Snowdon Falls veil down the rock face into a large pool and then spill into two more pools. A rope has been attached (on the right, outside the frame) to make it easier to climb to the pool at the top.

Clean air country...
After a heaped plate of bacon, eggs and toast, our small group sets off on a farm road. Phil and Kate’s dog Tinker leads the way. She’s covering four times the distance we are, running in circles, chasing hares and plunging into pools.

We’re aiming for Snowdon Peak – named after the highest mountain in Wales – and our destination is Snowdon Falls on the farm of the same name.
“The land here was surveyed by an Irishman in the 1860s,” Phil tells us. “It reminded him of Wales and the Scottish Highlands, which is why he named many of the peaks after UK landmarks.
“It does look like the High­lands,” says Janét, who’s been to Scotland. “These mountains are just way more impressive.”

And not nearly as high. Wales’ Snowdon Peak is about the height of Table Mountain, whereas the one we’re walking towards is two-and-a-half times as high.
Kate is English. She says her friends back in the UK tease her for moving to Africa and then settling in a farming district called New England, which was settled in the 1860s by descendants of the British Settlers, and where the mountain peaks have names like Ben Nevis, Glen Gyle and Balloch.

We walk along farm roads and paths used by animals and shepherds. It’s a relatively easy five-and-a-half hour hike across a few cattle farms to the waterfall and back. In places we walk among Friesians and Jerseys, and then we cross a stream and wade through bushes along the river, side-stepping rose thorns.

Phil says the dog roses that grow here were brought into the country by missionaries, who used the rose hips to make a vitamin C supplement.
Tinker flushes out a Drakens­berg rock jumper, but the rare little grey-and-orange bird quickly ducks out of sight again into a tunnel in the grass.

Coming round a bend in the river, the closed end of the valley comes into view, and against the rock face a waterfall cascades about five storeys into a deep pool, and then into a second and third pool.
The main fall is a trickle com­pared with how it looks after heavy rain, Phil says.
The icy water takes my breath away when I first jump in. We search for the warm spots where the sun has shone on the water.

Then we clamber up the cliff with the aid of a rope to jump into the highest pool. The water is so clear you can see to the bottom, but it’s too deep to dive down to it.
To avoid being caught in the mountains by a late-afternoon thunderstorm, we turn back while the sun is still high in the sky, stopping for lunch along the way under a willow next to the river.

On horseback you have the best vantage point to admire the scenery. Telle Falls Trails offers farm rides as well as two-day trails.

Sightseeing from the saddle
Kate points to a peak east of our lodge: “That’s where we’re going horse riding today.” As the crow flies it’s probably no more than 20 km away, but the valleys and hills inbetween make it seem much farther.

The prospect of getting on a horse for the first time in I don’t know how many years makes me wish we could just keep driving. Amur falcons are gathering on telephone lines for their migration; a hare streaks across the green expanse of a meadow; wispy clouds are forming in the sky. Distracted by the scenery, we’re there in seemingly no time.

Kathy Mitchell and her son Scott of Telle Falls Trails have already saddled the horses by the time we arrive at their farm Kernow – Scottish for “Cornwall”, Kathy explains.
I get to ride Gunner.

My first attempt to nudge him into a walk doesn’t work.
Horses are like cats, is my niece Katryn’s opinion; she’s never been able to make one do what she wants it to do.

“Come on, kitty cat,” I beg under my breath. Clearly, I’m doing something wrong. Kathy adjusts my stirrups and Kate gives me a few pointers, and pretty soon we’re heading down the farm road.
We keep to a walk, which suits me and Carlie fine. Janét is keen to pick up the pace. When we get to an open stretch, she gets her chance to canter.

Then we get to a steep, scary-looking downhill. “The horses know what they have to do,” Kathy assures us; “just give them the reins and you’ll be fine.”
The other horses don’t hesitate, but Gunner isn’t keen on the down­hill and turns to go back up. I’ve got a little more confidence by now, how­ever, and after a wide turn he allows me to steer him down the slope.

I’m secretly chuffed.
We have to duck branches as the horses pick their way along an overgrown path. The sun has risen high in the sky when we stop at a stream to let the horses drink. Kathy points out landmarks like Balloch Peak and Halseton Krans to orientate us.

Then there’s the final uphill stretch back to Kernow. To our left, the earth drops away. Looking down, I see a Verreaux’s eagle gliding on the updraft, the distinctive white pattern on its back clearly visible.
I want to tell someone that I saw a flying eagle from above, but I’ve dropped behind… I’d better catch up.

The mountain bike route can be as challenging as you wish, ranging from an easy ride on gravel roads to steep single tracks.

Huffing on the uphills
Seeing as we’re squeezing a five-day trail into three days, we’re going mountain biking right after our horse riding outing.

That’s something else I haven’t done in a while; my own bike at home is covered in cobwebs.
Phil takes pity on us and drives to the top of the first hill before he takes the bikes off the back of the bakkie. The plan is to cycle 21 km to a spot next to the Kraai River, where we’ll have a late lunch, with the option of cycling another 15 km to the farm where we’ll pitch our tents under a rock overhang.

While getting used to another saddle under my tender behind, I say a silent thank you to Phil and Kate for following us in the bakkie.
We’re riding on a public road, yet for kilometres we don’t encounter any other vehicles. I get so used to having the road to myself that a farmer passing in a bakkie has to give a gentle hoot to attract my attention.

I suffer on the uphills, and give my weary legs a rest on the downhills. I don’t pass up a chance to stop on every rise – to catch my breath and admire the landscape at the same time. Sandstone formations protrude from the grassland, and in the distance blue-grey mountains form a wavy skyline.

As expected, the two unfit ones among us give up before we even reach our lunch stop. Carlie and I are only too happy to load our bikes onto the bakkie when the uphills start to take their toll.
The energetic Janét is the only one who cycles the whole distance to the iron bridge that spans the Kraai River at Moshesh’s Ford, where Kate sets out a picnic under the trees on the river bank.
It’s near here that the Bell River and the Sterkspruit join to become the Kraai, which in turn flows into the Orange River near Aliwal North.

The horse riding and cycling took longer than expected, so after our late lunch we all pile into the bakkie and drive west to the farm Lower Drumbo in the Wartrail district – about 30 km this side of Barkly East – where we’re going to set up camp under a sandstone overhang.
From there, we plan to paddle downriver in inflatable boats tomorrow.

Near our destination we ford the Kraai, which flows across the road. “A few weeks ago we would have had to take another route,” Phil says.
The water has dropped considerably since a recent high, when pastures along the river were flooded.

At twilight, Phil builds a big fire while we grab soap and a towel to wash off the day’s dust and sweat in the river.
Later, Guy and Jean Goldsmith, who farm on Lower Drumbo, join us at the fire. Guy tells us about the recent flood, and how one tractor got stuck, and then another two sank up to their axles in the mud trying to tow it out.

We’re curious about life on such a remote farm. Of the two access roads to their house, the one is cut off by the river most of the time and the other is badly maintained. Doesn’t it get lonely?
“That’s how I prefer it,” Guy says. “No one drops in un­expectedly; only people who really like you come to visit.

The overhang provides good shelter and we’re tempted to sleep in the open, but Phil con­vinces us to put up the tents, as it gets cold during the night.
I fall asleep to the sound of the water babbling over shallow rocks, the hoo-hooooo of a Cape eagle-owl that nests nearby, and a frog opera.

Kate Nelson and Phil Harrison of Wild Mountain Adventures offer other tours as well, such as slackpacking hiking trails, rock art tours and photography weekends.

To paddle or not to paddle
“It’s not the Zambezi,” Kate said earlier, “so don’t expect white water.” In fact, when we wake up, the babble has changed to a whisper.

The Kraai’s level has dropped by about 30 cm during the night.
Phil is clearly worried about the situation, as the next place downstream with road access to pick up the boats is 13 km away. Once we get going, we’ll have to drag or carry the boats where it’s too shallow to paddle, and there’s no turning around and going back against the stream.

We carry the two-man inflatables down to the water and launch them anyway. The early-morning sun paints the sandstone rock face next to us in warm colours as we float downstream, steering past sand­banks and shallow rocks. It’s soon clear, however, that it’ll be wise to pack up. It won’t be much fun dragging the boats.

It’s the end of the rainy season and it’s been a dry year. It’s obviously not meant to be.
I had been looking forward to the paddling and to seeing the rock art in Burley Cave about an hour-and-a-half downstream. Kate says it’s some of the most remarkable, well-preserved rock art in the region. Oh well, I’ll just have to come back in the rainy season.

It’s wise to pay heed to the advice on this signboard on Carlisleshoek Pass, between Rhodes and Tiffindell Ski Resort.

A glimpse into the future
Since we have the rest of the day ahead of us, Phil suggests a scenic drive through Rhodes and over a couple of passes, a 130 km circular route.

“I’m glad I don’t have to drive these roads every day,” Janét says after a while.
“What do you mean?” Phil says. “People pay to come and drive these roads.”
Which is true. The mountainous terrain and gravel roads make this part of the Eastern Cape a popular 4x4 destination. There are eight passes in the area, including Naudé’s Nek, the highest public road in South Africa.

Our route today includes Carlisles­hoek Pass, between Rhodes and Tiffindell Ski Resort, and Volunteers­hoek Pass, between Tiffindell and the Wartrail district. Both can be driven in a 4x2 in good weather.

At the foot of each pass is a sign that indicates when the pass is considered dangerous, usually in winter after snow.
We stop in Rhodes at the well-known Walkerbouts Inn, where a sign greets us with the words “Welcome to the centre of the universe”, and where the owner and local legend Dave Walker holds court.

Hunger pangs satisfied by pizza, we tackle Carlisleshoek Pass with its hairpin bends and steep gradient until we’re at the top of the plateau, about 2 500 m above sea level.
Everywhere you look, you can frame the scene. The weather is building puffy cumulus clouds in a cerulean sky above the green and yellow grasses on the plateau.

We pass an airstrip on the right, built by the owners of Tiffindell Ski Resort and now slowly being reclaimed by nature. Apparently few pilots are willing to land in the thin air this high in the mountains.

The resort lies on the slope of Ben Macdhui, at 3 001 m the highest peak in the area.
On the plateau we also pass Loch Ness Dam, where the only creatures we spot in the water are two black-headed herons.

The Isuzu easily negotiates both passes without needing to engage diff lock. One winter Phil had to tow out a 4x4 that had skidded on the snow-covered road and landed in a ditch on Volunteershoek Pass.
We stop near the top of the pass to look down the valley.
“From that pass you can see into the future,” Dave Walker told us earlier – only today the future looks slightly misty.

Tarred roads and peak-hour traffic await in my near future, of course, but for now I’m putting that thought out of my head.

Dog roses grow wild in the veld. Apparently it was brought into the country by missionaries, who used the vitamin C-rich rose hips to make a vitamin supplement.

“Let’s observe a moment of silence,” Kate says solemnly, “for those stuck in traffic this morning.”
Of course, it’s Monday. I’d lost track of time out here in the Eastern Cape highlands, far from the city and the office, and already happily accustomed to life without cellphone contact, television and fast food. And it’s only been three days.

We’re trundling along on a dirt road in the Wartrail farming district, about 40 km north of Barkly East, surrounded by peaks of the Witteberge and the tail end of the Drakensberg. Phil Harrison is behind the wheel of his and Kate Nelson’s 4x2 Isuzu bakkie. With me on the tour is Carlie Norval, a photogra­pher from Port Elizabeth, and Janét Monteith, a project accountant at a platinum mine in Rustenberg.

For the past few days we’ve been discovering waterfalls, rock pools, sandstone rock overhangs and hidden valleys in this relatively unknown corner of the Eastern Cape on Wild Mountain Adventures’ High 5 Trail – while hiking, mountain biking, horse riding and… attempting to paddle.

Unlike the well-known Drakensberg tourist attractions, these parts are off-limits to visitors without a guide, and your chances of encountering a busful of German tourists are zero.

It’s a provincial road we’re driving on – the 3222, accord­ing to a weathered road sign – yet it takes us an hour to cover 8,6 km. Phil is driving slowly, having to negotiate rocks and gullies while towing a trailer loaded with mountain bikes, inflatable boats and tents.

“I assume there’s no news­paper delivery to your door here,” Carlie quips.
“Hmm, nor pizzas,” Phil says. “And when your need bread and milk, you bake a loaf and you go milk a cow.”

More about the Drakensberg:
8 day trips in the Berg
Weekend getaway: Sleep in a cave
The Blyde & the Beautiful