It was time to leave France. The sight of small villages in other countries never ceases to thrill me – their character, their age, their doorways, chimneys, backyards. I always picture the folk going about their daily lives within them.
From our train window, northern France whizzed by. I would have preferred eighty kilometers an hour rather than three hundred, but it would have taken a while to get to London that way.
We arrived at St. Pancras station late in the afternoon. What breathtaking architecture this mighty old place of trains embodies. I walked slowly, and looked around, and up, in wonder. Eventually we found our way out of the station into the streets of London, and walked the kilometer or so to our accommodation – a tiny but comfortable room in Argyle Street, Kings Cross. A street of accommodation. Everything old.
It was still hot. We were thrilled to see an air-conditioner on the wall, but on pointing the remote at it, found the thing to be lifeless. Down to the desk where we were told that air-conditioning was an extra cost. Leigh expostulated, albeit in one quick, short burst, but the result was ‘free’ air-conditioning. He’s a fixer.
We went out to find a British pub – not an easy task as there seemed to be few, but we did find The Scottish, along with the cold beers we were craving. Had an Aussie bushwhacker come up to us after eavesdropping and making sure of our accents, and for a while we swapped some yarns. He was not a day under seventy, looked like he’d stepped straight out of our Outback – a loner, but was seeing the world and had some amazing stories of resilience and survival through his travels.
Next morning after an early check-out and leaving our luggage at reception, we went down the road for a full English breakfast, and then out into the streets on foot. I have a lovely series of photos I took as we sat for a while watching the people of King’s Cross – a dizzy mix of all sorts. For me it was like watching an art house movie.
Mid-afternoon we made our way by train to Heathrow, from where we were flying to Johannesburg – an eleven hour flight.
We had made sure when planning our trip that we would not be rushed anywhere along the way, so in Johannesburg we had a leisurely lunch in the airport before our flight to Hoedspruit – a small town near Kruger National Park.
In the shed-like airport, we were moved along by humorless staff who demanded our passports at three points through the tiny shed.
After running that gauntlet, we were picked up by our pre-arranged driver Ronny – a lovely personable guy and devoted family man with fairly good English and knowledgeable answers to our myriad questions about this part of the world. He took us to our accommodation in town – an eight apartment guest house – a gracious edifice built in an arc around a central pool and semi tropical garden.
That evening we walked into town, about two kilometers along tree-lined streets of beautiful architecturally designed homes and gardens. It was dusk, and as we walked, we saw a statue of a wart-hog in front of one of the gardens. We thought how fitting it was for this part of the world, but were stopped in our tracks when it began to walk towards us – as alive as we were. Apparently not unusual. We were told there had been a leopard walking around town a few days earlier.
We found a beautiful restaurant called The Hat and Creek – English translation of Hoedspruit. The sprawling, organic building open to the air had a truly African atmosphere, with lantern and candlelight, dedicated staff and a generous menu of superb food, and the best of South African wine. We enjoyed it so much we walked there for breakfast next morning.
About mid-morning Ronny picked us up from our guest house. It was a forty-five minute dirt road drive to our lodge, and again my head was turning, from side to side to side, as I soaked up the sight of habitations and landscape along the way. I thought I should pinch myself. I was in South Africa.
We came up over a hill, around a bend and there was Pondoro Game Lodge in all its glory, sitting on the banks of the magnificent Olifants River. Two black girls with beaming smiles were waiting for us as we stepped out of the car. They offered us warm, moist towels and a refreshing drink of home-made lemon cordial. We were shown to a reception room where we checked in and were informed of the workings of the place where we’d be spending the next four days. There were specific things to learn, as this was no ordinary place. Wild animals would be roaming freely around us. We would be escorted from our detached suite each time we left it – either to leave for Safari or walk to the lodge for dinner. We would be woken at five each morning to be ready for safari at six. This excursion would last three hours and we would return for breakfast at nine. The afternoon safari would be another three hours – leaving at three and returning for us to be ready for dinner at seven. There would be three days of this. After receiving this information at reception, we were escorted to our suite – a three hundred metre walk through the bush from the main lodge.
I knew it would be spectacular but, even so, was stopped in my tracks as we walked through the door. It was luxurious with every comfort we could possibly wish for. French doors opened onto our own large deck overlooking the river. Out here were comfy chairs and a spa bath and shower. We saw movement on the other side of the river. Two giraffes walked and grazed the tree tops. A pair of hippos lazed on the sandy beach thirty meters away. The weather was perfect – blue sky, no wind, warm, twenty five degrees. The fast flowing river sparkled in the sun. We were literally in another world.
More to tell but I am running out of time to get this blog up today. I will try to finish it within the next few days.
Life back in The Barossa has been interesting. Never a dull moment. We have small outings to lovely Barossa places, for lunch, drinks, coffee. Had two days recently in The Clare Valley. Want to spend a day in Port Adelaide when this bleak wintry weather lifts. Looking forward to time in The Flinders Ranges next month – when it is a bit warmer and the wild flowers are out. I know I will be inspired to write of all there is to love about The Flinders. Sets my creative juices flowing madly.
More poems coming soon.
Take care.
Warmly,
Sue
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