For years now the Cape peninsula has drawn travellers who – either by educational misadventure or apparent disinterest – have ventured forth in the mistaken knowledge that Cape Point is indeed that continental southern endpoint. Perceptions. More often than not it’s that thing that determines whether or not we watch a just-released movie or try a new dish. It’s also what steers us towards or away from new destinations. If we look beyond South Africa’s school textbooks and the shoddy marketing organisations entrusted with spreading the good tourism word, it’s easy to see that Cape Agulhas has been fairly screwed by misperception. Driving east along the N2 from Cape Town towards the Garden Route, convenient, easy-to-reach destinations literally fall off the map, from Hermanus all the way through to Knysna and Natures’ Valley. It’s a case of literally flashing the indicator and you’re there. Cape Agulhas, on the other hand, is a relative case. It ‘demands’ a drive of little over an hour from the N2 Bredasdorp off-ramp to get there.  But once you get past the occasional dodgy examples of boere-baroque holiday-home architecture, there’s a very good chance you’ll feel like we did. A bit like a puppy with a new toy. Or our Fynn with a model spitfire… Spared said architecture, we ended up in a virtual opposite – very trendy accommodation, right across the road from the ocean. Named Ocean Art House (http://www.agulhasoceanarthouse.com/), it’s an art gallery-cum-guest house with a staircase. And a café. Owned by a successful German sculptor and painter (we googled him) – Rudi Neuland and his wife, Anna, also an artist – you could question our choice. It wasn’t just Ali and I – we had three year-old Fynn and our newborn Saskia along for the ride. Note to self: don’t suggest to a new mom that she leaves the nest that soon. I can’t quite understand what the hormones do to a new mother, but venturing into the relative unknown might be akin to a middle ages new Mom heading out in a creaking wagon (our car isn’t new) to her cousin’s village half a day’s ride away. Nevertheless, the sense of relative adventure and exploration was in our nostrils – with Fynn my ever-willing accomplice and Saskia buried in her Mom’s pouch. We soon fell in love with Agulhas. For starters, the lighthouse is fantastic. Fynn loved the climb up the narrow staircase to the top – almost as much as he took to following Rudi around while overseeing renovations at the guesthouse. We also learnt that the village is actually called L’Agulhas (the Franco-Portuguese reasons for which you can google), and that over 150 ships have sunk off the coastline. The jagged rocks that face out to the southern ocean tell the story of every one of those vessels. In marked contrast are the relatively gentle rolling breakers of Struisbaai – the bay, a literal jog around the corner. Characterised by gentle rollers, it’s a white, sandy beach over 25 km long, anchored by a tiny fishing harbour, a lighthouse and a restaurant. Swimming right up to curious onlookers amongst the small fishing boats are a group of habituated eagle rays. This is a beach quite simply as beautiful as any other, provided you don’t mind the absence of palm trees and coconuts. I’m not overly fond of the thick-steak nature of the geelbek fish on offer at the outdoor little eatery in the harbour, but that’s the fish that was running, and what the local fisherman had caught. In L’Agulhas itself we had both awful and wonderful calamari. Thirty minutes inland is Elim mission station village. With an old church and slave bell and inhabited by descendants of its unfortunate earliest inhabitants, a Sunday morning service is a welcome step back to a gentle pace, with not a tourist in sight.  Made of thatch, centuries’ old thick walls, a water-wheel and a slave-bell, Elim is peaceful place, where jobs aren’t plentiful, buildings approach neglect with reluctance, and the sense of community is strong. The service is in Afrikaans, and I think I pick up a hint of fire ‘n brimstone in its delivery. The local brass band is a treat. We’re told of the emerging wine farms down the road – the ocean breeze makes for a crisp and dry sauv blanc. But the odd Cape habit of estates closing on weekends rules against us, and for us there will be no wine after church. Much like the Cook Straits or Hadrian’s Wall, you just know that big things have happened around Cape Agulhas, that you’re in a geographically momentous spot. If it leaves you curious, ask for Alison at the local tourism office – she will leave you enthused. www.tourismcapeagulhas.co.za  

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Possibly the finest discovery of 2011. In keeping with the cliché that good things are worth waiting for, this one came in late November, and it arrived entirely by accident. En route to Knysna and a Garden Route that has been hammered by the recent global recession, we called to check if Eight Bells Country Inn had a room for three of us – me, my six-months pregnant Alison and our well-travelled toddler Fynn.  The positive answer meant we would change plans, and stop over instead of driving straight through to our destination. Eight Bells started life as the only watering hole for mid 19th  century travellers heading over the Attikwas Pass into the Little Karoo in the southern Cape. Since the 1970s however, the Inn has gradually been fashioned into a getaway that’s ticked all the right family boxes. How else do you describe a really affordable place that has under-floor heating for that inevitable mountain chill? Or that manages to feel luxurious yet simultaneously safe while your busy toddler creates his own world of relative chaos? Truth be told, we didn’t know it was four stars. A bit like those almost legendary Wild Coast family hotels here in South Africa. There’s nothing fussy about this almost century old inn, yet parents’ every need is catered for – and I reckon therein lies its success. At an obvious level there’s a large playground in a sandpit, and an indoors dining area with toys and TV for those little people who can’t restrain themselves in a formal dining-room. We take full advantage, eating our meal there while Fynn gets busy with the old plastic farmtruck- plus-trailer. A little earlier, while owner Rene Bongers told me over a beer on the patio how he came to buy Eight Bells four years ago, Fynn had taken huge delight in the old tractor in the sand-pit. Coming from a mostly arid Cape Town, I enjoy the varied birdlife on offer in large, indigenous and forested landscapes – something beyond the various starlings back home in the city bowl.   Fynn appears to enjoy them too, and while his perfect mimicking of the ubiquitous hadida ibis is a crowd-pleaser, our early morning walk in pyjamas across the wet lawn introduces new pleasures: funnel spiders, long shadows lent by the rising sun, and ‘ooh, horsies!’.   For R10 kids are taken for a ride on a karretjie, a horsedrawn cart. ‘See you later Mommy!’, says my beaming son from his position in the front-seat. He is sitting next to a six year-old named Ben- who he has just met and naturally admires. Ben is with two younger siblings and an assortment of friends. Speaking to his mother while walking alongside the cart, I learn that families have been coming here for generations. On the subject of longevity, the karretjie is led by a 30-something horse-handler named Sidney, whose father worked at the inn before him. Sidney reminisces with another guest – who first come here as a child himself – about the horses they’ve been riding together since childhood.   While I was away on the horse Alison had enjoyed having other mothers around. One such Mom, noticing she was heavily pregnant, wouldn’t let her carry the plus 13kg Fynn, while another Mom and Granny shared her enthusiasm for our impending new arrival. There’s an empathy between mothers that the rest of us simply don’t and can’t get. Keen for a dinner not surrounded by plastic diggers and bulldozers, we arrange a babysitter for the night, night, a young woman from the local village named Kelly, at a very reasonable price. This guy has been visiting Eight Bells since he was a child. Having a drink on the verandah, we observe ‘life with our boy’ from the outside, as we see the patient young woman trotting this way one minute, and that the next, on the heels of a busy young man.   The next morning we swim before we leave, with Fynn embarking on his first ‘dive. Gregarious and enthusiastic to his cuddly little core, he shares laughs with a quartet of mountain-biking grandparents also looking to cool off.   With a rare, shared certainty, we know that we’ll be back, that Fynn will be diving in this pool again. Because places like this are few, and we really like it here.  

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In relative terms it’s a little strip of arid landscape, with big skies over the mountain ranges to the north, and a brooding, swollen ocean over the hills and peaks to the south. A land where, long after having been wiped out by ignorant pioneering settlers and generations of farmers, the likes of cheetah, lion, elephant and rhino can once again be seen. This is Sanbona Wildlife Reserve. Sanbona came about because a wealthy individual intent on extending conservation areas, some ten years back saw opportunity in a number of struggling farms in South Africa’s Little Karoo. So he bought them and created a game reserve close on 60 000 hectare in size, which in commercial terms can host the Big 5. But while creatures like the leopard, mountain zebra and Cape Fox have long been resident, big game like rhino and elephant would likely never have settled in such areas, simply because there isn’t enough water. They would’ve migrated through, keeping time with the seasons, always en route to optimal conditions. For the modern traveller in a world of constant speed, pressure and digital stress, this is ‘optimal’. Nature-lovers will appreciate the quiet sense of place, and a landscape that works for them, on many levels. However, the attraction of the Little Karoo is the sense of space. That’s what we were after. For this trip pregnant Mom (Alison) joined me and Fynn on safari. To an African Storybook favourite – the best wildlife destination within comfortable driving distance (four hours) of Cape Town. Soon after leaving the village of Montagu – which really is ‘cradled’ beneath a series of astonishing fold mountains –we turned off to Sanbona. From here, it’s another comfortable hour to the main lodge, Gondwana. No instant gratification here.This part of the world is fossil heaven, a land where the likes of the BBC and NatGeo frequently come to tell dinosaur and origin tales. What apparently wasn’t appropriate however, was my driving over the dirt road. Alison was only two months short of delivering Saskia at this stage, and the roads were rough enough to have her gripping the carseat sides with white knuckles. But what Alison does remember is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Though she prefers lush green to colours of a mostly dry and earthy tinge, she was also taken in by the sheer scale of it all: the silence, the sky and the sheer fact that every single sound was amplified by the absence of acoustic distraction. The clicks of the elands’ hooves as they approached the waterhole. The whip of the Cape Zebra’s tale pursuing a fly on its rump. The turtle dove’s signature call heralding the quickening of the setting sun. To everything is added significance in this landscape. And that was just from our balcony. Over a ridge, down a valley and past the remains of an old shepherd’s cottage we saw cheetah. I was present for the release of the cheetah at Sanbona over ten years back, and I learnt that they had been mildly habituated. Cheetah are a threatened species not often seen in South Africa. To see three alert young males close-up was a privilege. We followed a relaxed elephant herd in the dry riverbed, and watched white rhino with added significance. With their numbers being savaged by poachers, with interest we listened to how the air force is cooperating with Sanbona in monitoring its skies – where much of the threat comes from. Little Fynn didn’t get to share in this excitement, because unlike our visit to the Timbavati, here he was too young for a game-drive. ‘Awww, what about Fynn?’, would’ve been the response if he’d known he couldn’t come. Yet Sanbona’s Gondwana Lodge is probably the most child-friendly establishment you’re likely to see on the safari circuit. So, with a babysitter on watch, while this pregnant couple went on a game-drive, Fynn got to play in a colourful room the size of a crèche, with a selection of toys to match. On the patio deck outside the dining-room he danced with a young American. After dinner, in the adjoining lounge, with other children he watched TV. Squeals and giggles reigned supreme. Nowhere did you see a parent offer up that guilty game-lodge glance. And not once did you hear anyone asking their child to ‘shoosh’. We all breathed easy…Phew.

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It’s pitch-black outside and the sound is growing louder. From our tiny, thatched and reed-walled hut in the game reserve, we can hear everything that crawls and walks. Fynn, my toddler of 30 energetic and cuddly months, has never heard anything like it. He’s clinging to my leg – a short, sharp intake of breath illustrates his unease. Thankfully it’s nothing more threatening than the chorus of a thousand frogs outside – and the reeds do little to soften their song. If you had to ask most visitors to the African bush why they go on safari, whether from Louisville or London you would find the answer surprisingly simple. As cliched as it is obvious, most are seeking to replace the unforgiving pace of modern city life with a brief return to nature. To breathe in its scents, take in its landscapes, meet real people, and witness its wildlife. No-one ever said a return to nature had to come dressed in 2ive stars with Indian cotton sheets and an infusion of berry jus. It is this absence of ‘puffery’, the adherence to basics, that distinguishes Umlani Bushcamp – deep in South Africa’s Timbavati Game Reserve – from many of the bushveld pack. And it’s at night that the difference is felt most clearly. By design, the Umlani experience is one of complete immersion. Crickets, frogs and nightjars rustle and tweet themselves awake. Without aircon and bricks ‘n mortar to seal out the bush, the imagination is left to run wild – especially when that heavy breathing of the leopard saws its way through the subconscious into reality. And thats what happened to us. Dragged from its light sleep, my mind began plotting our own escape route in case the feline leapt from my thoughts into our bathroom – on the other side of a whiny swing door. While my mind raced, I was wishing Fynn was awake to hear primeval at play. But he wasn’t, and we woke to a beautiful morning, with scary frogs replaced by panicking francolins and weavers busy about their nests. Rising with the bushveld in autumn is a privilege. The game-drive left at 05h30 without us. Being so little, I know how important it is – for my own sanity as much as the other guests – that Fynn gets a big sleep. But I also wanted to witness his waking to this world. Thankfully David, the camp manager, had arranged a separate drive for us. David is a curious fish. His super-competency and efficiency is betrayed just by the way he moves – I swear there’s a touch of Sandhurst military in him. He tells me, in a wonderfully candid manner, that the closest he’s been to children is his nephew, ‘and that’s close enough’. Which makes his tolerance at having Fynn bash away at the bongo drum in the kitchen, and stealing the staff’s attention during dinner, all the more impressive. The game-drive is good. Just as the faintest drizzle begins to tickle, we spot a leopard – Ginger, our guide, had been looking for him. He has four kills in a tree – three steenbok and an impala. The average game-drive is 3-4 hours, and although I’ve brought along juice, rusks and a couple apples, by the time we find our next leopard know I we’re testing his limits. We are well-positioned to watch a male on a kill beneath a tree next to a dry riverbed – when Fynn decides he wants to get out. He howls. I mutter serious thanks that we are alone. Back at camp, all he wants for brunch is egg. Usually a brilliant eater, his eating – like his routine – has been all over the place. We spend a while in the pool, after which he nods off. I’ve meanwhile given myself the luxury of the afternoon game-drive, leaving him in the capable care of Leeneth, the cook who doubles-up as a babysitter. Happily, Fynn doesn’t miss me like I missed him when we found the lion cubs. He’d been living the social highlife in the staff village, with drums at his disposal and people who appreciate children, simply enjoying his happy little self. That’s something many forget when travelling this luscious and dusty continent – its capacity for human connection. It wouldn’t be what it is without its people. And next time we’re travelling with Mom. www.umlani.com

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It feels like my first time. I’m observing a family of elephants stripping branches from a tree, some 20 metres beyond the deck of my chalet. But seeing the spectacle through the eyes of my Fynn of 31 months holds extra-special significance. I drop his water-wings – the plunge-pool can wait ‘til later. Mouthing and gesturing while trying to maintain some form of silence, I’m all too aware that we are about to share our first serious wild elephant experience. Yes, he’d seen those impressive elephant herds six months previously at Addo Elephant Park, and he may be able to recite parts of that vintage classic, Dumbo, but this was different. He was now six months older – a crucial time of language, skills and recognition development in the miraculous creation that is the human brain. Efant’, he says, matter-of-factly, pointing before turning his attention back to the long-deceased, floating bees in the pool. That had followed his ‘hi, baby cow’, a reference to his first buffalo (calf) we saw en route from the airstrip to the lodge. ‘Losa’, he says in his mother’s German tongue, eyes wide and ears alert to that beautiful, haunting call of the mourning dove. Only found in the north-eastern parts of the country, it’s integral to the bushveld morning chorus. I haven’t heard it for over a year – but for Fynn it’s a first. ‘Duv’, he repeats after me. The elephants continue with their silent meal.We’re at a game lodge called Vuyatela, in Djuma Game Reserve – which itself is part of Kruger National Park. Light years removed from the wonderful, yet basic traditional Kruger rest camps, when I visited Vuyatela in 2000 it was the first contemporary designed luxury lodge I had seen on the South African safari circuit. A beautiful space, dominated by bright colours and iconic South African designs on the cushions. It hasn’t changed much. While Fynn’s Mom would relish it, here I am with a two year-old who doesn’t quite appreciate the designer African touches in the bathroom. But he turns the soap-rack into a boat and the games begin. This is quality bonding. We’re in the last room, number eight, and while I opt to leave the rest of the guests to enjoy their dinnerin peace. It’s raining, softly, when we wake. I skip the morning game-drive, and Eugene the manager organizes for us to have our own vehicle on an afternoon outing. There are many hours to pass, and the usual distractions are absent; no playing in the park, no house-chores, and no TV. And I’ve only brought one toy – his tiny, die-cast, white model Concorde (a handme-down jet). Serendipity has it that Eugene is a good uncle to his niece, and he relates to my challenge. Hoisting Fynn onto his shoulders, he shows him the elephants gathered at the lodge waterhole before introducing him to the pair of abandoned bush-babies he’s nursing in a shoebox, behind the kitchen. ‘Big hug’ says Fynn to the wideeyed, 100 mg, almost hairless creatures. We spend the next hour sifting through autumn leaves in search of bugs. There are crawly things and new birds all along the path back to our chalet, with the comical hornbills and loud, darting francolins taking his fancy. Back at the room he settles into a new DVD on my laptop, before finally nodding off. It’s two hours after his normal nap – his routine is out the window. Lunch arrives on a tray, but word around camp is that lions have been spotted mating not too far away. So we scramble up the long path to the vehicle, I’m carrying my (large) camera bag, plates of food, his bottle – a hungry toddler on game-drive isn’t a good idea – and a 16kg Fynn. Free of a car-seat, he stands, wind-in-the-hair and me holding him by his pants. He quickly makes friends with the ranger / tracker team of Nick and Lucas, and a game of hide ‘n seek at the sundownerstop ensues. I can’t tell who’s having more fun. When Nick catches Fynn, juice in hand, hiding under the parked vehicle, he notes a look of extreme concentration on his face. In the name of openness and sharing, with the sun about to dip from view and nightjars starting to call, my son announces proudly to the bush: ‘I’m doing poofie’. I quickly realize I didn’t bring a nappie. Fynn seems relieved, while Nick and Lucas chuckle. And we’d forgotten all about the lions. www.djuma.co.za http://www.djuma.com www.avis.co.za PS – Vuyatela has just changed focus, and is now focusing on the local market as a ‘lodge for hire’, with a chef and a guide – the whole place to yourself.

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With the sun setting behind the big jackalberry tree, and the first nightjar welcoming the onset of night, my son Fynn ran as fast as his sturdy legs of 31 months could take him. ‘Hiding’, he giggled, as he rounded the landrover with a tottering speed wobble. Nick, the young safari guide, and his tracker, Lucas, were in hot pursuit. They were also laughing. It was the most unusual sundowner stop I’d ever had on 15 years of game-drives. The game-drive has long been one of my few pleasures, allowing me to get miles away from what can easily become life’s daily drivel, a place where I can drive demons hence, breathe in the scent of wild sage and fresh elephant poo (it’s not dung when you’re with a toddler), and wake to the sound of birds. But life changes, and there’s no change bigger than a little one. With his Mom overseas for three weeks, and no domestic help for that period, it was me and Fynn, 24/7 alone at home in Cape Town. All thoughts of my television work were abandoned. So it was that he and I set off for the bush. Like his Dad, Fynn is happiest surrounded by nature, but I was also about to see just how easy it is to go on safari with a toddler. From the welcome on the plane to that tricky issue of little ones at game lodges. Without his Mom the pressure was on. I’m very comfortable with caring for him solo, and have done so for weeks at a stretch before, but this was different. More than ensuring the nappies and wet-wipes were packed, it was a list of never-ending questions; should I take a familiar blanket in case he wanted to sleep on the plane; enough bibs in case he drooled his shirt wet; his teddy, Baloo; maybe a colouring-in book; a spare shirt…malaria stuff…wetwipes. And as the baby-bag is just too damn big, all of this I had to include in my laptop bag, which – yes – had work in it. And the last time work and baby-stuff shared space in that bag my iPhone died. Just to top it off, I also had my camera back-pack, which isn’t small. Plus Fynn himself. Then came the ‘how’ in getting to the lowveld, the real ‘bush’, from Cape Town. It’s not a cheap venture, and, working as an independent, the type of frivolous expense I’m fairly certain that his mother wouldn’t encourage. So I targeted and approached a few potential ‘travel partners’ that I respected and would feel editorially comfortable including in our story. Luckily the merit of the idea was appreciated, and the trip was on. Despite a gentle dispute, I once had with the airline over a column I once wrote about overbooking, we flew BA/Comair, because I generally like the way it operates. Its aircraft aren’t always newer, and its fares can be pricier than its major competitor, but I take comfort in its consistency of service. And as I anticipated that I would be in need of a forgiving air-crew, more concerned with a passenger in possible toddler distress than their personal issues, this was a no-brainer. The reason for booking an Avis car was stunningly simple. I’ve met three of the company’s CEOs over the past 15 years – Glenn, Noel and Wayne – and all had a common trait. They shared an enthusiasm, dare I say passion, for matters environmental. When I learnt earlier this year that the company’s South Africa office had saved millions of litres of water in its drive to reduce water consumption, any possible thoughts of ‘greenwashing’ were banished. As this trip was about introducing Fynn to real wilderness, hopefully further instilling in him a deep regard for his environment – the bollocks of branding regardless – it seemed a good fit. Besides, the staff are consistently decent – they even hauled out a car-chair for me when I realised I’d forgotten to order one. Greater Kruger Park we flew with FedAir because, well, it flew where we needed to get to. It also agreed to go out of its way to collect us from an airstrip not on its regular route, and luckily gave us a reduced rate. Fynn was going to love this. Apart from roaring like a lion, howling like a jackal and hooting like an owl, he is obsessed by anything that flies. At the hangars in Joburg, preparing to board the Beechcraft, Fynn was gobsmacked. ‘Look Daddy!’ were his words at every departing plane. We stopped twice to drop off passengers before finally landing at an airfield in a game reserve – from where it was still an hour’s drive to our destination. It was a lot of travelling for a young man of 31 months. Dad was as excited as his boy. We were going to the bush together.

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