Nature's Valley

When I was 17 I left Johannesburg and went as an AFS student (American Field Scholar) to live in Chicago for a year.  My host family took me to Miami for a holiday.  I sent glossy postcards (of highrises, palm trees, colorfully populated beaches) to my family in South Africa.  They mailed me photos of their holiday at Natures Valley. A small wooden house at the edge of a red dirt road --the house barely visible in the thick forest which rose steeply up the mountain behind. A long sweep of beach, deserted except for my two brothers and sister standing proudly next to the intricate sand dribble castle they had built. 

That was my family’s first holiday at Nature’s Valley.  It would take two days to drive down from Johannesburg and we would rent a house for several weeks.  There was no electricity.  At night we sat around the scrabble board with the whiff of paraffin lamps and the occasional sizzle as a moth got too close to the flames.   From the beach you could see no sign of habitation.  Dunes hid the houses.  There were no high-rises.  As you walked the long golden beach all you saw were densely forested mountains, the wide lagoon where the river gathered before it emptied to the sea and dramatic high cliffs plunging into the ocean.  The lagoon was warm and gentle, the color of whiskey.  The sea was untamed – blue and turquoise with the white foam of crashing breakers.

I holidayed there with my family during my university years. It was at Nature’s Valley that I announced my engagement in 1974 – showed off the little ring  Graham and I had chosen in an outdoor flea market in London.  I was living in England at the time and had escaped a raw winter to join my family at the Valley.  And then, in the 1980ies it was to Nature’s Valley that I took my young children, fleeing the chill of Canadian and New England winters to head to the southern tip of Africa.  We picnicked at the side of the lagoon, my children chased seagulls, braved the waves, build castles of sand.  Came to know their grandparents.

 In the room where I am typing this now, is a painting my mother did of a picnic at the edge of the lagoon – champagne in evidence at my back, my daughter raising a glass in a toast and several renditions of my son at different ages.

By Shirley Bell

Until this trip I hadn’t been back to Nature’s Valley in well over 10 years.  Wild Spirit, the backpackers lodge where we stayed is  deep in the Tsitsikamma Forest in the mountains above Nature’s Valley.  From here, to get to the Valley you either drive down the winding pass (more than 30 sharp bends if I recall) or make a day of it and hike steeply down a narrow trail.  

I have taken both of these routes in the past month.

In April,  Nancy and I drove down,  slowing around the hairpin turns; remarking on the Spanish moss hanging off towering old trees, pausing to watch a troop of baboons – swaggering males, tiny clinging babies.  We meandered along the edge of the lagoon and walked along the tide-packed sand to picnic at the base of the cliffs.  I climbed up to the top for the view using the path which marks one end of the Otter Trail.  (This challenging and spectacularly beautiful trail between Natures Valley and Storms River Mouth is internationally renown.  It takes 3 days and needs to be reserved well in advance.)

Lagoon at Nature's Valley

Nancy at the edge of the lagoon

Cliffs at the start of the Otter Trail

On my way up

Spot me -- a turquoise speck

The View!  Worth the climb.

And then just a few days ago I was back in the area and, this time, hiked down to Natures Valley from the top of the pass with my daughter and two friends from Durham, North Carolina.  We passed through high protea fynbos and dense forest, boulder hopped along a rushing stream and then paused in awe beneath ancient giant Yellowwood trees.  We ate our well deserved picnic lunch on the beach under the hopeful eye of a large, perfectly groomed seagull who chased off any other would- be- contenders. Our return trail to the top of the pass was at the far end of the wide bay.   We passed a huge beached jellyfish, kept our eye out for dolphins and didn’t see another soul on the beach. 

Nor could we see a house.  There are still no high-rises, still only the one small shop at the end of the valley we used to walk to to buy basic supplies and candy treats.  From the beach, Nature’s Valley looks just as it did when I first went there more than 40 years ago.   There are a few informational signboards near the lagoon about birds and rare endemic insects but otherwise it feels like the world has stood still here.  Thankfully, reassuringly, still. 

A timeless rootedness,  like the Yellowwood giants, like memory.

About to descend

Julia at a river crossing

Looking back along the length of the beach

Climbing back up the other side

 

up close

There is something about being on a beach that slows you down –  invites you to notice details and pay attention to the pattern and movement of things.   Perhaps it’s all that light and space, the expanse of sky, the rhythm of the surf.  Perhaps it has to do with the feel of sand under bare feet, the touch of the sun and the breeze on the skin. 

Whatever it is, it has the power to open you up and at the same time bring you back to the core of yourself. 

For me, being on a beach encourages contemplation. It strengthens my connection with nature.  A child-like curiosity and whimsy enters my being.  There is time to enjoy the details, focus on the beauty, adjust perspective.


 Go at Snails pace

  Am I on the right path?

Crossed paths

snailoglyph

Yum!  You are what you eat?

 And, branching out  ....

Musseling in on the action 

 

Adrift on a beach

    

Below the Water

I'll cloak myself in shells

I'll never let you go

And Above

 

                                       Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take

but by the moments that take our breath away.

Breathe deep   Take wing

Wild Spirit

19th April.  I am writing this by the light of a bonfire. Earlier I watched the moon rise  – so red that it looked like a forest fire until it edged above the thick forest and resolved itself into a huge swollen rust-red orb.  Now it is silver and sails high above the mountain peaks.  The stars of the Southern Cross seem just an arm’s length away and little clouds, edged in silver, scud across the sky.

Drummers, sitting in the shadows, have been beating out a rhythm and a young woman has just performed a poi fire dance.  She twirled and swooped the flames in the dark, arcing and bending her body as though she were a puppet of the drums --her movements and the wild dance of the flames a pure extension of the music.

 Night, fire and the drums of Africa.  There is only the dense Tsitsikamma forest around us-- and mountains – and moonlight.  Not a sign of any habitation but this -- a back packers lodge in the middle of an ancient forest which tumbles down steep valleys to the ocean. 

We are the oldest guests.

Around me I hear Spanish, German and a variety of English accents.  Young folk traveling around Africa – softly sharing their stories and laughing – faces lit by the bonfire, obscured by smoke.  Some Canadians described their most recent adventures  --  riding ostriches, exploring the vast Cango caves, braving the bungee jump from the Bloukrans Bridge (highest in the world) ….. 

Earlier today Nancy and I watched as miniature figures with their arms stretched wide, plunged head first into the deep chasm of the Bloukrans Gorge to bounce and swing heart-stoppingly at the end of a pale cord.  (apparently, if you hesitate, you get a nudge to help you on your way – no chance to chicken out!)

We spent most of today at Storm’s River Mouth.  A crystal clear day with the sky and the sea an impossible blue and the mountains as clear as I’ve ever seen them.  The boardwalk along the side of a thickly forested mountain is made of recycled plastic bags and looks like planks of weathered wood.   Ancient indigenous trees surround us. Calla lilies grow wild.  We catch sight of dolphins arcing through the water.  Waves crash high against the rocks way below us. We climb up and down steep stairs and sway across the long suspension bridge which spans Storm’s River Mouth. The narrow river has carved deep into the earth and high cliffs flank both sides.  Waves rush up a pebble beach, audibly tumbling the stones to form rounded perfection in soft hues of pink and yellow and grey.  Too heavy for my suitcase, too large for the windowsill in my bedroom.  But planted in my memory.  

Looking up Storms River from Suspension Bridge

Has quite a sway!

We take lots of photos.  Smiles of happiness are stretched on our faces.  
We eat fresh calamari on the restaurant deck with the sun warming out backs and an uninterrupted view  -- insanely beautiful.  

And now here we are tonight at Wild Spirit backpacker’s lodge.  We are here because my daughter, Julia, fell in love with the place when she first stayed here a couple of years ago.  “You would love it, mum!” she kept saying.  She is now doing environmental fieldwork not too far away and comes to Wild Spirit regularly.  I wasn’t quite sure what to expect of a backpackers lodge or how at ease I would feel here.  But now that I am here I can certainly understand why the guest book is full of travelers who planned to spend only one night here but ended up staying several.  It has a hippy feel. Lots of ginger cats, prayer flags, tasty vegetarian food.  

Environmentalism is a strong theme –  illustrated signs about conserving water, recycling tips – there is even an art room where you can design products using recycled items.  There are horses and chickens and dogs.  We were warned not to leave food in our rooms if the windows were open because of monkeys and baboons.   I saw a huge ugly bottomed baboon racing into the bushes chased by wildly barking dogs.  There is a full bar, an excellent music system (great playlist) and free internet.  The views are superb and there are meandering walks in the forest. Artistic and whimsical touches are everywhere – “Where the Wild Things Are” illustrations adorn the long communal table, my bedroom is decoratively painted vibrant orange, there are stems of delicate leaves in a small vase next to my double bed.    

I can see why travelers who find this place want to stay a while.  I am so glad that I will now be able to visualize Julia here.  I have a hard time when loved ones are living in places I don’t know, have not seen.  It makes them so much further from me.   I need to know where they are to root them in my mind. 

Place is so incredibly important to me. 

Keurbooms Strand

18th April  We are staying in a cottage right on the edge of the beach at Keurboom’s Strand.  From our windows and our veranda we look directly down the sandy beach towards rock formations, steep forested cliffs and mountains beyond.  It is the most sublime view and it feels as though we are the only people here. 

Full Moon  from our Veranda

 

 In the early mornings I roll out of bed and walk and walk along the beach,

my footprints the first to disturb the unblemished tide-packed sand. 

Morning shadow pointing to my lone footprints

 

 I have walked past the lagoon where seagulls gather and float on the sky-reflecting water. The river which feeds it flows down through high forested hills.  Dark-leaved trees glisten as though kissed with silver and there are delicate hoof prints on the banks near the reeds. 

Edge of Lagoon and River Valley beyond

 
I stand at the base of Cathedral Rock with its soaring arch and the round hole above. The tide is coming in and waves are beginning to lap up the sand under the arch.  Brave little flowers cling to the rock, bright yellow against ochre lichen.  Waves splash dramatically on the rocks beyond -- white foam scatters against the blue of the sky.  I know there is still no way I could throw a pebble high enough to go through the hole above the arch.  Goodness knows how hard I tried in my youth.  

 

I have walked on and on  -- across pebbled coves and sandy bays. 

 My small back pack grows too heavy with wonderfully patterned rocks and abalone shells.

  I sit down to cull and photograph the ones I have to leave behind.  

 

I stop at rock pools, immensely gladdened to see that there are still

bright sea anenomes and spiky sea urchins in reds and purple. 

 

It is all just as I remembered.  There is the rock we dived off into a deep pool left when the tide was low.  It had seemed challengingly high when I was young.  It still looks high to me. None of this has lost its grandeur or beauty.  It still seems as pristine and untampered as it did almost fifty years ago.  I give thanks.  There is not a soul in sight.  Unless you count the three black oystercatchers with red beaks and legs. 
 
I came on holiday here for many years with my family.  We rented a house half way up a hill.  We four children -- sunburned, sandy and tired after a day on the beach -- moaned and complained about the steep climb back to the house.  My mother had us walk up the hill backwards so that we would face the spectacular view and she led us in singing  “I’m walking backwards to Christmas”. 
 
 I always wished we could stay in one of the little cottages right on the beach. There would be no hill to climb, I could run directly out onto the sand, and go to sleep with the sound of the waves.
 
And here I am doing exactly that.  
 

Nancy setting up her tripod

moon

 And I have Nancy to thank.  She wanted to see the places which had been special to me. 

Being here, memories of my childhood sparkle in their clarity. It’s as though my family moves along the beach around me, hide and seek between the rocks. 

I'm walking backwards .....