|
|
"It\'ll rearrange your hormones," he\'d said. And now I knew how.
The chrome and leather steed to which I cling is no ordinary motorcycle. It is a cultural icon and a Hollywood idol, a symbol of male potency, a fetish, a love-drug and a charm. It growls between the thighs and sets the blood to throbbing. Designed and built by William Harley and the three Davidson brothers with the modest ambition of taking "the work out of bicycling," the original Harley was little more than a bicycle with a rudimentary engine and sling back handlebars.
And as if that prospect were not inviting enough, four days lay before me of the vineyards and mountains, seascapes and sky of South Africa\'s Mediterranean. And four nights, too, of fine cooking, fine wine and fine country houses.
The Victorian writer Ruskin was of the opinion that "mountains are the beginning and end of all natural scenery." While the Western Cape has no shortage of either, its mountains also provide s-bends and roller-coaster curves, dizzying drops off perilous passes and the electric rush of two-wheeled adrenaline, for those so inclined. I soon caught the bug. I picked it up the next morning. Ensconced in back-rested comfort behind my \'chauffeur\', resplendent astride a machine of burnished attitude, I was afflicted before we even set out but managed to resist the compelling urge to practice my royal wave. Our road out of the city led thirty miles east to the foot of the once impenetrable Hottentots Holland. For the first white settlers to the Cape these mountains marked the end of the world.
But now, where ox-wagons once had trundled, we followed on our Road Kings, towards Sir Lowry\'s Pass. We hit the pass in a gusting southeaster that would have given Mike Tyson a run for his money. Feinting the left hooks and uppercuts, absorbing the glancing blows and ducking the knock-out punches I held grimly on, determined not to be a \'girl\' and balk at the first sign of discomfort. And on under metal skies towards the break in the clouds past apple orchards and pine trees to the water and the wine. The Breede River Valley is one of the most important contributors to the wine-barrel province. The vineyards wear a look of summer sleekness, their elegant farmhouses reminiscent of an earlier, more permanent age.
But, we don\'t stop to sample the, uh, grape juice just yet. The road exerts its pull and we hit the trail. Or what used to be a trail. Once part of the wagon route that led to the north and the Kimberley diamond mines, Bains Kloof Pass is almost a hundred and fifty years old. The Pass was completed by convict labour in 1853 at a rate of fifty three days a kilometre and without the aid of cement. It is no less impressive today than it must have been then. Gouged out of the rock-face high above the serpentine river, its bends and curves mimic the water\'s eddy. We sail the rocky currents and surf the rise and fall but the engine\'s steady hum fails to silence ghostly echoes of creaking wheels and cracking whips.
Our evening\'s accommodation does little to dispel the murmurs of the past. Among the vineyards of the Wellington Valley there is a natural spring. It feeds a swimming pool awash in a garden of idling lawns, plantations of roses, statuary, squirrels and nymphs. The double-gabled Cape Dutch farmhouse was built round the turn of the century and was added to in the style of Herbert Baker during the \'20\'s. The sixteen en-suite rooms are set off by teak-panelled walls, Queen Anne chairs, gilt-edged mirrors and chandeliers. No Cold Comfort Farm this.
We dined that night on mozzarella and aubergine tart, ostrich bredie and raspberry sorbet, washed down by Nelson\'s Creek\'s finest. In the Cape, fine wine is plentiful but this nearby vineyard is one of a kind. Bought in 1988 by a senior advocate from Cape Town with a hankering for the land, the farm was bankrupt and derelict. With the coffers depleted by the purchase and no money to hire a farm manager, Alan Nelson decided on a plan of action which had at its core the idea of productivity. A contentious term this in South Africa and infinitely variable in both its concept and its practice but the soft-spoken gentleman farmer seems to have struck upon a working formula. He turned to his farm labourers who for long years throughout the colonial history of this part of the world have been little better off than medieval serfs. The gist of the message was this. "You help me look after the farm and I\'ll look after you." Less than a decade later Nelson\'s Creek\'s \'96 Chardonnay was a South African Champion. True to his word, Alan donated nine and a half hectares of land to his workers, almost a quarter of the farm in total and added another two hectares after a \'95 Cabernet also garnered an award.
Through grape and grain country and undulating expanses of dry summer grass as the clouds paint shifting shadows on the hills. The horizon\'s rhythm is broken only by the hulking ruins of a windmill and occasionally a motley scattering of farms. The dirt roads that lead off to them bear signs for Lost Valley and Cold Comforrt. The scrubby khaki ground cover tells the rest.
We veer south, away from the beckoning expanse of thirsty land and naked sky towards the southern node of the Breede River and the Victorian village of MacGregor. The road stops here. So does time. This mid-nineteenth century village has been wrestled from extinction and is holding on to the past with studied determination. Its white settler cottages, old and new, Georgian facades and Victorian verandas lead ultimately to the Old Mill House Lodge, a national monument so-named for the old water mill which once stood on this spot. The thatched en-suite guest cottages overlooking five hectares of vineyard bespeak the pleasures of the simple life.
As does the environmental manifesto behind the chalet doors. The lodge\'s letterheads and brochures are printed on recycled paper, its groceries are packed in boxes, its bottles recycled and the kitchen scraps fed to local pigs. There are no radios or TV\'s in your room to contribute to noise pollution and no goodies in the bathroom other than plain, unwrapped soap. What there is in plenty, is peace, quiet and country cooking. Snoek pate and beef medallions in peppercorn and cream, organic vegetables, free-range eggs and home-baked bread. Breakfast was upon us far too soon. Made heavy by muffins and muesli we sally south to Agulhas where Africa falls away into the sea. Then inland through Napier where the hills have belly-dancer curves bound for a seaside resort town famed for the best land-based whale watching in the world.
Headed for Hermanus on a Harley, doll. There are days when you just can\'t complain. But being the end of summer, there is no sign of the resident whale crier with his kelp horn and sandwich boards and the old harbour is unruffled by visiting denizens from the deep. There are however, other indications of their presence. The Whale Rock Lodge proves to be a stately spreading of white walls and thatch. Heavy wooden doors, studded with metal and embellished with giant locks and keys lend a medieval feel to modern comforts and antique furnishings. Its interior is a treasure trove of antique cabinets, dressers, clocks and chairs and the timber roof-beams are from a long-ago local shipwreck. As for us, we set sail on the morning tide, homeward bound.
Along the coast, past seas where whales birth in winter and great white sharks come to feed on fattened seals. Back past the beaches and tidal pools, lighthouses and luxury villas of the Peninsula and up and over Chapman\'s Peak as the sky winds itself around my helmet and the road falls away beneath my boots. Our triumphant return from the land over the mountain is suitably gratifying. Kids wave, teenage boys drool, lithesome girls in flouncy skirts cadge rides to the next traffic light and stressed-out suits in BMW\'s swivel their Ray-Bans to follow our passing. 93% of Harley Davidson owners are men.
Now I know why. Whether one has the physique of Chubby Brown or the sex appeal of Mr Bean, a Harley transforms its rider into king of the road and master of the universe. And when the pulsing brute is stilled and stabled and the road dust banished from the pores, the glamour lingers yet. For, beyond the fanfare and behind the legend, lies the endless fascination of the open road. And, with the wind still in my ears and the horizon\'s glitter in my gaze, I also know, "The best way to get there is just to go."
There are a number of Harley operators in Cape Town but the company I went with was Freedom Africa Touring Club. Readers might be interested in their upcoming Hawg-in Heaven millenium tour of South Africa. They can be found at Thunder Bikes, 15 Bree Street, Cape Town, Tel: +27 21 419-3839, emailed at africatour@icon.co.za or webbed at http://www.freedomafrica.com/
So if that doesn\'t find them....
Artical Related:
Europe's other Northern Island
Spring Break in Mongolia
Overland to Australia
Mellow Malaysia
Strung out in the Solomons
