Kleinmond, South Africa

Expecting another blistering hot day, I prepared early, really early for the hike. Shorts on, something I have not worn for a very long time , a T-shirt, the proverbial trainers and my backpack. One peanut butter sandwich which has become something of a tradition amongst us. And a bottle of water.

These hikes have become addictive. Life of late has been scathing, blistering in more ways than one. It has been a time of rampant heat and a troubled heart, when life slapped again and the fall out has been traumatic. One can spend hours in troubled contemplation, especially at this Silver time and regrets are many, explanations seem hollow and hearts torn. Small rooms become claustrophobic, so it is to nature that I turn. Today was to be a walk along the sea, at Kleinmond and I was more than ready for it.

The drive soon proved the weather had other ideas. If you are familiar with Clarens Drive and the R44, paradise lies before you. On the left, mountains of ages, of carved rock, some poised to roll into the sea. On the other, the ocean, blues and turquoise, wisps of white and endless beaches, virginally untouched in the early dawn. Each curve of road, each panorama is met with the familiar intake of breath. God’s country , scene of many photographs and advertisements, and cars plunging off the road, as happened a mere week ago. One needs a steely hand upon the wheel, and yet the views, so dramatic, lift the spirits.

We pass the pop up coffee truck, to experience the finest mist land upon the the windscreen, the billowing clouds rolling from mountain heights, propped up by the wind and frozen at the same time. I forgot to bring the all weather gear, I am a shoddy hiker.

The sea on laundry day spews debris onto the beach. Tongues and shells and rotting fish. To hike or not to hike?. To hike. Caps pulled low against the wind, a borrowed top and a quick trip to the restroom, for I am the worst at having to pop into the bushes - the true failure of a girl guide, spontaneous person - we begin to walk in single file, sea to the left of us, beach houses to the right.

Kleinmond was established in 1910, once a farm , now a favourite amongst foreigners with houses closed up after the summer season. The whales too, have gone. Others choose her for retirement, for views from benches. A great fire licked close not weeks ago, the wild horses to the beach.

Walking past pools the high tide forgot, the smell of the ocean is strong in my nostrils. Chatting leads to breathing, to forgetting for a while as we step over dune, over rock, on boardwalk bringing nature close. I am in the amphitheatre of sea otters, cormorants and darting dassies. Seagulls and fynbos, all kinds, too many to identify, flowers and cones and prickly specimens some have spent their lifetimes writing down, painting and being poetic about.

There are crosses to the fishermen who stood too close to the waves.

The beauty of hiking with friends and strangers, are the stories told along the way. Some slower than others, others faster in the exercise that must take place. Some just photograph every wild flowers, every step a discovery. Disa or daisy? All talk about our children on different shores, as it is nowadays. Far away and we all lament about wanting to share this little bit of heaven with them.

At the end of the walk, we come upon three crosses. Jarrah wood crosses. Sleepers meant for railways in 1902. The wreck of the Adolf Gustav. On the 28th June 1902, the Gustav, setting out from Freemantle, Australia, bound for Cape Town with 14 000 sleepers destined for the the railways cutting into South Africa. A mighty storm arose, the crew caught between waves and God, tried valiantly, for three days to stay out at sea, hoping the weight of the cargo would keep them stable. As the ship veered towards the rocks of the Palmiet river lagoon, hope sank with the increasing intake of water and all the scooping came to nought.

Two lifeboats left the sinking ship, now close to the dashing rocks. On the shore, witnesses watched the tragedy unfolding, unable to help, lights bobbing and disappearing too fast. Trying to reach shore, the first hit the rocks. Captain, crew man and a single passenger, Mr. Perkins, perished in the waves. The others were rescued on the beach, a million miles from home.

Today I stood at the crosses, marked by the debris of the original sleepers, the original Jarrah wood sleepers that floated from the wreck. And I thought, who would have sent the letter, the message of bereavement to the families of these three men? Who would have imagined their loved ones would die on a beach they could not imagine on the coast of Africa?

I was there today. I touched those crosses and sent a little prayer. In my own thoughts of family and loss. For all of us.

Eating a peanut butter sandwich with legends. A wild, beautiful beach.

It is only then you put things in perspective, your place here in the Universe - with stories all around you, and nature that continues unabated, that you realise life is precious, your time is now, and the need for promises of love and kindness is all that matters.

I touched the crosses again as I left, meandered back through the plants and ragged rocks, and found myself calmer, educated, humbled and grateful to be a part of it all. Nature teaches us this, we are specs for a little time, to leave our own mark. To forgive ourselves for our frailty and laud ourselves for our wanting. For someone to say, she tried.

It was a wonderful hike. It was time to re-connect and be alive.

Still a shoddy, unequipped hiker, promising to be better at it all. To the stories we shall go, shorts and all.

A walking tour through Borough Market

Charing Cross.