Hessequa idylls
Good-value stays along the Breede River mouth and forests of the Langeberg
‘Donʼt follow the herd,ʼ people say but even so, you might find yourself among sheep. My wife, Sarah, and I were surrounded by a bleating cacophony on the west bank of the Breede River mouth. Across the water, the lights of Port Beaufort and Witsand glittered as the sun disappeared. Turning back to the holiday home a friend had lent us near Cape Infanta, we waded between sheep, invaders of the river-fed lawn too juicy to resist. Yes, Iʼd accidentally left the gate open, but the animals were soothing company – a metaphysical woolly jumper in the chilly air. It was good to have escaped Cape Townʼs rat race and have found a different herd. Sitting on the porch, my mind drifted to the other side of the river, and the inevitable question came up: was it greener over there?
A subsequent trip took us across the Breede via the sleepy hamlet of Malgas. Having driven the dirt road through rolling hills and pasture, we were feeling decidedly rural and looked forward to the novelty of boarding a ferry across the river. A small diesel pont waited for us and we stopped at the mooring, revving the engine with anticipation. Time slows down on the Breede, as demonstrated by the ferryman who was indifferent to our presence. He sat in his cockpit sipping languidly at his tea, and only kicked the engine to life once heʼd drained the cup. His assistant materialised from a siesta beneath some gum trees; ambling slowly over to the gate, he finally opened it for us to board. It all made sense when he explained we didnʼt have to pay – this was a public service, the post office version of crossing a river.
The passage itself was short, but the break in the journey made us feel like weʼd crossed to another world, something you donʼt sense when you speed over the Breede on the N2 bridge further upstream. We slowed down even more to enjoy the rural scenery and at dusk we rolled into the riverside village of Port Beaufort where, munching on the grassy slopes above our lodge, was a significant herd of chubby sheep. The truth? The grass was greener.
With its own mooring on the estuary, and a bevy of boats, Breede River Lodge is not only ideal for families who fish, it has an adventure contingent offering additional water-born spills such as kiteboarding, kayaking and SUPing. In places the estuary is shallow enough for novice kiters to find their feet, something lacking when I took a kiting course at Blouberg Beach, an episode that involved swallowing a lot of sea water while being dragged through the surf like a plough.
So, it was kayaking for me and Sarah, and I paddled happily from this shore to that, exploring rock pools, wading in the shallows and swimming to cool off in the growing heat. We claimed sandy islands – the Isles of Crone – and watched kite surfers dance across the sun well into the evening.
Of course, we werenʼt the first to step on these sandy islands. Fishermen walk the shallows hunting for sand prawns which they syphon with pumps. These are used to attract a variety of fish, but the large specimens of cob are proving elusive these days. Not so a few decades ago. The walls of the lodge display photos of great catches, the most remarkable being a 50kg beast caught on a 7kg line in 1972 by a lovely dame who was smaller than her prize.
Val Barry was her name, one that appears on a grave at the Barry Memorial Church, built in 1846. This family is synonymous with Port Beaufort, the patriarch, Joseph Barry, having established the first harbour and trading store here in the early 1820s. He was instrumental in shipping urgent supplies from Cape Town to this drought-ravaged region at speed. By sea it took a few days whereas the wagon journey overland took as long as three weeks. His trade routes extended as far as the little Karoo and the village of Barrydale just over the mountains was eventually named for him.
The highlands beckoned, and we drove between
rocky pastures where sheep were giving birth to lambs in anticipation of the rainy season. Sticking to the dirt roads, we made a small detour to the enchanting hamlet of Vermaaklikheid on the Duiwenhoks River, then headed north towards the Langeberg eventually crossing the N2 at the small town of Heidelberg. A 20km climb towards the mountains and the dry plains gave way to lush hills and valleys in this transition zone between winter and year-round rainfall.
On the edge of Grootvadersbosch Nature Reserve, our digs at Strawberry Hill Farm had an incredible view over forested glades. This large converted farmhouse is ideal for families or friends, particularly if mountain biking is your thing. A long row of bike and equipment racks line the entrance hall and the trails here are diverse and picturesque. A network of well-marked routes takes you along various grades, including technical single tracks that dive into sunny valleys and onto long winding dirt roads where the pretty farm scenes are so distracting you might T-bone a cow, of which there are plenty.
Swapping two wheels for takkies, we explored the nature reserve the next day, loving the extraordinary bird hides that are built high in the canopy of trees, all the better for spying the feathery specials youʼd struggle to see from the ground. We added grey cuckooshrike, Knysna woodpecker and black sawwing to our list of lifers. Narina trogons can be spotted here, as well as Victorinʼs warbler and a few other specials. If itʼs not birds youʼre after, thereʼs much to admire about the trees. Many of the indigenous stinkwoods, yellowwoods, alders and ironwoods survived the axe of the previous two centuries, and CapeNature is reclaiming the area from alien trees planted by foresters.
Walking beneath the canopy on the hiking trails, the concept of ʻforest bathingʼ is given real meaning as the tall boughs sway and creak in the breeze. Sound is dampened, the ground is moist underfoot and sips of water from clear streams are filtered by countless leaves. Then you go around a bend and youʼre suddenly surrounded by redwood trees. The sensation is like stepping into another world – California to be exact. Planted by woodsmen over 100 years before, some of these coastal redwoods reach higher than 40 metres. Despite being aliens – and conspicuous ones at that – they are seen
to have heritage value and are protected. After admiring them for a while we bid farewell to the Americans, ambassadors from a time when America was truly great.
As the weekend came to an end, we set course for home, taking our time winding through the valley farms. We were reluctant to leave this rural idyll. Sheep bleated farewell, cows lowed and farmers waved until we reached the N2 highway where cars sped by, oblivious to the tranquility on either side of the road. Turn right onto the tarmac and weʼd cross the Breede River in no time, rejoining the rat race two and a half hours later. Cross the highway and weʼd take a slow dawdle to Malgas, where weʼd no doubt be delayed on this enchanting side of the river. The choice was obvious, so we took it.