PLACE OF THE GRASSHOPPER

“Okay, so which way from here, my lovely,” I asked my fiancé-cum-co-pilot. In truth, without a map between us and little in the way of intelligible signboards en route, this was not a question Annette could’ve been expected to answer. I was merely trying to get a rise out of her as a she was still a little put out from not being able to shower earlier that morning — the donkey boiler water which I’d stoked for ages, and nearly asphyxiated both of us in he process, was deemed not hot enough.

We were on the first of the two trails at “Gonjah Boerdery”, a mixed farmingtherefore had little independent information, and had to rely on what the host’s website stated and the conversations I had with them. Knowing we’d probably be alone on the trail, I’d found their comment that the “road is a lot easier since it’s been redone” reassuring. an I-Ching- , we left at the T-Junction and hoped for the best. We stuck to what we believed was the main track and meandered down a rocky twee-spoor surrounded by long green grass on both sides. Folded green mountains flanked us on both sides as the track rose and fell on its contour-hugging path, acquainting us with a mixture of fynbos, lush grasses of different hues and even an ancient cycad or two.