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I was born to be a duchess: The canyon itself was a bit of a surprise

My diary notes, under the heading of ‘Blyde River Canyon’ consist only of the terse comment: ‘Avoid horses’.

DEIDRE and I did only one more trip together before she headed for pastures new and I lost track of her somewhere in New Zealand.

At the time I was busy planning a mammoth safari, aimed at convincing my parents that it was about time they moved to South Africa. My fantastic plans had to be condensed into four weeks, so some prior vetting of the proposed stopovers had to be done.

We had been told that the Eastern Transvaal was incredibly beautiful, so we packed our bags and headed for the Blyde River Canyon.

Our usual easterly escape route from Johannesburg took a turn to the north and we found ourselves chugging up steep mountain passes and peering down at the matchbox world below. At one point the road disappeared into a tunnel and we emerged at the other end into a sun-lit gorge, a fairyland of rock formations and waterfalls.

To think that the pioneering Voortrekkers actually scaled these peaks with ox-wagons – dismantling them and carrying them piece by piece when necessary!

The men and women who founded the Afrikaner nation were nothing if not tough.

Back in 1972, the Blyde River Dam had yet to be built and the resort was still under construction, with just a few chalets available for holidaymakers and the restaurant not yet open. But the cooking facilities at our chalet included a braai on the patio and we decided to cook our supper outside. It rained.

The canyon itself was a bit of a surprise.

I suppose, when one thinks of canyons, one thinks of Arizona. I certainly wasn’t expecting a green canyon. I didn’t think trees could grow on a sheer cliff. But they do. And the almost perpendicular nature trail from the camp to the river below runs through a thick forest, saturated with sound.

Tumbling waterfalls, chirrupping insects and the songs of a hundred unseen birds.

No single branch of the arts, nor the combined efforts of all the muses, could ever hope to do justice to nature’s opera.

Yet my diary notes, under the heading of ‘Blyde River Canyon’ consist only of the terse comment: ‘Avoid horses’.

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