The plan for the day was to travel from Colesburg, which is only famous for being "that small town where everybody driving across the country sleeps for just one night to break up the trip", and Oudtshoorn, the ostrich capital of the world. Two fairly hot, arid, thrilling milestones then.
Started the day with a fill-up: again unleaded. Tsk. I opted for the N9 going south across the "scenic" Karoo as opposed to the faster and more boring N1 east to Cape Town. And indeed it was scenic. Real Karoo landscape, as promised. Could have been stuck in any wild west flick - the tumbleweed, the sparse shrubbery, the dusty panoramas, the crackling warmth. I rolled into Graaff Reinet "The Pearl of the Karoo" a little after 0900 and my shorts were already soaked through with sweat, no thanks to the all charcoal grey, all glossy pleather interior of the Bantam.
The mercury would've been tipping mid-30s certainly at this hour and even the SPF30, applied at 0700 had given up the ghost.
Decent fry, and decent coffee. Gobshite owner.
Having spun around the main roundabout a few times I trudged my way to the nearest "Farmhouse Breakfast" eatery I could find. The "Cool Karakel" or something like that was smack-bang on the Groot-Kerk plaza - prime real estate - so I knew it would have quality and prices to match. Good grub and at last good "genuine Italian coffee" (Lavazza, available near you). After gorging and watching the owner scaremonger a family of would-be-clients into getting a takeaway breakfast due to his incessant intrusions (think Newman's Corner) I ambled off to Venter's Game and Biltong Deli, which I spotted on the drive in. Here I picked up some semi wet droewors (kudu), the best on the trip so far and quite possibly the finest droewors I've tasted in this or any other country. Mighty (wet) beef biltong too. A real gem - non English speaking mind - located across from the towns taxidermist, as the slaughtered and mounted busts on the wall testify.
Tannie at Venter's slaghuis. Best droewors in all the land!
After popping into a couple of museum-cum-antique shops I picked up a complete works of Shakespeare for R100 and got on my way southalong. 60km later I pulled into the poorly named Aberdeen to fill 'er up. My god it was hot in this godforsaken spot (which, like every other village round here boasted battered remnants of a once pretty and proud settlement).
It was in desolate Aberdeen I confirmed another peculiar quirk of Betty's. She'll point blank refuse to start if she's too hot. And parked in the garage forecourt without an 80kph apparent wind in her gills her thermometer needle was pointing at red. It must've been 45 degrees out. Try start her and she'll turn over and over and over with no sign of breathing any fuel. She'll splutter after a long spell if you force her but that's it. The trick is simple. Pop the hood, let her breathe, run the fan if you must. And if you confide in your battery. 10 to 15 mins breathing time and she'll start first time. My guess is the fuel's disappearing somewhere en route between the tank and the carb.
A nice trick but not that impressive if there's a line of crocks queued up behind you waiting for the only LRP tank in town.
I belted on, so, full of oil and water and fuel, covered in suncream and pumping sweat until I reached the delightful Willowmore. I had to hold the steering wheel at 6 o' clock as the tops of my hands were scalded from holding it at "10 to 2". There is sweet shag all along the 110km between Aberdeen and Willowmore except a dried out dam, a bit of a hill and a kink in the road. And many many sheep.
Obligatory mid-morning Coloured dust up as I view in glee from the relative safety of my vehicle
After driving through Willowmore's Main Street that comprised two Jets and sixteen drankwinkels to appease the burgeoning coloured population I eventually happened upon the only
"How funny", I thought, "these country folk. A digestif even afore I've ordered my chicken-mayo sandwich!". Any way, gift horses and big boers, who was I to refuse? Two hours and five additional (entirely complimentary) beers later I felt it was time to get motoring before things got out of hand. Indeed it was mentioned on more than one occasion that I stay the night as Saturday night was a baie lekker jol. The farmers and families come from all around. 100km even. Sconcing at the two-tone clad crowd that was slowly building I thought it best to move along. And speaking of hands! By god! If you think you've seen hands then think again. Denis Leamy? Nothing. The Bull Hayes? Pah! Damien Cogan, bullock beater of Long Island - well, close. But you've never seen digits as fat as those balled up at the end of a Karoo sheep or gemsbok farmer's meaty arms.
The very presentable Royal Hotel from the outside. And Betty's starboard quarter.
The less presentable Royal Hotel bar. A quintessential countryside watering hole.
A quick escape through the toilet window in the (entirely plausible) case of an arranged marriage was rendered impossible thanks to the enormous latrine guard dog.
So. I shipped out before I landed up with a young wife and some dry land. The drive to Oudtshoorn was welcome, though entirely and oppressively miserable. Finally got there though, a few kilos lighter I'm sure.
