Tue 12 Jul 2011 |
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It's Brighton, by George! |
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It’s all thanks to George.
Not just any George, mind you, but King George IV. Or, to be more precise, George before he became George. When he was just the Prince of Wales, the Prince Regent; before he took the throne on the death of his mad father.
For while most of Britain’s south coast is filled with retirement villages better known for their blue rinse than blue seas, Brighton has always revelled in its offbeat pleasure-seeking charm.
And thanks to old George, who made the town his escape from the stuffy Royal Court in London, it’s long been a seaside town with a taste for the hedonistic. More is always more in Brighton, it seems. From the flamboyant bars of gay-friendly Kemp Town to the indie shops that line hidden corners in the winding Lanes, there’s an energetic anything goes feel about this Sussex town.
Even the famous pier – one of England’s finest – has a jaunty feel about it, its flags flapping in the distance as I wander along Brighton’s lengthy seafront promenade. My bags have been dropped at the hotel and it’s time to blow away some long-haul cobwebs.
The town’s famous promenade is lined with beachfront cafés, but most are deserted on this blustery grey day and I find only a few day-trippers sipping tea behind the double-glazing of The Bandstand Bistro. I pull my jacket collar up around my neck and keep walking: past the merry-go-round doing its best to be cheerful against leaden skies, and beyond the boules court; France lies just over the horizon, after all. Grand squares of Regency architecture gaze out over the pebble beach that tumbles down to grey seas; a mirror of the clouds on this overcast Tuesday.
My stomach is rumbling like the rolling pebbles when I finally reach what I’ve been looking for: the humble, but famous, Brighton Smokehouse. I have just one night on the coast before heading back to London, and it seems like any good visit to Brighton should commence with some crustacean.
Jack and Linda Mills have been smoking fresh fish and crab here for 14 years, and it’s far and away the best place in town to enjoy a traditional crab sandwich. A small deli and kitchen crouches in an alcove under the promenade, while the wooden smokehouse sits proudly right on the edge of the beach.
“My parents had a smokehouse in town in the ‘30s, but that burnt down,” Jack tells me, as he cuts thick slices from a bloomer loaf.
After years as a fisherman, he decided it was time for terra firma and opened the rejuvenated Smokehouse: “We get all our fish and crabs from the local boats; either next door at Newhaven, or just down the coast at Shoreham. It all goes into the small smokehouse out there, and we only use the traditional oak and apple shavings.”
Jack whips together a crab sandwich – the filling a deep brown from the flavoursome shell meat – and I take a seat on a small bench outside. There’s a weak sun trying to break through the clouds, but it’s still a quiet day on the beach; just a few flapping deckchairs to keep me company.
The rich smoky sandwich (a steal at £3.20) disappears in a few bites, and with last morsels licked and napkin thrown away it seems only fitting to take a turn inside the Brighton Fishing Museum next door. Pay a little homage to the men who brought that crab from seafloor to my sandwich, I think to myself.
For Brighton has long been a town where life revolves around the sea.
The village that grew into Brighton is first recorded in the Domesday Book of 1086 as Brighthelmstone, and was for centuries just a humble fishing village.
That, however, was before the previously unheard-of fashion for ‘sea-bathing’ took off in the mid-1700s.
By the middle of the century canopied ‘bathing machines’ appeared on the beach, ready to be wheeled into the water to protect the modesty of bathers. Before long, fisherfolk were spending more time helping day-trippers into the sea than helping the fish out of it.
The age of seaside tourism had begun, and when the Prince Regent – yes, there’s George IV again – expressed his pleasure at ‘sea bathing’ the resort future of Brighton was assured.
It’s a chilly old day today though, and there’s not much chance of a dip in the sea for me, but on hot summer weekends this is a popular day out for overheated Londoners. I spend another hour or so browsing the collection of faded photographs and fishy exhibits before strolling off down to the pier.
For the pleasures of salt-water dipping could only entertain visitors for so long, and by the Victorian age the era of grand seaside piers was in full swing.
Brighton’s Palace Pier – to give it its proper name – officially opened in 1899, nearly 70 years after the Prince Regent’s death, but I’m sure he would have approved of its pleasure halls.
While stormy seas grab at the pier’s cast-iron feet, the flashing ‘amusements’ that are the hallmark of all British piers are a popular attraction here. The ‘Tin Pan Alley’ of sideshow games is filled with strutting teenage boys and smiling girlfriends clutching stuffed whales, while the echo of a bingo announcer wafts out of the main amusement hall. At the back, the Galaxia and Horror Hotel rides rumble around and around.
There’s nothing understated about the Pier, and only the ornate iron railings and fluttering Union Jacks still hint at the elegance that made this and other English piers famous around the world in the Victorian age of empire.
But when it comes to over-the-top architecture, nothing in Brighton – or much of England, for that matter – can top the Regent’s Palace.
The Prince was rather fond of his wine, women and song, and the Regent’s Palace was his ostentatious temple to pleasure in all its guises.
Built for the Prince Regent in fits and starts between 1787 and 1823, it’s the 1822 design by John Nash that astounds visitors today. Ornate Indian domes sit plump on top of the main building, while Islamic minarets tower above the quaint English garden that surrounds Brighton’s most popular museum.
Through the front doors (entrance is £9.80), the richly decorated interior has splashes of both Chinese and Mughal influence. George IV was a passionate music lover and the plush Music Room hosted the king’s own band, as well as musical greats like the Italian composer Rossini, who performed here in 1823. Throughout the elaborate Banqueting Room and royal reception rooms the décor is a riot of Asian-inspired murals, tapestry and artworks that couldn’t possibly seem more out of place on the edge of the English Channel. And that’s precisely what makes it so loveably eccentric.
After the blaze of colours and textures I give my eyes a rest with a gentle wander up to my favourite corner of Brighton.
The cobbled Lanes that meander down from Brighton station (itself a landmark of the town’s history, opening in 1840) were once a maze of fishermen’s cottages and merchants, and are today perhaps the city’s most charming neighbourhood.
In the upper Lanes, I find myself drawn into the indie clothing outlets and knick-knack boutiques; antique warrens and bo-ho jewellery shops. Closer to the Palace, and the worthwhile Brighton Museum, the feel goes distinctly upmarket with Dolce & Gabbana, The White Company and boutique chocolatiers lining the Lanes.
Despite the price tags The Lanes retain all the character of old Brighthelmstone, and around almost any corner there’s an underground record store, bohemian coffee shop or cosy pub to discover.
It’s early evening by the time I stumble upon the Seven Stars; a pub that – like Brighton – is endearing in a suitably schizophrenic way. There is English bitter on tap and Victorian pressed ceilings above, but the music is ‘70s soul and a queue quickly forms for the Wii console in the corner.
It’s a pub for all ages, with a menu for anyone who likes their food farm-reared and local. Here the eggs are free-range, and the beef come from nearby fields.
I savour a pint of Young’s Special Bitter – “We’ve got the best bitter in Sussex,” the bartender promises me – over a steak and ale pie, and debate another for a nightcap. Why not, I think, as I wave the waiter over. Old George would probably be proud.
SIDEBOX: TRAVEL TIPS
• Where to stay: There is no shortage of accommodation in Brighton, from family-run B&Bs to boutique hotels. As a rule, the closer you are to the seafront and the Regent’s Palace the more you’ll pay. The historic Lansdowne Place Hotel & Spa is a well-priced option, some 10 minutes’ walk from the Pier. Visit www.lansdowneplace.co.uk.
• Getting there: British Airways flies daily from Cape Town and Johannesburg to London Heathrow. From Heathrow, take the Underground to London Victoria for regular train services to Brighton, about an hour away. Visit www.ba.com and www.nationalrail.co.uk.
• Web: Plan your trip at www.visitbritain.com or www.visitbrighton.com.
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In Prague, it pays to get up with the sun. To leave your hotel when the night porter is still snoozing behind his desk, and the bakery vans are rumbling down quiet cobbled streets. Walking shoes on your feet and a bag with a guidebook and water are about all you’ll need. Summer in the heart of continental Europe is filled with balmy days and blue skies, and the byways of Bohemia are beckoning.
There are few tourists sharing my view from beneath the walls of Prague Castle this spring morning, and it feels like I have the city of 'City of 100 Spires’ all to myself. I start counting the stone towers poking out of the morning mists, and quickly realise I’ll need over 500 fingers to tally them all.
Modern-day Prague is actually made up of four distinct – and previously separate – towns that were united in 1784. Dominating the skyline above the Vltava River is Hradčany, the famed castle district where I find myself gazing out over the slumbering city. From here, the lanes of this historic corner wander down to Malá Strana; the Lesser District which hugs the left bank of the sinuous river.
Linking the two banks of the Vltava are 12 bridges, including the impressive 14th century Charles Bridge… but more on that later. The sun is just beginning to burn away the mist, revealing the winding lanes of ancient Staré Město and wide boulevards of the Nové Město, the New Town; a whippersnapper at a mere 600 years old.
The day is warming up and the lines of tourists are starting to wind their way up the steep cobbles of Nerudova Street, so I shoulder my bag and wander up to the ticket office of Prague Castle; far and away the city’s most popular attraction. There are ‘long’ and ‘short’ visit tickets (R140/R100), but I’m a little short on time so opt for cheaper access to just a few of the highlights.
And as highlights go, the Gothic spires of St. Vitus Cathedral – the heart of Prague Castle – are jaw-droppingly, neck-craningly impressive. Without even stepping through the cathedral’s striking doors, it’s impossible not to be awed by the intricate stonework, imposing columns and threatening gargoyles. There has been a church on this spot for over 1000 years, and the six centuries of cathedral construction only finished up in 1929. Just in time, it seems, to start the restoration work that is a permanent feature of historic sights in Europe.
Scaffolding aside, the lines are quickly forming outside the Cathedral so I leave the tour-groups behind and wander into the other corners of the historic castle precinct: St. George’s Basilica is another 1000-year old church worth a visit for its stunning murals, the Royal Palace was once home to the Bohemian kings that ruled here, the Vladislav Hall is the largest ever built in the Flamboyant Gothic style, and a walk down the Golden Lane is a wander back through time to when these colourful cottages were filled with goldsmiths and artists. The writer Franz Kafka – one of Prague’s most famous sons, who was born across the river in the Old Town – once lived at #22.
The castle is bordered to the north by wonderful parkland, but I meander through the streets of Malá Strana to one of the city’s best viewpoints: Petrin Hill.
Most tourists come here for a trip up the oh-so-cheesy observation tower that’s an Eiffel look-alike, but the real beauty of Petrin is the shady walkways that criss-cross this pleasant network of parks.
The paths of Petrin are a welcome respite from the tourist-laden stone streets, and a quiet bench delivers lovely vistas of the old town and the river. If you’re in the mood for a morning jog, this is the place to come.
A day of pounding the pavements is likely to be more than enough exercise though, and Prague is certainly a city made for walking. Public squares abound, traffic is relatively light and the distances so short it’s simply not worth taking the trams that rattle their way along narrow streets.
A funicular railway runs from Petrin Hill down to Ujezd, and then it’s a short walk back into the maze of medieval lanes along the river. The Museum Kampa art gallery has an excellent collection of Central European modern art, and there’s always a worthwhile temporary exhibition on the go.
But you’ll find art almost everywhere you look in Prague. Public art adorns city rooftops and the Vltava River, small galleries abound and intricate stone carvings decorate the grandiose skyline that makes Prague so irresistible to architecture buffs.
And perhaps nowhere in the city is the devotion to public art as dramatic as the famous Charles Bridge. Built in the 14th century, its character has evolved through the ages as power changed hands, but this UNESCO World Heritage Site still ranks as one of the world’s most romantic spots. Just try and get there early, or out of season, to avoid the thronging crowds.
Thirty statues line both sides of the Bridge, and although the controversial restoration work that obscures some of them is set to continue until 2020 it’s not hard to admire the mix of religious and regal statues towering above. Don’t miss the bronze of St. John Nepomuk that you’ll find slap-bang in the middle of the bridge. The statue marks the exact spot where John was thrown into the river to his death for disagreeing with King Wenceslas IV… descendant of the presumably-kinder ‘good king’ Wenceslas of the Christmas carol.
There’s remarkable detail to be discovered in each of the 30 statues, but the bridge is equally splendid from afar, and the benches on the eastern riverbank are the best place to admire it from.
After giving my feet another rest (those cobbles can be hard work on the ankles) it’s headlong back into the happy throng of early-summer tourists. Narrow Karlova street leads from the Bridge straight into the heart and soul of Prague: the dramatic Old Town Square. Or Staromĕstské Námestí if you feel like practising your Slavic.
But it won’t just be Czech that you’ll hear in the (overpriced, I’m warning you) pavement cafés that crowd the edges of the square. The layer cake of European architecture that characterises one of Europe’s greatest town squares makes this tourist central, and from daunting Gothic to florid baroque and playful rococo this is perhaps the only place in Europe where you can skim through architectural time as you circumnavigate the square.
Touristey though it may be, keep an eye on your watch for the changing of the hour. This is your cue to congregate at the impressive Astronomical Clock that dominates the southern side of the square. Cogs and dials mark the movement of the planets and hours, while a tableau of apostles dance with death in a moving pantomime. Dating back over 600 years, it’s a feat of engineering so wondrous it's said that the craftsman who built it was blinded after completing the clock, so that he could never build a replica.
Macabre make-believe, perhaps, but amidst the Gothic alleys of old Prague it feels like the city’s chequered history is alive and well.
And it’s a history easily explored in the city’s excellent museums. There are museums to Art Nouveau painters and, of course, Franz Kafka, but if you visit only one make sure it is the moving Jewish Museum in the Old Town.
Ironically, the museum’s massive collection of Jewish art and literature was assembled by the Nazis, pillaged from displaced communities and assembled in 1942 as the ‘Museum of the Extinguished Race’. Today, this complex of four ornate synagogues celebrates the rich Jewish culture of Eastern Europe, and is perhaps proof that ill intentions can be turned to good. On your way out, take a stroll through the haunting Jewish cemetery, with its jumble of 12 000 tombstones lying askew.
All that walking is bound to make you hungry, but avoid the expensive cafés on the Old Town Square and head into the New Town to eat with the locals. For a light bite, kavárny (coffee shops) are ideal for a quick coffee and pastry, or stop in at the affordable jídelna self-service cafeterias.
For a true Czech experience though, you can’t miss a meal at U Medvídků, a 600-year-old traditional beer-hall in the heart of Nové Město. Over the years the wood-panelled room has been a brewery, beer-hall and even the first cabaret in Prague.
Today though, it is simply an authentic Bohemian restaurant and beer-hall that draws crowds of locals and tourists each day for its pints of Czech Budweiser (a far cry from the American copy-cat) and well-priced local dishes. Czech cuisine is heavy on the pork and potatoes, but you’ll quickly burn it all off walking the streets!
Fortified with a plate of traditional prazská hovezí pecene (Prague stuffed roast beef) and a glass of Pilsn, the rest of the city awaits.
Upmarket shopping in Paris Street, or admiring the bullet-pocked walls of the National Museum? Embrace your inner-tourist with a knock-off classical concert in one of the city’s churches, or wander up tree-lined Wenceslas Square? Or perhaps just relax in the peaceful gardens of Church of Our Lady of Snows?
Whichever you choose, Prague has shufffled off its grey overcoat of Communism, and is welcoming tourists with open arms. But with so much to fill your days you’d do well, as I say, to rise with the sun in Prague.
Smart traveller
- There are no direct flights from South Africa to Prague, but the city is easily accessible via hubs such as London Heathrow or Frankfurt, served daily from SA by British Airways and Lufthansa.
- Spring and early summer are the best times to visit Prague, before the tourist-hordes descend in August or the snows blanket the city in winter.
- South African passport-holders require a Schengen visa to visit the Czech Republic. Contact the Embassy of the Czech Republic in Pretoria on 012-4312380, or visit www.mzv.cz/pretoria. Visit www.czechtourism.com to plan your visit.
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“You’re doing what?” my friends would ask incredulously – usually accompanied by a look reserved for the slow-witted – when I told them I was going surfing in England. “Better take an extra wetsuit,” they’d chortle, not helping my mental image of a surfer entombed in frost like prehistoric leftovers from the last Ice Age.
And who can blame them, I suppose. In a country more famous for drizzly days whiled away in cosy pubs, the thought of spending hours in the sea is not high on the to-do list for most people visiting the United Kingdom.
Perhaps they were right, I wondered, as my First Great Western train pulled into Newquay Station on a gloomy Sunday afternoon. It looked ‘distinctly autumnal’, as the forecasters on the Beeb seemed to be fond of saying. Five hours out of London, and about 20 from my front door in Cape Town, I’d finally made it to what is widely regarded as the home of English surfing.
Facing the full brunt of swells rolling in off the Atlantic, the myriad coves and dozens of beaches in and around Newquay offer a surf spot for almost all conditions. It may not have the legendary point-break of J-Bay or the warm tropical waters of Indonesia, but when the swell plays ball the breaks at Fistral Beach can fire.
Well, at least that’s what I was told.
Looking down on the beach from my room in the Carnmarth Hotel all I can see is a choppy mess dotted with day-trippers determined to spend the drizzly day on the beach. With a full day of surfing ahead of me the next day, I decide to stay on dry land and take a wander into town.
Like so many English seaside towns, Newquay has a split personality. On the high street it’s all flashing amusement arcades and discount stores touting 2-for-£1 specials. Low on charm but easy on the budget, it’s no wonder the town has gained an unwelcome reputation as a post-school party-spot. The Plettenberg Bay of Cornwall.
But wander beyond the high street and you’ll find that Newquay, like most of England’s towns, quietly guards its quaint corners. It began life as a fishing village, and so the harbour is a good place to start exploring.
Small fishing boats lie tied up along the quayside, where lobster nets are piled high until the spring tides subside. At low tide, the boats are marooned on the harbour sands and you can walk across the edge of the bay to the excellent seaside restaurant at Tolcarne Beach.
On the cliffs above the harbour, The Fort Inn is a great place to enjoy a pint of Cornish-brewed St. Austell’s ale; the terrace offering fine views out over the Bay. Down a few cobbled streets, the cosy Red Lion is also worth a visit; a low-ceilinged local hang-out where the TV in the corner plays surf movies on a loop.
Wandering up Headland Road it’s hard to ignore the huge granite cross at the top of the hill. An all-too-common sight in English towns, the cross is a memorial to locals killed in battle since World War I. With over 100 names listed for the Great War, it’s hard to imagine how the loss of young men must have devastated the small town nearly a century ago.
Down the hill towards Towan Head I notice two whitewashed stone buildings. Known as the Huer’s Huts, the oldest dates back to medieval times and were home to fish-spotters who’d scan the waters of Newquay Bay and alert the local fishermen when shoals of pilchard came close inshore. It’s a system that works just as well for the ‘trek fishermen’ of the Cape.
Another white building on the Head is home to the old lifeboat station. With its treacherous shore you’ll find lifeboats dotted all along the Cornish coastline. Perched on a cliff above Newquay Bay, the Towan Head station was once infamous for having the steepest slipway in all of the British Isles.
The steep cliffs that wrecked countless ships have been put to more playful use in recent years though, with the advent of ‘coasteering’. Clambering along rocky shorelines, swimming across calm inlets and leaping off high cliffs is all part of the fun in what has become a popular activity in sea-obsessed Newquay.
I’d rather be on the cliff than leaping off it though, so I stick to the gravelly path leading back towards Fistral. Off to my left, the historic Headland Hotel rises out of the grassy hills, almost unchanged since it was first built in 1897 at the height of the Victorian love-affair with ‘taking the air’ at the seaside.
It’s here that I meet Ben Ridding and Gemma Harris the next morning. From a cosy office in a corner of The Headland they run what has to be the happiest surf outfit in Cornwall; Surfing is Therapy.
Both experienced lifeguards and surfers, Surfing is Therapy sprang to life on a surf-trip to Costa Rica when it dawned on the couple that they could turn their passion into a profession.
And their enthusiasm for the sport, and the region, is infectious. Despite the patchy ceiling of grey cloud we’re wetsuited up and raring to go in no time. From the hotel it’s a two-minute walk down to Fistral Beach, where the wind has died and the swell is dishing up some reasonable two-foot breakers; a little sloppy, but certainly a wave or two on offer.
There are only two of us braving the water today, but even in the high season Surfing is Therapy pride themselves on not being a sausage-machine surf school.
“We only take small groups for surf lessons, with no more than 10 people at a time,” says Gemma. “Otherwise you just can’t give people enough attention to get them up and surfing.”
Private lessons are also available, along with our full-day ‘surfari’ exploring the area’s best breaks. After two hours in the water, and with the tide dropping, we decide to hit the road. From up on the hillside the view is spectacular, with coves and headlands giving the coastline the serrated edge of a postage stamp.
“Some of the bays can have nasty rips, especially on low-to-mid tides,” warns Gemma as we drive through Newquay to our next stop. “If you’re surfing on your own it’s a good idea to ask the locals or the lifeguards about any currents.”
There were no currents at our next stop, Mawgan Porth – ‘porth’ is Cornish for ‘beach’ – but the waves were breaking heavily as we stood and weighed up our options. With a mischievous smile and extreme (misplaced?) faith in my surfing abilities Gemma jogged confidently into the breakers. With my street-cred at stake there nothing I could do, but follow.
In retrospect, perhaps not one of my best judgement calls.
While the Cornish beach breaks are usually kind to beginners, when they’re dumping like Mawgan Porth only experienced surfers need apply. I ran, I paddled, I got dragged along the bottom like a tin can behind a car of randy newly-weds. To cut a long story short, the final score was Wave 1 – Richard 0.
When the late-afternoon waves rolled back into the sunset we decided to call it a day… time for a pint at one of Newquay’s beachfront bars, perhaps followed by dinner at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant ‘Fifteen’. Salty, sandy and shattered... just another perfect day on the surf breaks of Cornwall.
Travel advisory
- British Airways flies daily from Johannesburg and Cape Town to London. Visit www.ba.com
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- First Great Western railways operate a number of daily high-speed services from London Paddington to Cornwall. Visit www.firstgreatwestern.co.uk.
- For more information on Cornwall and Newquay go to www.visitcornwall.co.uk.
- You can book surf lessons, surf tours, accommodation and a range of other activities through Surfing is Therapy. Call 0944 1637 851517 or visit www.surfingistherapy.com. Half- and full-day ‘surfaris’ £30 & £50pp.
First published in the Sunday Times, May 2011 |
For a minute, I thought the cheetah had lost. Outpaced by a lion, and soon to beon the receiving end of a few millennia of evolutionary envy.
We’d been watching three lions – two sturdy females and a majestic male, whose role seemed to consist primarily of sleeping – hunt a herd of Red Hartebeest. Or perhaps they were after the lone zebra hidden among them; his dazzling stripes no help among the dusty copper coats of the ‘harties’.
It was a blustery, overcast day, but the herd seemed relaxed on the grassy plains between the thickets. On the opposite hillside we noticed a small yellow splodge. Binoculars went up and the radio crackled to life: “Young male cheetah on northern ridge. He’s spotted the lion.”
Cheetah and lion are sworn enemies, although the malevolence is firmly on the side of panthera leo. Even a fully-grown cheetah stands no chance against the stronger and heavier lion. Speed is its only option.
Creeping closer for a better look, the cheetah – wisely – chose discretion over valour and padded away. We all went back to watching the Hartebeest. All, that is, except the lions.
Seeing their ancient enemy alone and exposed, the lionesses decided rivalry trumped rump and trotted off in pursuit. A trot turned into a jog, a jog dialled up to a sprint and in the game vehicle our minds quietly raced: “Why the hell is that cheetah not running?”
Padding away at a leisurely pace, it wasn’t until the lions were thirty metres off –their long, bounding leaps threatening to close the distance in seconds – that the cheetah turned. An explosion of speed sent it off between the euphorbias, a dust cloud billowing as it bobbed and weaved away through the thickets.
Our game vehicle raced down the gravel road in pursuit, catching up with the thwarted lions as they searched for the cheetah’s scent. Foiled, this time. My heart returned from my throat to its rightful place.
But this incredible safari scene wasn’t played out on the grassy billiard table of the Masai Mara, the steamy bushveld of Botswana or the sandy tracks in Kruger. This ancient drama was performed on the scrubby hillsides of Kwandwe Private Game Reserve, in the heart of the Eastern Cape.
Billed as ‘Frontier Country’ for the Anglo-Xhosa wars that racked these hills in the mid-1800s, the stretch of countryside between Port Elizabeth and East London has fast become South Africa’s new frontier for Big Five safaris; malaria-free, mild and the perfect bookend to the popular Garden Route.
There are close on a dozen, mostly private, reserves offering wildlife experiences in the area, but you’d do well to remember that not all safaris are created equal. When it comes to Eastern Cape reserves, size certainly does matter and on the smaller reserves there’s a fair chance your game viewing will have a backdrop of traffic and tar. Not quite ‘Out of Africa’.
But not so on Kwandwe, where you’ll mostly enjoy a 360° view of untouched wilderness. Like many of the private reserves in the area, Kwandwe’s 22 000 hectares were once marginal farmland, but the power lines, houses and fences that scarred the horizon have long since been bundled away, and the land rejuvenated.
Named for the Blue Crane – known as kwa-indwe in the local isiXhosa – the endangered national bird of South Africa is just one of dozens of species that now call this restored landscape home. Elephant enjoy the lush riverine grasses, black rhino stick to the thickets and the Great Fish River flows languidly through the property, harbouring hippo in the deep pools and drawing a menagerie of wildlife in the hot summer months.
The sub-tropical thicket that coats much of Kwandwe’s hills may not support the vast herds of game to be seen further north, but in my handful of game drives we were privileged to enjoy an array of breathtakingly unique sightings: lions ferrying a warthog kill to their cubs, the shy nocturnal aardwolf hunting in broad daylight and, of course, a close call for a lucky cheetah.
On these private reserves you’re just about guaranteed four of the Big Five (darn those shy leopard), but in this corner of the country it seems less is definitely more.
While Kwandwe keeps a low profile, Shamwari is the big, brash reserve that has been beating the drum of Eastern Cape Big Five safaris for over a decade. One of the first to reintroduce big game to its 25 000 hectares, Shamwari is also host to a dubious honour: in 1856 the last free-roaming lion in the Eastern Cape was shot here.
The notion of restoring the indigenous wildlife to its rightful place is precisely what inspired local businessmen Adrian Gardiner to create Shamwari over 20 years ago, buying up parcels of abused farmland that were crying out for restoration. That renewal is still very much a work in progress though, with wide-open plains of grass separating the hilltops of indigenous thicket.
It’s a slight distraction from the Big Five on offer, but it’s not the end of the world. Days at Shamwari follow a similar pattern to most private lodges, with morning and evening game drives crisscrossing the reserve. While the grassy plains of Shamwari support fairly large herds of antelope, again it’s the smaller sightings that you’ll remember: the shy Black Rhino, cheetahs sheltering from a blustery spring wind and the rumble of a lion’s contact call echoing across your hilltop sundowners.
While Shamwari has something for everyone, Gorah Elephant Camp is unashamedly, gloriously, romantic. Set on a private concession within the Addo Elephant National Park, the tented suites of Gorah fan out away from the historic homestead.
In the late-1800s Gorah was once one of the wealthiest farms in the district thanks to the boom in ostrich feathers, and the manor house today reflects the comfortable opulence of the time. Deep leather armchairs, high ceilings and thick walls, magnificent iron fireplaces and a deep stoep overlooking a waterhole make for a loveably old world safari escape.
As with Shamwari, the scars of farming are all too obvious in the flat fields of grass stretching away from Gorah, but it does have the significant benefit of panoramic views across the plains and up into the shrub-covered hills. Addo Elephant National Park has been a haven for elephants since it was proclaimed in 1931, and you’re almost guaranteed some wonderful elephant sightings during your time at Gorah.
Game drives here can traverse the park’s 24 000 hectare main section, but it’s the quiet tracks and off-road routes on the private concession that are the highlight here. Unlike Addo’s self-drive visitors, the beauty of a private safari escape is the sheer gluttony of having a small stretch of African bush all to yourself.
It’s a pleasure that visitors to the Kruger bushveld have long enjoyed, and now the Eastern Cape is slowly muscling in on the act. Bush aficionados will tell you there is nothing like a Lowveld safari, and they’re right.
But when it comes to exquisite lodges and unique sightings these smaller, leaner Eastern Cape reserves are showing they may just be one step ahead of their big brawny bushveld cousins. A little like the cheetah that got away.
Stay here:
Kwandwe Private Game Reserve offers two lodges and two family-friendly exclusive-use villas, but our firm favourite is the sleek modern Ecca Lodge. Just six oh-so-secluded suites stretch out along the hillside, with svelte sliding doors opening onto private decks and panoramic views. This is Norwegian cool meets funky African farmhouse. Low-slung beds and glassed-in rain-showers, rough gabion walls and settler-chic tin roofs. Private plunge pools and outside showers make short work of hot summer days. Room #1 is tucked away and private. Visit www.andbeyond.com or call 011 809 4300
Bayethe Tented Camp is one of seven lodges on Shamwari, and escapes the grassland views by being hidden away in a bird-filled valley. The riverside tents are spacious and tick all the five-star boxes, but could do with a little TLC. This sleek safari lady is showing her age and needs a nip/tuck and a few new frocks. However, the feel is more casual than at other lodges so there’s no need to dress for dinner, as meals are a casual fireside affair.
Visit www.shamwari.com or call 041 407 1000
Gorah Tented Camp is pure Out of Africa romance. Formal dinners – Gorah is a member of the gourmet Chaîne des Rôtisseurs – in the historic homestead are all crystal and candlelight, but the suites are the real highlight. White canvas tents belie the homely luxury within, where four-poster beds and cosy armchairs cry out for afternoon naps and quality time with a good book. And the best bit? It’s canvas, so the rustle of furry critters outside the tent adds a shiver of excitement in the dead of night. Ask for tent #10 to ensure uninterrupted views of the plains.
Visit www.hunterhotels.com or call 044 401 1111
First published in Indwe magazine, February 2011
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Cape Town-based travel writer Richard Holmes fancies himself as a bit of a hedonist; rarely one to opt for the low-road when the air-con 4x4 will do just as nicely, thank you very much.
So when it came to seeking out some of the planet’s best luxury hideaways for this issue he handpicked his favourite four from his little black book of ‘to-die-for’ escapes…
Xaranna Tented Camp; Botswana
The Okavango Delta may have been formed by a river that’s lost its way, but once I (well, my porter actually) put down my bag at Xaranna I know I’d ended up at exactly the right place.
As wilderness experiences go, the Okavango Delta is the proverbial ‘once in a lifetime’ destination. And at Xaranna Tented Camp you feel the Delta at every turn. The channels gurgle away just metres from the lodge, and on the twice-daily game excursions – via speed boat or poled gently along in a dug-out mokoro – Red Lechwe splash away through the reeds that hide iridescent frogs. Fish Eagles stand sentry on barren tree-tops, elephants rumble past your door at night, squacco herons splash about in the shallows, and cheerful hippos ho-ho-ho to themselves at sunset.
‘But a Tented Camp?’ I hear you ask?
Now before you start worrying about guylines and wooden pegs, an &Beyond tent is the canvas dream to end any camping nightmares, with beds as wide and white as the Kgalagadi to look forward to. With a secluded sala and private pool at each so-called tent, along with delightfully quirky décor at the main lodge, this is certainly a camp for the style-conscious traveller.
It’s not cheap, but then special places never are. And with just a handful of other guests to share your 25 000ha of wilderness, it’s worth every cent.
Tell me more: Visit www.andbeyond.com or call +27 11 809 4300. The Okavango Delta is a malaria-area; so consult your doctor three weeks before departure for appropriate prophylactics. South African passport-holders do not require a visa to visit Botswana on holiday.
Medjumbe Private Island, Mozambique
Now tell me honestly… are there two better words to be neighbours than “private” and “island”?
Deserted beaches, the whisper of sea on sand to lull you to sleep, and a dinner table groaning with fresh seafood where you can wiggle your toes into the beach… who wouldn’t choose a private island as their ultimate escape? But if – like me – your bank balance doesn’t quite stretch to owning your own, happily there are still places like Medjumbe.
The Quirimbas are my favourite corner of Mozambique; an archipelago of paradise islands all waving palms and blinding white sands. Turquoise seas and coral reefs mark out the patchwork of islands as my light aircraft bumps down to land on Medjumbe’s impossibly short runway. Nobody said getting to paradise was easy, now did they?
A slender sand-spit lying like a giant comma in Mozambique’s clear-blue waters, just 13 rooms dot the northern edge of Medjumbe, gazing towards Tanzania a few hundred kilometres away. Palm-thatched cabins and private plunge pools make for an idyllic retreat at the end of a day of diving, snorkelling and general sun worshipping. Ideally with a good book to hand.
And that’s pretty much what a Quirimbas time-out is all about – a slice of ‘me-time’ in paradise. Whether you’re blowing bubbles underwater or enjoying a glass of bubbly surrounded by it, a visit to the Quirimbas is my ultimate island escape.
Tell me more: Visit www.raniresorts.com or call +27 11 463 6313.
Bateleur Camp, Kenya
If it’s good enough for Karen Blixen it’s good enough for me. Well, it was Meryl Streep more than Blixen herself, but either way Kenya’s Oloololo escarpment is a rather fabulous spot to indulge your Out of Africa fantasies. Here, where the final scenes of the iconic film were shot, is where I enjoy sundowners on my first night in the Masai Mara.
Below me lies over a thousand square kilometres of wilderness; a billiard table of emerald green with smudges of black at suitably irregular intervals. Those smudges are, of course, some of the hundreds of thousands of animals that call the Mara home, and make it one of the world’s most famous safari destinations.
And in the forest at our feet hides Bateleur Camp, the welcome echo of an old-school safari. Situated on a private concession bordering the national reserve, it’s a prime example of the way tourism can work hand-in-hand with the local community.
The eighteen luxury safari tents are spread across two camps, connected by wooden walkways wandering through the indigenous forest. Each private safari tent is a masterpiece of canvas luxury, with a four-poster bed and suitably decadent bathroom.
A bell jar of sweets and bedtime stories with the nightly hot-water bottle add that magical personal touch. Twice-daily game drives explore the legendary Masai Mara National Reserve, but I could just as easily sink into the leather armchairs on my private deck and soak up the panoramic Mara views. It’s Hemingway without the guns and ‘Out of Africa’ without the angst. I think Karen would be rather proud.
Tell me more: Visit www.andbeyond.com or call +27 11 809 4300. The Masai Mara is a low-risk malaria-area; but consult your travel doctor before departure.
Taj Lake Palace; India
Rose petals. They had me at the rose petals. Cascading from above as the handsome Rajasthani doorman wafted us into the Taj Lake Palace, the smile on my wife’s face was worth every airline meal on the long flight to Udaipur.
The city of Udai. Jewel of Rajasthan. Venice of the East. Whatever you choose to call it, Udaipur is pretty impressive. Life revolves around Lake Pichola, from the City Palace to the women in colourful saris washing at the stone ghats. We can see it all from the rooftop restaurant of what is perhaps the world’s most romantic hotel.
Built in 1746 by Maharana Jagat Singh II, the 62nd successor to the royal dynasty of Mewar would use the manicured courtyards and rooftop terraces for summer shindigs for his royal court. An island palace proved to be the ideal hideaway and even today the hotel can only reached by boat, making our escape to luxury a physical break from the reality of India.
Through the cascade of petals, and marble corridors lead us to our opulent Palace Suite, where lake views flowed in from every direction. Plush velvet and crisp linen abound… evidently the maharajahs never went for the “less is more” look. But like a new maharajah I’m hungry to soak up the pleasures of my palace. Well, mine for a night or two, at least.
The hotel’s renowned Jiva spa rings up to ask if I’ll be having my massage on land or water… the dedicated ‘spa boat’ sets sail on the lake to offer couples a little alone time. Life revolves around the Lake, so water it is.
And so too for dinner: a private pontoon, moored in the lake and aglow with lanterns, is our table for the night. Fireworks explode above the City Palace, and Lake Pichola shines happily in the sparkle. Behind us the Lake Palace shimmers in the moonlight, a white marble jewel giving the Taj Mahal a run for its money in the romance stakes.
Tell me more: Visit www.tajhotels.com or call 00 800 4 588 1 825 (toll-free).
Published in Longevity magazine; December 2010 |
There’s something about graveyards. Something I find strangely alluring. Perhaps it’s the quiet that descends the moment you push through that squeaky metal gate, or the brief green respite that a bench under a tree always offers.
But mainly, I think, it seems there are few better ways to quickly get under the skin of a place than to wander through its graveyard. Who lived here? Who died? When? How? Are there rich tombs adorned with angels, or simple headstones all covered in moss and under siege by unkempt grass?
The Old Town graveyard on St. Mary’s – the busiest island in the Isles of Scilly – is no different. Former British Prime Minister Harold Wilson is buried here, and so too Augustus Smith, but more on him later. Both enjoy an eternal view to the white sands of Porthcressa Beach.
The lapping waters are calm today but, like all islands, the graveyard here is filled with souls claimed by the ocean. Derek Banfield; ‘Loved the sea, Lost at sea,’ reads one tombstone. Nearby, an imposing memorial remembers the wreck of the SS Schiller that foundered offshore after an Atlantic crossing. Only 100 bodies were ever recovered and buried in this mass grave, although 335 souls perished one foggy May morning in 1875.
On the Isles of Scilly, life has always revolved around the ocean, bringing both death and fortune. Catching a steamer to New York in the early 1900s? The lighthouse on Bishop Rock would have kept the keel clear of the Isles’ jagged rocks. In the days of Empire the oarsmen of Scilly were some of the strongest, racing out to sea in their wooden gigs to pilot merchant ships through the treacherous tidal races around the islands. The Boatshed on the St. Mary’s beachfront stores the 32-foot rowing gigs that are still raced in the bay on summer evenings. And is there anything in the tales that islanders would tie lights around cow’s necks and let them wander the shoreline, to confuse passing ships and then reap the rewards of wrecks? The truth is likely lost at sea.
Cast away off the coast of Cornwall, this rugged chain of islands is just barely part of England; a mile or two further from Britain than France is from Dover. There are 56 good-sized islands in the Isles, although only six are inhabited and most of the locals live here on St. Mary’s. From the quayside, the local Boatmen’s Association runs daily services to the various ‘off-islands’, along with sightseeing tours to uninhabited rocks further afield. Fares are only a few pounds per trip, so island hopping is a pleasant way to pass your days in Scillies.
After the capital St. Mary’s, St. Agnes and St. Martin’s are popular for their deserted beaches, wild flowers and chocolate-box scenery, while the more rugged Bryher Island is largely deserted, offering miles of rambling tracks and a dramatic shoreline pounded by the Atlantic rollers.
Why spend a holiday in smoggy overcrowded London, I wonder to myself, when you can discover these empty Isles’ mild weather and white-quartz beaches? Rolling heather-covered hills that could be Scotland, except that the sun is shining. It’s an escape that’s low on bells and short on whistles, but big on the great outdoors.
So I leave the graveyard behind and meander down to Porthcressa Beach to meet Will Flagstaff. Surrounded by an eager group of twitchers festooned with spotting scopes and bird books, he’s easy to find.
Will leads birding safaris across the globe, including South Africa, but he calls the Isles of Scilly home, offering half-day nature walks across St. Mary’s which – at £6 per person – are ridiculously good value.
“From America, these islands are the first landfall for over 3000 miles,” Will tells me as we wander along the pebbled shoreline. “We get some good old gales blowing through here… and with the wind, we get migratory birds blown off course.”
Will’s nature walks are aimed squarely at twitchers, who visit for a chance at spotting birds rarely seen on the British mainland, but throughout the walk Will rambles on knowledgeably about all facets of the islands’ intricate ecology.
And there’s certainly no shortage of subject matter on what have been nicknamed ‘the fortunate islands’. In 1976 the Isles were declared an ‘Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty’; the smallest of the 35 declared Areas in England. The uninhabited ‘Off-Islands’ are an important haven for bird colonies, while the warm clear waters harbour seals, dolphins and myriad sea life. In the hills of St. Mary’s archaeologists have unearthed Stone Age burial mounds, and the narrow lanes skirt forests of pristine woodland.
With impossibly quaint lanes and hardly any cars, it’s an island made for walking and cycling. Hedgerows are filled with berries and blooms, and dedicated ‘right of way’ paths lead our small group between woodland thickets and fields of flowers.
With more sunshine than anywhere else in the UK – another good reason for visiting – flower-growing used to be the mainstay of the island’s economy, and if you were buying daffodils in London in the ‘60s chances are they would have been grown in these fields. With competition from abroad the industry has largely wilted, but “bulbs from Scilly” are still a popular souvenir for trippers.
Those blooms come in handy for paying the rent too.
“Almost all of Scilly belongs to Prince Charles, as part of the Duchy of Cornwall,” explains Will, “but the uninhabited areas are controlled and managed by the Isles of Scilly Wildlife Trust.”
And the rent? The heir to the throne charges one daffodil per year.
At the lunch stop I leave the twitchers behind and wander through the lanes over to Hugh Town, the hub of island life on St. Mary’s.
It’s a quaint cobbled seaside village, much as you’d find anywhere on the coast of Cornwall, and most roads lead towards the harbour. Quaint pubs overlook the waterfront, and offer the local ‘Ales of Scilly’ brews on tap. Gift shops and tour operators tout for tourist business, but it still has the feel of a living, breathing community.
I pick up a Cornish pasty at the bakery in Garrison Lane and wander up Garrison Hill for a look at the view. The road leads up past Tregarthen’s Hotel, one of the oldest on St. Mary’s with fantastic views over the island. In 1860, poet laureate Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote part of his epic poem ‘Enoch Arden’ in the garden here, no doubt inspired by the view over the rooftops of the town below.
It’s a steep road that leads up through Garrison Gate, part of the old town’s fortifications. Through the gate, the historic Star Castle was built in 1593 to protect the islands from the Spanish Armada, but has since the ‘30s been used for more hospitable purposes as one of St. Mary’s finest hotels. The excellent self-guided walk around the hill leads me past Civil War bunkers and World War II arsenals before delivering me back to the quayside.
I’ve had enough history; it’s time for some horticulture.
While the Isles of Scilly draws birders, beachgoers and ramblers each summer, it’s also become a prime destination for garden-lovers. And that’s all thanks to old Augustus Smith, buried in the Old Town graveyard.
Smith was from an old-money family who’d built their fortune in London banking, and settled on the ‘Off-Island’ of Tresco. Around his house, in the ruins of the 12th century Abbey, he began planting a garden with exotic species he’d cajole off passing merchant ships. Monterey pines from California kept out the howling Atlantic winds, and the long days of sunshine nurtured everything from tropical palms to South African aloes.
Today, the Tresco Abbey Gardens are perhaps the highlight of a visit to the Isles of Scilly. Billed as ‘Kew with the roof off,’ they are as impressive as Cape Town’s Kirstenbosch Gardens, not least for the geometric designs and playful sculptures you’ll discover as you explore. In and among the 4000 species from across the globe, bronze children frolic in the shallows, Neptune guards his stone staircase and the ruins of the original Abbey still frame a quiet corner of the garden. Figureheads from ships wrecked around Scilly are restored and revered in the Gardens’ Valhalla Museum; a subtle nod to the Viking raiders that once sailed these waters.
And I think Odin would be pleased. Perhaps like his mythical Valhalla, the Isles of Scilly are also a refuge for those who’ve fallen in battle; the battle against Blackberries, deadlines, to-do lists and underground delays. Seafarers have long washed up on these shores except here in the Scillies it’s Neptune, in his Abbey Garden, who keeps a watchful eye over these ‘fortunate islands’.
TRAVEL NOTES
WHEN TO GO The weather on Scilly is generally milder and sunnier than mainland England, and frost is rare. Summer (May to August) is best if you’re keen to spend time out on the water or walking in the hills, while Autumn (September/October) is ideal for birdwatchers looking to spot migratory birds.
EAT HERE Lunch at Juliet's Garden Restaurant (www.julietsgardenrestaurant.co.uk) is a must, with great views over the bay and imaginative menus of fresh local produce. Get there early and ask if they have fresh crab. In the evenings, The Galley (01720 422602) is your best bet for local seafood. This unassuming family-run eatery only has half-a-dozen tables and is always busy; so make sure you call ahead. On St. Mary’s and the larger Off-Islands, keep an eye out for farm stalls selling fresh strawberries, jams and home-bakes.
SLEEP HERE For an upmarket taste of life on the islands, the isolated Hell Bay Hotel on Bryher Island (www.hellbay.co.uk) is ideal. Clapboard buildings a stone’s throw from the pounding surf offer comfortable rooms, most with great sea views. Rates start at R1500 per person, dinner-bed-and-breakfast. You’ll pay similar rates at the homely Star Castle Hotel on St. Mary’s (www.star-castle.co.uk), where you’ll also find more affordable B&Bs. The tourism board website (www.simplyscilly.co.uk) has a good listing of what’s on offer.
DON’T MISS A wander through Tresco Abbey Gardens, easily accessible as a day-trip from St. Mary’s. Visit www.tresco.co.uk. Nature walks with Will Wagstaff take place on St. Mary’s and the Off-Islands, and are an affordable way to discover the history and wildlife of the Isles. www.islandwildlifetours.co.uk.
READ THIS ‘The Fortunate Islands’ by RL Bowley is an engaging look at the history, legends and lore of the Isles. A good read for the flight over. Also visit the Isles of Scilly tourism board website before you go (www.simplyscilly.co.uk).
GET THERE British Airways flies daily from South Africa to London. Plane, helicopter and ferry services connect from Cornwall to St. Mary’s.
First published in Horizons magazine, September 2010 |
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