We hit the sand and decide to turn right, which will take us down towards the long headland that runs west to east. It's actually part of the Robberg Nature Reserve and takes us the better part of an hour to walk the estimated 3km until we can't go any further. The sea literally cuts you off from climbing the rock face and going into the reserve, so there is actually little need for the "Keep Out" signs anchored on the rockfaces every 50m or so.
The weather, although there was a howling south-westerly wind blowing that blasted our legs with whipped-up sand, was quite warm and we were walking without shirts on. I was in my boardshorts and Steph in her nice two-piece bikini. We sat down on a rock ledge and watched all the other people on the beach, arriving at the end of the walk with expressions reading something like "Ok, there's a dirty great piece of cliff in front of me. What do I do now?"
We must have sat there for a good half hour, baking, not thinking about the heat. I eventually said to Steph that we should go for a swim. It was wonderful. I love swimming in the Indian Ocean, as it is warm but cool enough to ensure you only stay in for about 20mins. Steph stayed in for about half of that, then went back to baking on the rock ledge. While I'm in the water, a Sassenach wades in up to his knees and nervously asked me if there were any sharks about. "Probably", I said, which I don't think eased his fears any, even though he joined me swimming up to chest depth. He was continually looking around, scanning for the tell-tale dorsal fin of a Great White Shark. We Scots just love fuckin' with the Sassenach's minds...
I decided I'd had enough and my big brave English shadow followed me out of the water, proclaiming to his fellow sausage-munchers that it was great and they should have joined us. Another ten minutes on the rock ledge and we decided to walk back to the flat, for a shower and a nice cold drink. Halfway back, I decided it was time to put on my shirt, but as I found out later that afternoon, it was already too late. As the day wore on, I turned a darker shade of pink, on all areas that had been exposed to the rays. By the time bedtime came, I could hardly move without some discomfort to my creasing skin.
We sat in for the rest of the afternoon, reading, and I not only finished Catch-22, but also got halfway through another shortish book about fly fishing, both of which I'll dedicate a posting to, for varying reasons.
It's a little early for dinner, so we'll just have a glass of wine or twenty and, when the fancy takes us, will cook the box of queen prawns we picked up at the Robberg Fishery the other day. The problem is, we don't know if and when the power is going to go off again, and for how long each time.
Friday 3rd March
Yup, at 20h24 last night, the power went out. Right in the middle of me cooking up the second batch of prawns as there were too many to go into the pan first time round. Not that I minded too much to be honest. I had enough prawns on the first batch to satisfy my hunger,and along with the spicy rice that Steph made, accompanied by a couple of glasses of a good red Cabernet Sauvignon (which could probably use another year or two in the bottle to bring it to its best), it was a fine meal.
"Red wine and prawns?" I hear you enquire, incredulously. But anyone who says that you have to have red wine with red meat and white wine with white meat or fish, gets my classic answer. "Fuck off". It's all about complimenting each of the tastes with the other. If I think I'd enjoy a crisp, wooded Chardonnay with a lean, rare, beef fillet, so be it. They're my taste buds and anyone who wants to try and tell me otherwise should remember the classic answer. If you want to follow the media hype about wines or the "experts", do it in your own time and leave me to mine.
I sat up reading by candlelight untill 22h30 when the power came back on, and then read for another hour until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. It was a book about fishing (surprise!!) called "A Mean-mouthed, Hook-jawed, Bad-news, Son-of-a-fish!", written by a South African Ghillie (fishing guide) called Wolf Avni. He writes regularly for one of the local fly fishing tabloids and I'd seen the book mentioned before, but now that we found it in the flat, I took the opportunity to read it. And what a pleasure it is to read too...a must for any fisherman, but also great reading for anyone who wants a completely different view on a number of things piscatorial. I'll compose a posting dedicated to the book so that if you're not into fishing, you can skip it.
Anyway...it's now just after midday and the power has only been back on for about ten minutes, long enough to boil the kettle for a cup of tea and for Steph to get a curry going with the rest of last night's prawns, and some crabsticks for added flavour. The power's been off since thirteen seconds past 8am, indicating that Eskom still haven't sorted out their ineptitude problems. Luckily Steph had been up early and put on a pot of coffee that kept us going until power was restored.
Both of us are having problems moving this morning. It wasn't caused by anything strenuous and exciting, I hasten to add. Rather the stiffness was caused by an excess of sun yesterday. I look like one of the prawns I so lovingly cooked last night, a bright rosy red colour, all over my chest and the part of my left leg which had been sticking out of my shorts. What's worse is when you try to bend or crease some part of the red skin and then try and stretch it back to its original position. It feels like it's being stretched using a hot iron like you would do witrh one of those iron-on transfers for the kids' t-shirts. You'd also think that, being in the country for as long as I have, I would have realised I was getting cremated. Actually, I did on the walk back along the beach but the damage had already been caused by then. Ah well, live and learn...it'll all be okay in a day or two and then I'll look like a scaly lizard for a day.
We made a reservation for dinner at a restaurant called "Emily's Moon", for 19h00 tonight. Now why would anyone name a restaurant after some old tart's bare backside, I asked myself? Actually, I have no idea who Emily is/was/could be, but the Moon is the oxbow-shaped piece of riverfront that the restaurant's deck looks down over. The setting is fantastic with all the doorframes imported from India, as well as some of the decorative pieces adorning the walls. The only thing I didn't like about the decor was the wall dedicated to dead reindeer and buck species. There must have been at least 20 sets of horns covering every available space on the wall. The horns, I'm sure you'll agree, would have looked better on live deer running around in the wild.
We at least have a prime seating, right in front of the log-burning fireplace and going by the rapidly-cooling air temperature as we sit on the deck having a glass of 2003 Langvallei Pinotage (translates to Long Valley), it's going to be the best seat in the house.
The food is a bit "noveau cuisine" (read: tiny portions for big bucks), but it's tasty and the two bottles of wine we get through are good too, so it's worth the night out and the bill of R600. A double espresso and a grappa finishes it off quite nicely, then it's back to the flat and a nightcap. Stan had hidden a bottle of 10-year old Ardbeg single malt at the back of his drinks cupboard, but I sniffed it out and had a shot. Gotta get me some of that stuff, man. As malty as a witch's hairy armpit (I imagine) but nice and heavily wooded...just the way I like it.
Steph does her usual hypoglycemic party-trick and nods off on the couch, so I finish the drink in silence and then wake her up and we toddle off to grab some uncomfortable sleep. Have you tried seeping with second-degree sunburn? Not fuckin' nice, I tell you...
Friday, March 24, 2006
Thursday 2nd March...More rain and power cuts...followed by serious sunburn...
Guess what? It's raining when we wake up and it's been raining for most of the night...It doesn't last long though, and by 09h00 the sun is out and we decide to go for a walk on the beach.
We hit the sand and decide to turn right, which will take us down towards the long headland that runs west to east. It's actually part of the Robberg Nature Reserve and takes us the better part of an hour to walk the estimated 3km until we can't go any further. The sea literally cuts you off from climbing the rock face and going into the reserve, so there is actually little need for the "Keep Out" signs anchored on the rockfaces every 50m or so.
The weather, although there was a howling south-westerly wind blowing that blasted our legs with whipped-up sand, was quite warm and we were walking without shirts on. I was in my boardshorts and Steph in her nice two-piece bikini. We sat down on a rock ledge and watched all the other people on the beach, arriving at the end of the walk with expressions reading something like "Ok, there's a dirty great piece of cliff in front of me. What do I do now?"
We must have sat there for a good half hour, baking, not thinking about the heat. I eventually said to Steph that we should go for a swim. It was wonderful. I love swimming in the Indian Ocean, as it is warm but cool enough to ensure you only stay in for about 20mins. Steph stayed in for about half of that, then went back to baking on the rock ledge. While I'm in the water, a Sassenach wades in up to his knees and nervously asked me if there were any sharks about. "Probably", I said, which I don't think eased his fears any, even though he joined me swimming up to chest depth. He was continually looking around, scanning for the tell-tale dorsal fin of a Great White Shark. We Scots just love fuckin' with the Sassenach's minds...
I decided I'd had enough and my big brave English shadow followed me out of the water, proclaiming to his fellow sausage-munchers that it was great and they should have joined us. Another ten minutes on the rock ledge and we decided to walk back to the flat, for a shower and a nice cold drink. Halfway back, I decided it was time to put on my shirt, but as I found out later that afternoon, it was already too late. As the day wore on, I turned a darker shade of pink, on all areas that had been exposed to the rays. By the time bedtime came, I could hardly move without some discomfort to my creasing skin.
We sat in for the rest of the afternoon, reading, and I not only finished Catch-22, but also got halfway through another shortish book about fly fishing, both of which I'll dedicate a posting to, for varying reasons.
It's a little early for dinner, so we'll just have a glass of wine or twenty and, when the fancy takes us, will cook the box of queen prawns we picked up at the Robberg Fishery the other day. The problem is, we don't know if and when the power is going to go off again, and for how long each time.
Friday 3rd March
Yup, at 20h24 last night, the power went out. Right in the middle of me cooking up the second batch of prawns as there were too many to go into the pan first time round. Not that I minded too much to be honest. I had enough prawns on the first batch to satisfy my hunger,and along with the spicy rice that Steph made, accompanied by a couple of glasses of a good red Cabernet Sauvignon (which could probably use another year or two in the bottle to bring it to its best), it was a fine meal.
"Red wine and prawns?" I hear you enquire, incredulously. But anyone who says that you have to have red wine with red meat and white wine with white meat or fish, gets my classic answer. "Fuck off". It's all about complimenting each of the tastes with the other. If I think I'd enjoy a crisp, wooded Chardonnay with a lean, rare, beef fillet, so be it. They're my taste buds and anyone who wants to try and tell me otherwise should remember the classic answer. If you want to follow the media hype about wines or the "experts", do it in your own time and leave me to mine.
I sat up reading by candlelight untill 22h30 when the power came back on, and then read for another hour until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. It was a book about fishing (surprise!!) called "A Mean-mouthed, Hook-jawed, Bad-news, Son-of-a-fish!", written by a South African Ghillie (fishing guide) called Wolf Avni. He writes regularly for one of the local fly fishing tabloids and I'd seen the book mentioned before, but now that we found it in the flat, I took the opportunity to read it. And what a pleasure it is to read too...a must for any fisherman, but also great reading for anyone who wants a completely different view on a number of things piscatorial. I'll compose a posting dedicated to the book so that if you're not into fishing, you can skip it.
Anyway...it's now just after midday and the power has only been back on for about ten minutes, long enough to boil the kettle for a cup of tea and for Steph to get a curry going with the rest of last night's prawns, and some crabsticks for added flavour. The power's been off since thirteen seconds past 8am, indicating that Eskom still haven't sorted out their ineptitude problems. Luckily Steph had been up early and put on a pot of coffee that kept us going until power was restored.
Both of us are having problems moving this morning. It wasn't caused by anything strenuous and exciting, I hasten to add. Rather the stiffness was caused by an excess of sun yesterday. I look like one of the prawns I so lovingly cooked last night, a bright rosy red colour, all over my chest and the part of my left leg which had been sticking out of my shorts. What's worse is when you try to bend or crease some part of the red skin and then try and stretch it back to its original position. It feels like it's being stretched using a hot iron like you would do witrh one of those iron-on transfers for the kids' t-shirts. You'd also think that, being in the country for as long as I have, I would have realised I was getting cremated. Actually, I did on the walk back along the beach but the damage had already been caused by then. Ah well, live and learn...it'll all be okay in a day or two and then I'll look like a scaly lizard for a day.
We made a reservation for dinner at a restaurant called "Emily's Moon", for 19h00 tonight. Now why would anyone name a restaurant after some old tart's bare backside, I asked myself? Actually, I have no idea who Emily is/was/could be, but the Moon is the oxbow-shaped piece of riverfront that the restaurant's deck looks down over. The setting is fantastic with all the doorframes imported from India, as well as some of the decorative pieces adorning the walls. The only thing I didn't like about the decor was the wall dedicated to dead reindeer and buck species. There must have been at least 20 sets of horns covering every available space on the wall. The horns, I'm sure you'll agree, would have looked better on live deer running around in the wild.
We at least have a prime seating, right in front of the log-burning fireplace and going by the rapidly-cooling air temperature as we sit on the deck having a glass of 2003 Langvallei Pinotage (translates to Long Valley), it's going to be the best seat in the house.
The food is a bit "noveau cuisine" (read: tiny portions for big bucks), but it's tasty and the two bottles of wine we get through are good too, so it's worth the night out and the bill of R600. A double espresso and a grappa finishes it off quite nicely, then it's back to the flat and a nightcap. Stan had hidden a bottle of 10-year old Ardbeg single malt at the back of his drinks cupboard, but I sniffed it out and had a shot. Gotta get me some of that stuff, man. As malty as a witch's hairy armpit (I imagine) but nice and heavily wooded...just the way I like it.
Steph does her usual hypoglycemic party-trick and nods off on the couch, so I finish the drink in silence and then wake her up and we toddle off to grab some uncomfortable sleep. Have you tried seeping with second-degree sunburn? Not fuckin' nice, I tell you...
We hit the sand and decide to turn right, which will take us down towards the long headland that runs west to east. It's actually part of the Robberg Nature Reserve and takes us the better part of an hour to walk the estimated 3km until we can't go any further. The sea literally cuts you off from climbing the rock face and going into the reserve, so there is actually little need for the "Keep Out" signs anchored on the rockfaces every 50m or so.
The weather, although there was a howling south-westerly wind blowing that blasted our legs with whipped-up sand, was quite warm and we were walking without shirts on. I was in my boardshorts and Steph in her nice two-piece bikini. We sat down on a rock ledge and watched all the other people on the beach, arriving at the end of the walk with expressions reading something like "Ok, there's a dirty great piece of cliff in front of me. What do I do now?"
We must have sat there for a good half hour, baking, not thinking about the heat. I eventually said to Steph that we should go for a swim. It was wonderful. I love swimming in the Indian Ocean, as it is warm but cool enough to ensure you only stay in for about 20mins. Steph stayed in for about half of that, then went back to baking on the rock ledge. While I'm in the water, a Sassenach wades in up to his knees and nervously asked me if there were any sharks about. "Probably", I said, which I don't think eased his fears any, even though he joined me swimming up to chest depth. He was continually looking around, scanning for the tell-tale dorsal fin of a Great White Shark. We Scots just love fuckin' with the Sassenach's minds...
I decided I'd had enough and my big brave English shadow followed me out of the water, proclaiming to his fellow sausage-munchers that it was great and they should have joined us. Another ten minutes on the rock ledge and we decided to walk back to the flat, for a shower and a nice cold drink. Halfway back, I decided it was time to put on my shirt, but as I found out later that afternoon, it was already too late. As the day wore on, I turned a darker shade of pink, on all areas that had been exposed to the rays. By the time bedtime came, I could hardly move without some discomfort to my creasing skin.
We sat in for the rest of the afternoon, reading, and I not only finished Catch-22, but also got halfway through another shortish book about fly fishing, both of which I'll dedicate a posting to, for varying reasons.
It's a little early for dinner, so we'll just have a glass of wine or twenty and, when the fancy takes us, will cook the box of queen prawns we picked up at the Robberg Fishery the other day. The problem is, we don't know if and when the power is going to go off again, and for how long each time.
Friday 3rd March
Yup, at 20h24 last night, the power went out. Right in the middle of me cooking up the second batch of prawns as there were too many to go into the pan first time round. Not that I minded too much to be honest. I had enough prawns on the first batch to satisfy my hunger,and along with the spicy rice that Steph made, accompanied by a couple of glasses of a good red Cabernet Sauvignon (which could probably use another year or two in the bottle to bring it to its best), it was a fine meal.
"Red wine and prawns?" I hear you enquire, incredulously. But anyone who says that you have to have red wine with red meat and white wine with white meat or fish, gets my classic answer. "Fuck off". It's all about complimenting each of the tastes with the other. If I think I'd enjoy a crisp, wooded Chardonnay with a lean, rare, beef fillet, so be it. They're my taste buds and anyone who wants to try and tell me otherwise should remember the classic answer. If you want to follow the media hype about wines or the "experts", do it in your own time and leave me to mine.
I sat up reading by candlelight untill 22h30 when the power came back on, and then read for another hour until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. It was a book about fishing (surprise!!) called "A Mean-mouthed, Hook-jawed, Bad-news, Son-of-a-fish!", written by a South African Ghillie (fishing guide) called Wolf Avni. He writes regularly for one of the local fly fishing tabloids and I'd seen the book mentioned before, but now that we found it in the flat, I took the opportunity to read it. And what a pleasure it is to read too...a must for any fisherman, but also great reading for anyone who wants a completely different view on a number of things piscatorial. I'll compose a posting dedicated to the book so that if you're not into fishing, you can skip it.
Anyway...it's now just after midday and the power has only been back on for about ten minutes, long enough to boil the kettle for a cup of tea and for Steph to get a curry going with the rest of last night's prawns, and some crabsticks for added flavour. The power's been off since thirteen seconds past 8am, indicating that Eskom still haven't sorted out their ineptitude problems. Luckily Steph had been up early and put on a pot of coffee that kept us going until power was restored.
Both of us are having problems moving this morning. It wasn't caused by anything strenuous and exciting, I hasten to add. Rather the stiffness was caused by an excess of sun yesterday. I look like one of the prawns I so lovingly cooked last night, a bright rosy red colour, all over my chest and the part of my left leg which had been sticking out of my shorts. What's worse is when you try to bend or crease some part of the red skin and then try and stretch it back to its original position. It feels like it's being stretched using a hot iron like you would do witrh one of those iron-on transfers for the kids' t-shirts. You'd also think that, being in the country for as long as I have, I would have realised I was getting cremated. Actually, I did on the walk back along the beach but the damage had already been caused by then. Ah well, live and learn...it'll all be okay in a day or two and then I'll look like a scaly lizard for a day.
We made a reservation for dinner at a restaurant called "Emily's Moon", for 19h00 tonight. Now why would anyone name a restaurant after some old tart's bare backside, I asked myself? Actually, I have no idea who Emily is/was/could be, but the Moon is the oxbow-shaped piece of riverfront that the restaurant's deck looks down over. The setting is fantastic with all the doorframes imported from India, as well as some of the decorative pieces adorning the walls. The only thing I didn't like about the decor was the wall dedicated to dead reindeer and buck species. There must have been at least 20 sets of horns covering every available space on the wall. The horns, I'm sure you'll agree, would have looked better on live deer running around in the wild.
We at least have a prime seating, right in front of the log-burning fireplace and going by the rapidly-cooling air temperature as we sit on the deck having a glass of 2003 Langvallei Pinotage (translates to Long Valley), it's going to be the best seat in the house.
The food is a bit "noveau cuisine" (read: tiny portions for big bucks), but it's tasty and the two bottles of wine we get through are good too, so it's worth the night out and the bill of R600. A double espresso and a grappa finishes it off quite nicely, then it's back to the flat and a nightcap. Stan had hidden a bottle of 10-year old Ardbeg single malt at the back of his drinks cupboard, but I sniffed it out and had a shot. Gotta get me some of that stuff, man. As malty as a witch's hairy armpit (I imagine) but nice and heavily wooded...just the way I like it.
Steph does her usual hypoglycemic party-trick and nods off on the couch, so I finish the drink in silence and then wake her up and we toddle off to grab some uncomfortable sleep. Have you tried seeping with second-degree sunburn? Not fuckin' nice, I tell you...
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