Hogsback, where we had spent our honeymoon 43 years earlier, was an attractive destination for the annual Christmas outing of our wine-tasting friends, whose expertise on the finer nuances of wine have always been outstripped by our ability to quaff and enjoy it.
Hogsback. A magical world of waterfalls and forests high in the Amathole mountains offering walking trails, diverse plants and trees, and amazing birdlife.
"Chill out in our beautiful, tranquil environment, and you might see Cape parrots, Knysna woodpeckers and even the narina trogon" says the website. We were keen to re-experience the beauty of the place, take a walk down memory lane, enjoying the forest, waterfalls and spectacular views.
The website failed to mention the spectacular potholes that had developed in the interim, terrifying trenches in the dusty road, lined by people half-heartedly trying to sell clay hogs and walking sticks.
Still, we were determined to enjoy the mountain as we made our way to the Arboretum, for an "easy" half-hour walk to enjoy the view. We locked our car and set off with a dog in tow and reasonable walking boots.
The brochure said "take fresh water" but with waterfalls everywhere we'd be okay. It also said maps were "readily available", but the one our hostess gave us was a vague scrawl which, we were soon to discover, was decidedly unreliable.
The painted hog signs we remembered, colour coded for each trail, had faded and it soon became clear that we had missed our turning. The waterfalls had dried up because of the drought, and our thirst grew.
"Hiking always involves some risk", the website warns. "Tell a responsible person about planned walks." We hadn't, but we were fine, we reassured ourselves. We'd done this before.
An hour later we stopped to reassess the situation. The dog was old and tired, and we were too. "Backwards or forwards?" We chose forwards, spurred on by the thought of the wonderful glasses of wine we would have with lunch.
Our phone GPS told us where north was, and that the road was still to our left. Two hours later we stopped and assessed the situation again. Turning back would mean another two hours.
"Let's go straight up and over," I suggested brightly, pointing at a loggers' track, so the walk got steeper, our breath came faster, the wind soughed regretfully through the pine needles, and then the path abruptly morphed into a lorry's turning circle.
"Never mind, it must be close." We retraced our steps to resume our clockwise trudging.
Past signs for the Kettlespout Falls, which had dried up, and an old stone seat, and - mirabile dictu - a trickle of water where an erstwhile waterfall had tumbled tumultuously.
We crouched down and cupped handfuls of water into our parched mouths, slurping like horses at the trough.
After 3.5 hours and 9km we recognised the arboretum ahead. My husband patted his breast pocket for the car key and frowned. Then he patted his trouser pockets, looking unhappy.
"They've got to be here somewhere." But they weren't. And attached to them was my spare car key.
The cellphone worked, friends rescued us, and re-hiked the route, determined to find the keys, without success.
We drowned our sorrows at a memorable wine-tasting, and my husband cadged a lift to Grahamstown to collect my car and the spare keys and drive back, so we could drive both cars home.
Replacing the keys cost R11,500!
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