Clouds fly past and the wind feels as if it’s blowing straight off Antarctica – we’ve set off at the tail end of a July cold front. But all nine of us are snugly wrapped in jackets and beanies, feeling grateful to be away from our desks. 
The first stretch is a steep climb to Potberg Peak at 611 m above sea level, and passes near the Western Cape’s only breeding colony of Cape vultures.
As I plod upwards, a vulture swishes past, so low I can almost touch it. The huge bird wheels and spins on its 2 m-wingspan soaring on the wind that tugs at our clothes.
At a fork in the path I find three of my companions puzzling over which way to go.
Lamla Yosa, who has joined us for the day, works in De Hoop but has never hiked the trail before.
Our trail maps flap in the wind. One path goes downhill. I eye it hopefully. We sit down for a bit to catch our breath. 
“I think it’s this way,” says Lamla, looking up.
As we clamber up over another shelf of boulders to a ridge with two telecommunications masts, the sun seems to rise to the sense of drama and suddenly appears. We are at the top. Potberg’s steep slopes fall away on either side of the narrow path. To the left the Breede River shimmers like a ribbon of mercury in the morning sun, and to the right grey ridges and mottled green fynbos rumple away towards the horizon.
Our route continues along the knife-edge of a ridge. There’s no path; the only place you can walk without falling down the mountain is a line of broken rocks. After a while a path takes shape again and starts dropping steeply.
Around a corner, I come across five people sitting on the path: Jolene, Sharon, Dorothy, Andiswa and Miliswa.
“Jolene tripped and fell, so we decided to just have our tea break here,” Sharon explains.

The downhill ends at a river crossing. Sharon and company are long gone and I’m all alone. I can’t find the trail in the dense shrub. I push through some bushes and find the same river again, this time flowing into a deep brown pool before bubbling over a low waterfall.
Aha, the Melkhout River. The map says this is a good place for a lunch break and a swim, but there’s no need to cool down today.
After the waterfall, the trail hugs the slope of a second hill slightly lower than Potberg. My knees start to wobble. I sit down on the path and fish a sandwich out of my backpack. While I nibble on it, I wonder whether a view of thousands of proteas can make a sandwich taste better.
Over the hill is the Cupidoskraal hut, separated from the sea by a green hill. Andiswa and Miliswa greet me in pyjamas and slippers. Dorothy calls: “There’s hot water!” (Potberg’s gas geyser was broken when we set off this morning.)
Fatima is fast asleep and Jolene waddles around like a duck: “Ow, my legs!” 

“Another hill?” Sharon asks as we start a repeat performance of yesterday morning. We’re full of muffins, toast, fruit juice and coffee, and wrapped warmly against the wind. We walked right around the Cupidoskraal Dam, which has a forlorn boat rotting at the water’s edge, before finding the start of the trail.
After the short climb at the start the path levels off. We’re on a beautiful plateau. The yellow ixias, bushy green heath ericas and bright white China flowers are in bloom. Proteas and conebush grow shoulder-height. In-between are grey boulders sculpted into spooky shapes by the wind and water.
I meet Jackie, who is very good at finding the best spot for a tea break. “Wow, there are a lot of sunbirds out here,” she says.
The little birds bounce out of the bush like squash balls. I spot a male pin-tailed wydah with its impossibly long black tail flapping up from the brush.
Far below us the Breede River snakes across the Agulhas plain. We can just make out Malgas, hidden in the Overberg’s green patchwork of farms halfway to the horizon.
But no plateau lasts forever, and this one ends suddenly. In the distance we can see a tiny bay pounded by waves. “I think that’s Noetsie, where we’re sleeping tonight,” Jackie says.
The descent from the plateau is mostly along an overgrown jeep track that goes straight downhill. At the bottom it intersects with a service road. I stop at the roadside, look right, left, right again – force of habit. A white Toyota Condor approaches slowly in the distance to the right, and about 300 m to my left a large Labrador sits in the middle of the road.
No, wait, this is a nature reserve! There are no Labradors here. I look again. The Labrador gets up. It is in fact an enormous baboon.
I look right again at the approaching car. The baboon lopes off and the car stops. Inside is Lamla, who is back at work after walking with us yesterday. She’s with another park official.
“We’re going to Noetsie to fetch someone who is ill there,” she says.
The elderly party that started hiking the day before us has had a bad run; one of its members fell ill on the day we arrived.
“What happens if you can’t hike any more?” I asked her on our first night.
“If you get sick, we won’t charge you. But if you’re just tired and don’t want to walk any more, it’s going to cost you R800.”
Better keep going then…
They drive off and I cross the road onto what seems to be an old farm road, surrounded by dead and dying bluegum and black wattle trees and patches of grass. We pass a vlei full of croaking frogs. Sparrows and wagtails twitter in the trees, and up ahead rises a forbidding limestone shelf dotted with blackened trees. 
A whole swathe of veld has burnt recently. It’s like walking through a black-and-white photograph that had the deep blue sky painted in. Here and there, tiny daisies and clumps of grass sprout. They look painted-on too.
This devastation was caused by a controlled fire about five months before our hike.
“Fynbos has to burn in order for the seeds to germinate, and the vegetation in this section of the park was more than 20 years old,” reserve deputy manager André Marais told me.
Then we see Jackie, who’s on another tea break. “Wow, this is surreal, isn’t it?” she says.
One more hill and we are greeted by the awesome sight of Noetsie, at the mouth of the Klipdrifsfonteinspruit. Waves batter the rocks next to a white sandy beach rimmed by white pebbles. The cliffs completely dwarf the two thatch-roofed A-frame huts that are our home for the night.
Liesl is already lying on her duvet on the grass, reading. Jackie and I walk over to the kitchen to get coffee and rusks.
“What happened to these rusks?” she asks. The plastic packet is full of holes and the rusks have hollows in them. “Twee-yooo-wee!” sings the culprit – a Cape rockthrush sitting on the door’s lintel.
Later on, Fatima chases the bird outside and closes the door, before he gets hold of our dinner too. 

The map indicates this is the easiest stretch – from here on we walk along the coast. The distances are shorter, so there’s plenty of time to stop and watch the whales. 
However, the coastline is a shelf of cliffs broken by numerous small river valleys, which means a lot of uphills and downhills, and plenty of uneven, rocky terrain. 
Liesl climbs up from below the path: “I sat down and my backpack rolled down the cliff. Fortunately it didn’t fall into the sea. All I could think of was my cellphone!” she says, laughing.
I laugh too – there’s no cellphone reception here anyway.
About half-way to Hamerkop is a series of ladders of rope and wood edging down a cliff to a tiny bay with a few rock pools and a small beach. This is Stilgat, recommended as a lunch stop and snorkelling spot.
From the top I can see Sharon standing in a rock pool, waving, a big smile on her face.
The cliffs are mossy and damp, as are some of the wooden rungs of the ladder. It’s a long way down, but it’s worth it when you get there. The cold water sends electric shocks through your toes.
“Why don’t we just stay here?” Sharon says, echoing my thoughts. She, Jolene and Dorothy have just finished lunch and are ready to head back up.
The rock pools are magic – full of small shelled creatures and fish darting between your feet. Jackie and Liesl also prepare to leave and, not wanting to fall too far behind, I join them.
The path continues along rocky slopes covered in hardy shrubs. The last stretch is along the beach. I take off my shoes and stumble into the water. The thick, loose sand is hard work. I’m grateful I don’t have to carry a big backpack with five days’ food and clothes on that sand.
The Hamerkop hut sits behind a dune, among milkwood trees.
“Come and see the whales!” Dorothy calls from the balcony. Two whales are parked off just about directly in front of the balcony. “Why don’t they do anything?” Jolene asks.
“Wow, we have this whole beach to ourselves,” Dorothy marvels.

The first part of today’s stretch runs along a beautiful beach with sand dunes on our right. It isn’t fun getting the fine beach sand inside your boots, though, while carrying a daypack. As the sun rises, we pass a large white house situated on the beach – it’s Lekkerwater, where FW de Klerk used to holiday when he was president of the country.
Fortunately, after a few kilometres the sand gradually makes way for rock
The sea washes over long, flat shelves of dark rock. We approach a breeding pair of African black
oystercatchers. They fly off, nervously click-clicking at us.
De Hoop is home to between 15 and 21 breeding pairs of these endangered birds. There are only an estimated 5000 of them left; they nest at the tide line, so whenever a coastline gets developed, their habitat is the first to go.
The rocky coast is lined with seaweed that soaks up water at high tide and dries completely when the tide goes out. 
Some parts of the trail climb to the cliff tops, from where you look down on a surreal seascape of lace-edged, stepped pools from which the seawater retreats, fizzing, like a shallow champagne fountain.
If you can tear your eyes away from those pools, the top of the cliff is one huge art exhibition of strange rock sculptures shaped by the wind. They look like winged creatures, faces and the grandiose curls of a giant’s beard. It’s all so beautiful I almost forget to look at the whales.
Occasionally there’s a splash on the horizon as a whale breaches. Jackie and I stop on a cliff top and share the binoculars.
“You know that part of this reserve belongs to Denel and is sometimes used for missile tests? They come and airlift the hikers on the trail and then bring them back once it’s finished,” says Jackie. “Just imagine hiking along and then all of a sudden a chopper swoops down to pick you up.”
The evacuation of hikers is merely a precautionary measure: The tests only take place once a year, and none of the missiles fired have warheads.
We pass several abandoned houses, relics from the days when this was still private farmland. On the path are enormous hoof prints, the size of a splayed hand, and small piles of droppings, some still steaming among the footprints of our companions who passed the spot earlier. We look around eagerly but fail to spot their depositors.
We crest a hill and see the Vaalkrans hut, perched on the edge of a spectacular cove. Sharon, Miliswa, Andiswa and Dorothy are sitting outside the hut looking at the waves that race into the bay like hundreds of white racehorses. 
We carry the tables outside and have dinner on the stoep as the sun sets over the thundering sea.

I’m not sure if I’m happy that I’m going home today. I love the simple routine of just walking, looking at the birds and plants, and watching the whales roll over, tail fins slapping the water.
The path crosses lots of beaches today and occasionally rises above the cliffs to the shell middens where the first inhabitants of this coast lived. Everywhere in the sand we see animal spoor – big cat’s paws and small cat’s paws (Could it be the leopards the guide map warns us about?), tiny bird tracks and more of the big hoof prints we saw yesterday.
We follow the low tide trail over small beaches, past strangely shaped rocks and large, shallow pools (at high tide you have to take a different route).
De Hoop cannot escape the litter carried in on the tide. Plastic bottles, broken pieces of crate, fish net floats, shoe soles and other debris lie washed up at the high-water mark.
Here and there we’re not sure which path to follow. It doesn’t really matter – we see a whale calf close to the shore flipping its tail flukes abover the water and another one breaching a few times. 
And then we see the makers of the big hoof prints – four splendid eland, calmly grazing on the hillside. Behind one of them, the shapes of four whales are just visible under the gentle swell of the sea. We’re less than an hour’s walk away from the end of the trail. Can’t we just press pause and stay right here? 

When should I go? The whales arrive at this coast around May and leave in December. Your best
chance of seeing them is between late July and November. Be prepared for rain if you book in winter.
What can I see besides whales? Scan the waves for six species of dolphin. There are plenty of snorkelling pools on the coast. Because this is a protected area, you’ll see much more marine life than you would outside a reserve.
And on land? Kudu, grey rhebuck, bontebok and red hartebeest occur in the reserve. Look for mountain zebra on the drive back from Koppie Alleen at the end of the trail.
Plan ahead. Bookings can only be done in groups of six or 12, so get a group of 12 friends together and do a block booking.
What should I pack? Bedding, clothes, food and water for five days. Pack economically; all your luggage has to fit into one plastic crate. Try to plan the catering with your fellow hikers; it saves time at the end of the day.
Be prepared. There is not much shade along the trail, so remember your hat, sunglasses and sunblock. Take a large enough water bottle to hold a day’s supply – you can only replenish your drinking water at the huts.
Where is it? De Hoop is east of Bredasdorp and can be reached in an ordinary sedan. You can do last-minute shopping in either Swellendam or Bredasdorp. There is safe parking at Potberg.
Cost: R990 for the trail and R300 for portage.
Where do I book? Call CapeNature on 021 659 3500.
Typically, you have to book about a year in advance.