked to the ceiling with all the usual suspects, including my mountain bike and the new addition - my guitar.
As a relatively newcomer to guitar-dom, I suffer no illusions of campfire singalongs, especially if it's only me. But playing out there in the middle of nowhere where no dogs could try to sing along or cats give me criticizing glances sounded just about right.
My first stop was an extremely picturesque farm in the shadow of the Langeberg; and I do not throw the word picturesque around lightly. I swear if you open an illustrated dictionary and look the word up, you'll find several pictures of this farm in it. Gently rolling hills covered in impossibly crayon-green grass lead up to the imposing blue-purple heights of the mountains. Fruit orchards, vineyards and pasture alternate in patchwork fashion, with photogenic cattle forming points of reference to the roving eye. Ducks, geese and chickens add an authentic aural air to the area, and two horses - one white, one black - adds that final cherry on top.
A series of converted workers cottages are dotted around one pasture area, where no electricity, wi-fi or cell signal can find the weary wanderer. Bliss.
I always find it amazing how one's routine changes when you are forced to fit in with nature's time-table. Up at sunrise, I lazed around in bed and simply enjoyed a cup of tea, courtesy of the gas stove. After that it was a choice of hiking, biking, lazing about or simply taking deep breaths of fresh air until sunset and time to make fire.Yes, yes, I may be considered a not-so-closet pyromaniac, but that act of primal defiance of the dark is still a good one, even after all the ages of 'civilization'. So there I was, carefully stacking my sacrificial altar, a bit concerned that the free wood at the cottage was a little damp. I say damp, but if you squeezed the logs hard enough, you'd probably be able to extract enough moisture for several cups of tea.
But I stepped up to the challenge, placed strategic parafin-soaked teabags (ye olde newfangled firestarters) and lit the match. Instead of watching this carefully orchestrated structure go up in flames, I watched smoke, and lots of it. I huffed, I puffed, I added more small twigs and flamable-teabags, and eventually I got some semblance of a fire going. But it was a whimper rather than a roaring one, and in all honesty, I probably steamed my food rather than 'braai' it, but woman made fire and by the flame she'll eat whatever comes off it.
The next day's fire wasn't much better, even after I spread the logs out in the baking sun. but I was so tired from all the hiking, biking and breathing, that a quick fire and meal was actually welcome.
My next stay was actually in the town of McGregor itself - not quite what I'd envisioned, but that's the fun of exploring new places - to have your preconceptions challenged and horizons broadened.
I purposefully chose backroads to drive from Bonnievale to McGregor, enjoying seeing the sights that most travelers never even know of. Part of the area's charm, I believe, is the names of places. Where else could you find a 'Agter Vinkrivier' or a 'Steenboks vlakte'? They roll off the tongue and over the soul, with reality matching the musical syllables. Everywhere it seemed that Spring was more than ready to do just that, fields and orchards adding riots of colour to the alternating background greens and reds. I even discovered a small mountain pass called 'Strykhoogte' that I dare even Google to find on a map!
McGregor charmed the kilt off me, from the small-town feel, the personalised little wine-cellars to the retirement farm for mules - 'Eseltjiesrus'. I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time the church steeple rang out the hour; when last has anyone of us city-slickers heard time measured out in more than hoots and sirens? This is definitely the spot where one can slow down, listen to the noise of your own breath, and luxuriate in the simplest of activities. Like distance guessing...
See, that small space under the kitchen zink in my car was meant for the distance gadget that slots onto my mountain bike. But instead of the gadget, I only packed air, and was left to guess distances while out cycling. This led to rather interesting cycle routes, and probably not quite as the guides intended - 'cycle 4.5 km, then turn right into a road that angles off at 45 degrees'. I can now attest that there are quite a few roads angling off like that anywhere between 3 and 6 km of that particular spot, and it feels like I cycled them all. But the view was worth it!
I am sorely tempted to return there whenever I next can
... but another part of me wonders what other wonderful discoveries lurk in the rest of South Africa.
Perhaps it's true, "not all who wander are lost."
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