As I contemplate this weekend’s adventure of ‘roughing it’ in Hilton’s Bush Lodge and a tougher-than-expected trail run in Howick, I am sipping on a surprisingly delicious Merlot.
I realise I am breaking all sorts of snobby wine traditions by calling a wine delicious, but with a smash of fresh cranberry on my first sip, followed by darker berries on my second and third, one can be forgiven for explaining this wine in pleb terminology.
Its velvety tannins, combined with a rich, full-bodied structure, make it feel like you are drinking the king’s wine and should call for a taster. Tannins this lively that don’t feel like they are pulling every last drop of moisture out of your gums belong in a higher price bracket, but heck, I’ll take this king’s wine and go buy a few more bottles before the shelves catch on.
Its acidity is just strong enough to keep those ripe fruits lingering for long enough, without the sharp kick in the balls that comes with a wine trying too hard to remind you that it has acidity and wants to be noticed. Instead, everything seems to settle comfortably together: dark fruit, a little cranberry brightness, those wonderfully soft tannins, and enough weight to make each sip feel substantial.
It is the sort of wine that makes you take another sip before you have quite finished thinking about the previous one. Which is probably the least sophisticated tasting note imaginable, but perhaps also the most useful.
It’s also the sort of wine that you give to the okes during halftime when the Boks are playing anyone. Any Bok supporter worth his salt will down this thirst-quenching berry juice and ask if you bought it from Woolies. He will ask his bokkie to add it to his post-gym drink with Woolies biltong and a Netflix romcom.
It is the sort of wine that makes you want another glass.
Which is the point, is it not?
Even for Boeta and Bokkie.
But back to the reason I am sitting here with a glass of heaven in hand, Hilton and Howick all blended into 24 hours of ‘Why can’t I just live here forever?’ and drink king’s wine like there are no Mondays.
The weekend started with a parkrun, and I firmly believe every Saturday morning must be spent trying to improve on your previous time, or to beat your parkrun nemesis, or both if you are so inclined. Mine is both, and believe you me, there is nothing quite like beating that runner, who shows up every Saturday, every bloody Saturday, and whose sole purpose in life is to beat you in the parkrun. I think we both hate each other. But I won, and that made the lousy drive to Hilton a little easier.
There is no romance on KZN highways. Just trucks and roadworks designed to make your life difficult. I hated every second of the drive to Hilton. I swear drivers these days are marked by their sheer ability to infuriate everyone around them, and still behave as if they have no idea that they almost caused the world’s largest pile-up. Indifference describes it best. Anyway, back to Hilton Bush Lodge. What a delight. What a view.
Once off the highways of indifference, and deep into Hilton, everything seems to slow down. The countryside has a way of emptying your cup of stress, and filling it with nostalgia and dreams of a quieter life.
The Bush Lodge Hilton was off the main road, and around 6 km of sand roads hellbent on ripping your tires off of your car, but that is why I bought the car I am in, to drive to places that were trying to keep their secrets.
Once there, it just smells different. It feels different.
Life stands still and your rat-race existence seems somewhat absurd. This is the place your mind needs to rest and figure out the hoax that has become our existence.
Not a sound, just birds and bugs dive bombing you from the trees, and buck staring at you as if you are trespassing. You can smell flowers, which is weird, because diesel and office furniture have become the aroma that your nose finds comforting.
And if it was not for the hen party next door (I assume it was a pre-wedding party), it would have been the most peaceful few hours of my life. I will definitely go back for a writer’s retreat and spend a few days.
When my alarm clock went off to wake me up at 3:45 AM, it felt like I had just fallen asleep, which I probably had. But it was trail run time.
KZN Trail Running did it again, a superbly organised event at an extraordinary location.
This time, this race, I tried to do it as fast as possible without trying to actually enjoy it… which is weird, because despite trying to finish in the top ten, I still enjoyed it. This time, however, I did not stop to ruin the photo with a selfie, or take in the scenery, or even take a picture with my phone, for Facebook to show everyone how amazing my weekend was. I just ran, and it was beautiful, and that is the magic of La Petite France in Howick, you can run, you can put your head down and be the best athlete you can be, but you cannot escape the beauty of La Petite France. Nor can you escape the unique character of the place. It is just a farm, yet it’s just a farm that you wish you could visit every weekend, even if it means a 21 km soul-destroying mud march to find the toughest trail runner in the world. You would do it every time!
At one point, when circumstances allowed me to think, I seriously contemplated sending a sternly worded e-mail to KZN Trail Running, asking them why they used the word “trail” to advertise this event. For many a kilometre, there was no trail, just grass and fields and cows. And a wildebeest that almost killed a fellow runner behind me, but that is another story altogether.
Fields of green, flowers, rocky trails and dams that reflect the surrounding beauty, one would be forgiven for thinking Anne of Green Gables would be handing you your medal at the finish line. It is a cliché of scenery, it is a farm with a personality of its own. Renowned for its butter and cheese, La Petite is a delight for those who love the idea of chemical-free dairy products. It is the craft brewery of dairy farms, and it is a farm that welcomes visitors on weekends. The Saturday market attracts people from all over, and trust me, its cheese and butter are divine. Get yourself some!
I did run a little harder than usual this run. I have heard of their famous bacon and egg burger that comes smothered with their cheese and fried onion. I can promise you, that extra effort was worth it. I may be bedridden for a day or two, but that entire experience is worth it. I feel the views are worth walking it with my camera the next time, but then we have to deal with the queue for the bacon and egg buns…
A trail run that begins and ends at La Petite France is truly something special. The trail run is a lesson in hill running. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a tough one, but your soul outranks your legs when it comes to the feels, and you feel something special at this run. Your soul just feels so uplifted, I think the cure for depression needs a review.
This place is magical.
Thanks, KZN Trail Running, and thank you, La Petite France. I will be back!
Leave a Reply