NOSTALGIA IS A TRIP IN ITSELF

cottages, which meant the place still existed. The closest route, via Seymour, was evidently washed out so I went the long way around in a pea-sized rental car.

On the road to Fort Beaufort, a hitchhiker in spotless Zionist church gear told me about her daughter and elderly mother and the trouble with jobs in this area, then offered me R20 for the ride. On the road to Seymour and Katberg, another hitchhiker heaved herself into the car, sighing and perspiring generously. She hit me up for aspirin and R20. I liked the symmetry, although no cash exchanged hands.

The rugged road to Balfour had the added frisson of the odd tree chopped down to block the way and the remains of burnt tyres: old service-delivery protests, in part, I was told, due to the state of the road.

But at Balfour people were playing soccer and two kindly grans pointed me down an even narrower dirt road. It climbed as almighty views of the mountains, a pint-sized church and scattered homesteads like Lego bricks unfurled below. There was the buzz of unfamiliar insects and bird calls and strange foliage. And not another soul until thatched security gates told me I’d arrived.

As it turned out, Katberg is now an ecogolf estate, a staunchly fenced Pleasantville of residential units and self-catering villas dotted between an 18-hole golf course. Green and lush, it appears teleported into its setting below the smudgy mountains. Security was dubious about letting me in, but a kindly manager gave me the okay and I bumped down concrete roads to the Manor, a clubhouse with a throng of kids and a pool.

I didn’t, however, get to explore the closed hotel (although on the estate map, one of its buildings was marked Lover’s Lane). It didn’t really matter — the memories are intact. And the kids bumbling around the estate on a new generation of ponies will no doubt have theirs. — © Janine Stephen

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