I doubt this will catch on.
The damage was done courtesy of the usual suspects. Coming off 12 hours of back-to-back meetings I sought refuge with my new Cape Town agents, Jacqui and Clive Nel. Jacqui, a stunning woman with sharp feline features, one of those magical people who are impossible to age on sight, and a native of Jo’burg, had impressed me sufficiently with her knowledge of the business and particularly the level and quality of her contacts in the shipping world for me to fire our existing representatives (an arm of a mighty multinational forwarding chain). Clive is Cape Town born and bred, and a true character. To know Clive you have to see him in his natural environment. He might say that would be on show site rigging a monster piece of machinery for a tricky heavy lift; but I’ll tell you the truth. It’s sitting back in the comfort of the Fireman’s Arms, Cape Town’s oldest pub (established in the 1800’s), knocking back quality South African grape juice or even the occasional Guinness.
So it came to pass that I took my weary bones to the Fireman’s and sank a few of the aforementioned with my new colleagues. Guinness followed Guinness, accompanied by a most acceptable chicken curry, in turn washed down with a smooth, rich Durbanville Hills Cabernet Sauvignon, one of the finest I’ve tasted. Clive provided the entertainment, with the occasional interjection/ objection from Mrs Nel, telling the tale of man who went to Jo’Burg with a cat and a few rand and returned 16 years later with the same cat, a business, three cars and a wife. Those joining me on the TOM quest next April will no doubt have the pleasure of the Nel’s company in this fine establishment. Post-race, naturally. Jacqui dropped me off at my hotel just off the waterfront and we said our goodbyes, vowing to take in some golf and a few wine tasting sessions on my next visit in December. I wandered into the hotel bar, scanning the comfy chairs and wicker sofas for familiar faces. There were none to be found, so I parked up next to an open fire to aimlessly study the cocktail menu.
Where do these impulses spring from? I rarely touch a cocktail – the occasional G&T if there’s no good ale, B52’s at Christmas . . .but that’s it. Not this night. No, tonight, Matthew, I shall be a cocktail bitch; I’m going to work through the list till I find a winner. Mercifully I hit the jackpot on the second round. My first stop was a Manhattan, beautifully presented in the appropriate glass. The Jack Daniels in this one was a little overpowering, towering over the subtle taste of the Vermouth and Martini Rosso. I slugged it back and moved swiftly on . . . to the Cosmopolitan. Wow, what a drink that is. The first one barely touched the sides, the alarmingly refreshing blend of Vodka, Triple Sec, Lime and Cranberry Juice working its magic on my tastebuds. I downed another – one for the ditch – and retired disgracefully, wobbling along my corridor with a sheepish grin and great need for me pit.
And so, it came to pass that Sweder did awaken with the Mother of all hangovers. And his alarm clock did travel across the room as if in flight, where it came to rest suddenly against a bare brick wall.
Oh God . . . nightmare.
It’s ten past eight . . . oooh . . . breakfast was at eight with Ronan . . . oh well . . . I’ll just roll over and . . .
The fragments of the alarm clock fizzed and sparked as the snooze feature gamely tried to do its job. Shit, it’s no use, I’ll have to get up.
The next hour was spent shuffling about my room, semi-packing for the flight home, half an eye on a re-run of Fulham versus the MU Rowdies (the one where Ji Sung Park Swing or whatever his name is made all three first half goals in a 3-2 win). I switched off at half time – I knew the second half to be goal-less – and considered my options.
1. Go back to bed, curl up and wait to die.
2. Seek breakfast
3. Go for a long hard run
One was no option at all, two was out as I’d managed to fiddle about long enough to miss breakfast so three it would have to be. Oh God.
The run itself took the same course as Sunday evening’s rain-soaked lope; out to the seafront, left along the jogging path to the turnabout point . . .only today I didn’t. Turn about, that is. I kept going, determined to see what lay beyond the next cove, the next point. Heavy clouds draped the Lions’ Head peak to landward, a dull grey blanket extending over towards Robin Island, for so many years the infamous home to Mandella’s jail. I chugged on, sweating pure alcohol into my Addidas tech-vest, to seek new adventures on the coast road. I rounded a particularly attractive bluff and stopped in my tracks. Like Charlton Heston in
Planet of the Apes I gaped in awe at the sight before me. No, not the arm of the Statue of Liberty lurching out of the rolling surf (though the scene does stand some comparison). The mountains, home to the Two Oceans, guardians of the Cape, towered majestic behind the next tranch of beachfront, their peaks shrouded in dense cloud and mist. At this moment I could truly believe in a Creator. Faced with such massive, raw beauty I stood, dripping steadily, transfixed. Finally I was shaken out of my stupor by two young lovelies bouncing past, their firm round bottoms moving easily to the rhythm of their jogging, not an unsightly wobble to be seen. Now I know there’s a God . . . and he’s definitely a fella
I hammered on in pursuit of the ladies. The beachfront path ended up ahead, but I noticed a narrow winding road heading steeply up into the foothills. I took it and was rewarded, after a breathless vertical clamber, with yet more stunning views of the Cape. Blimey; this is Winter! Below me a beach lazed under the glare of a weak, cloud-veiled sun; the manic ocean dashed in to swirl around hefty boulders, gulls flapped easily, low across the water. I had to get down there, and within a few minutes located a steep stairway leading down to ‘Beach 2’. The path meandered down at a perilous degree, winding through properties heavily defended by razor wire and no end of metal gates and bars, a reminder that crime is never too far away on these foreign streets.
Arriving on the soft white unspoilt sands I glanced back up the stairway. Hmm . . . I’ll have to be getting back up there in a bit. Yet another
Dad’s Army’s Arthur moment:
‘I say sir, d’you think that’s awfully wise . . .’
I spent 10 minutes or so messing about, making footprints in the virgin sand to watch them washed away by the tidying sea. I staged a few photos but, as expected, they all look as though I’m some genetically modified walrus washed up on the beach, so I doubt they’ll get published here.
I clambered up the stairway, past the collection of bungalows sunk into the cliff face.
Funny word that,
bungalow. My Uncle Reg, a dour man in the company of adults, used to love a josh and a jape with the younger members of his extended family. He used to set us up to play pranks on my Nan, our loveable yet tyrannical Matriarch, earning the full force of her rage by interrupting the semi-religious act of meal preparation. She would bustle after us wafting an old broom, much as the old negro house cleaner in the original
Tom & Jerry cartoons.
Reg sat me down one day (I must’ve been about ten or so) and with his serious, imparting-important-knowledge face on, asked me a question.
‘D’you know why they call bungalows ‘bungalows’?’
I scratched my head. Uncle Reg was a building inspector of some repute, so I had no doubt he knew the answer. I shook my head, eyes and ears wide, ready for the revelation.
‘Well, there was this chap and he always wanted to build his own house. So he saved up his money and drew up the plans, and by and by he started work with the help of a builder. After several months the man realised to his horror that he didn’t have enough money to finish the job. So he turned to the builder to ask his advice.
“Hmm”, said the builder. “Well the only thing I can think of is don’t build the upstairs, just bung a low roof on it.”
And that was the first ever bung-a-low.’
I took this as one does when one has an Uncle like Reg – as gospel. And d’you know, to this day I’m not sure if he was joshing. I expect the angels are having a few laughs with him now, watching me struggle like that ten year old.
I set off into the west, the sun over the zenith starting its weary journey behind the cloud banks towards the horizon. Dog walkers and fellow joggers passed without sound or hail, wrapped in their thoughts, shoulders hunched against a chilly ocean breeze. To my left the Atlantic threw herself onto the Cape Town rocks sending plumes of salty spray high into the air to land on the path and on me. I felt a damned sight better than I had two hours before, keeping a modest yet steady pace. I figured I’d cover about 16k (or 10 miles if you prefer) in this hour and forty-five minutes of sweaty pavement pounding.
I returned to the hotel, dashed straight to my room to strip and rinse my sodden clothes before packing the still-wet gear in my suitcase. A wonderful twenty minute shower eased some of the aches and pains; I could almost see the remnants of my hangover swirling (the wrong way) down the plug-hole.
Off home tonight, another feast of fun, food and cramped entertainment courtesy of BA, then it’s on to join my girls in Ringstead Bay for a little British Summer chill-out for the rest of the week.
