Learned behaviour, whether a drunkard beating his wife or children growing up without a father, is what comes to mind when observing those waiting their turn in a family court waiting room. Which is a very roundabout way of how I got to cogitating about camping. I never had an option regarding the subject. In primary school, when buddies were going to the Cabanas at Umhlanga Rocks, I was camping somewhere in the Drakensberg. If the then Natal Parks Board had offered loyalty points, we would’ve owned a chalet by the time we were done with that province. The notion of a tent was first erected upon my chubby toddler consciousness at what I vaguely remember was a woody campsite around Canada’s east coast. It was the late 60s, around the time Woodstock happened, and we were living in Toronto. Chickahominy Park, in Virginia across the border, was a favourite with my father. I can still smell the tent. We had a large orange canvas creation made in the then Czechoslovakia. I apparently enjoyed placing my developing nostrils against the gauze of the flysheet, and sliding them downwards. It’s a sensation I vaguely remember even now. In fact I tried it out while no one was looking on a recent ‘re-acquaintance with camping’ trip to a Cape Nature site on the Ceres side of Bains Kloof. I had actually tried two and a half years ago with my then three year-old son Fynn and a classmate and his Dad at a rustic campsite called Beaverlac in the hills north of Piketberg. On that trip we realized that chairs and a table would’ve been nice. A kettle would’ve been an absolute winner. Nevertheless, we had fire, and just as it is meant to carry with it some sort of inherent power for men, so we saw the night through. Beaverlac is beautiful, with a large, lovely rock-pool a few hundred metres from the campsite and the shop, and a few trails to be hiked. Which isn’t dissimilar to the natural offerings at Tweede Tol , (Second Toll), the Cape Nature camping facility in the Limietberg Nature Reserve, some 30 minutes from Wellington on the Ceres side of Bains Kloof. However as my fellow Dad and German camping buddy Bodo noted, if there was a perfect design for waterfalls and rock-pools, those at Tweede Tol would be it. The camp itself was pleasant. We’d been given a shady although sandy spot, which apart from the braai-place and six-seater bench accommodated our two tents, plus cars. Next-door to us was the playground area. With its ‘monkey-bars’ and swing-seats missing it was evidently in need of a little care. But the children didn’t really care, it was all part of the adventure. Joe, the official manning the gate, suggested mid-afternoon was the best time to visit the pools on the day-visitors side of the road, as they started packing for home. With only 120 day-visitors allowed, it’s always crowded at the weekend. After passing the well-laid out braai sites and one character who’d seemingly spent the day with his head in a bottle, we arrived at the large rock pools. They were magnificent. The shadows were stretching out over the collection of expansive granite rocks surrounded by pools of varying clear, shallow and deep water. This was happy paddling stuff, and we were almost the last to leave. Back at the camp, with early evening wash-time approaching, thoughts turned to the ablution block. It was a full camp, and Bodo’s wife Amanda, with two-year old Leo in tow, said she’d just been there, and that none of the toilets in the newly-built ablution block were working. Joe had no idea when Public Works were coming to fix the bathrooms. After dinner, night-time was as I remember childhood camping. Returning from a walk under a full moon, we came across children dressed in giggles, flashing light-sabres and pyjamas. It was time for supper. The next morning, coffee was an issue – for us. We hadn’t brought any, let alone a kettle. So the charming woman and her husband opposite, veteran campers, came to our rescue. After which we set out for the serious waterfalls and rock-pools. Glancing back every now and then to see if said Mom and her brood – Bodo and their almost four and almost two year-olds – were doing ok, I was wondering if the hike was maybe further than we’d been told. That was when the first waterfall opened up before us. I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful. With two natural jacuzzi-type pools to the left of the gentle waterfall and the clear, fresh water no more than two metres in depth, we couldn’t have chosen better, and we made our base. There were ledges on either side of the pool from which both the boys and the ‘big boys’ could jump. In smaller pools behind us the boys found tiny fish, and we fashioned fishing rods from nearby broken branches to feed their enthusiasm. Bodo swatted a fly on his leg and put a thorn through it for a ‘fly’, I used a feathery leaf which I hoped resembled a dragonfly…and the boys dragged them to and fro in the water. Two groups passed through our little nirvana, asking if we knew about the two waterfalls further up from ‘our pool’. Further exploration was tempting, but as this was only a night-stay and we were packing up to leave that afternoon, we were happy to stay put. As in that grubby court waiting room, this one-night weekend had got me thinking. I’m hoping that one day Fynn remembers our first camping trips, not as something he had to do, but as something he loved ‘cos it was just such an adventure. Given that he’s privileged enough to have already visited a few game lodges, I know for certain that he happily sees the magic in both the ‘canvas’ and the roof.

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