Hemel-en-Aarde winemakers have their eyes on becoming the next big thing

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

In most of the world's wine shops, you'll find South African varieties grouped under the label "New World". Rarely has a title been more inaccurate. Europeans made wine for the first time here in 1659, and South African vintages were in head-to-head battles with the French 150 years ago, when Constantia was the dessert wine of choice for the Victorians. There's no other country outside of the European/Mediterranean block with this kind of wine history.

But, as with so much in this country, apartheid stunted the wine industry's growth. With no export markets, the industry shrank. With no global competition, winemakers weren't prompted to the modernisation and innovation that characterises newcomers like Australia. So when South Africa re-joined the world markets in the late 1980s it came with a unique, yet bizarre wine industry: venerable history and vineyards, arrested development in wine making skills. One thing never changed. The Cape is a phenomenal place to grow grapes and make wine. Potential was writ large.

In 30 years, the South Africans have exploited that potential with gusto, while investment money, purchases and tourists from the Old World have poured in to help. Stellenbosch and Franschhoek are now words as familiar to most wine lovers as Burgundy and Bordeaux. But here's where the South Africans are acting very new world. They're expanding beyond the historic, established valleys, realising that almost every valley in the Cape offers combinations of soil and microclimate that could make a great wine.

A vivid example of this is the Hemel-en-Aarde Valley, the entrance to which lies just a few miles west of Hermanus. There are a few established winemakers here, Bouchard Finlayson probably being the best known. But most are small, little known outside of South Africa and ... in many cases ... new. Vines have had their feet in the soil for less than a decade, wineries are freshly crafted beauties of sleek modern design. Even the road through the valley is new. So new, in fact, that it's still graveled dirt for one bumpy stretch. This is a place to watch.

Creation embodies the young, bold spirit of the place. Arable fields just five years ago, this is now a high tech winery with beautiful marketing and dining facilities, built in a circle of lush gardens with sweeping views of a lake and mountains. The vineyards provide the full range of grapes, allowing them to produce everything from a light, sharp sauvignon blanc (notes of passion fruit and pineapple) to a syrah grenache mix with soft fruit, spice and wood. We didn't taste anything worth the expense of shipping home, but there were wines that I'd happily buy if they turned up on our local shelves. Our favourite white was the sauvignon semillion blend, better than the sauv blanc alone due to more complexity and roundness, the green notes of the second grape variety rounding out the fruit of the first. Of the reds, we liked their Bordeaux blend best, a classic mix of merlot, cabernet sauvignon and petit verdot that was full of black currant and blackberry notes, with a bit of smokey oak beneath. We suspected this one could be laid down and improved with age.

Suspected, because Creation let itself down on its staff. Pleasant enough, but entirely uncommunicative on any fine point of the wine. Our smiling server would pop over every 10 minutes to bring us a new glass and pour from a new bottle, but said little beyond "and this is our vigonier." When we tried to strike up a conversation to ask about details, she brought us a lovely coffee table book about the winery with tales of the founders (two couples who wanted to work together) and tasting notes.

Knowledge and conversation doesn't make the wine taste different, but it does help you to appreciate it and consider the nuances of what you're tasting. Which does, honestly, make the wine taste better. Case in point: La Vierge.

We went to this winery just after Creation. It is in a truly spectacular position just at a crest of a hill; the valley falls away before you to the sea, with mountains on each side, the bowl made by the sloping hillsides dotted with wine estates. They've built a glistening, high tech winery, through which you cross on a catwalk to get to their tasting room and restaurant, which has glass walls to take advantage of the remarkable view. Like Creation, the vines here are mostly new plantings, but unlike the winery deeper in the valley, La Vierge has its marketing tuned to perfection.

The woman running the tasting bar was knowledgeable, witty and conversant, not just telling us about what we were tasting, but joining in discussion about how the wines compared to others, what food you'd match them with, etc. All the names and labels are beautifully designed and relate closely to the location. Hemel-en-Aarde means "heaven in Earth", la vierge is French for "the virgin". Most of the wine names have something to do with the Adam and Eve story or other mythological explorations of love, temptation and desire. Original Sin was a sauvignon blanc tempered with 9% semillon, with tones of gooseberry and granny smith apple. Jezebelle a lightly wooded chardonnay that was nutty and lightly fruity. Nymphomane a lovely, fruity, balanced red with loads of tannins that would be worth laying down for two or three years to get a richer flavour. Again, we didn't taste anything so extraordinary we wanted to pay for shipping, but we'll be looking for British sources.

The Temptation restaurant here doesn't have its act quite so polished as the tasting operation. It's a stunningly beautiful room; basically just a lofty, open space with glass walls that let the view do all the work. It's a suitably foodie menu. I had springbok sausages followed by baked kingclip (both classically South African), he chose crayfish tails and chicken almondine, both came with a chardonnay, fig and honey sorbet between courses. All competently done and well presented. As you would expect, the menu has lots of suggested wine pairings, we went for the pinot noir, an excellent middle-of-the-road wine to match both the chicken and the fish. Service is cheerful and upbeat, but painfully slow. Our two course lunch took two hours, with the first food not hitting the table for an hour and it taking them half an hour to get us some drinks. This was probably because a bus tour had occupied three long tables at the front of the restaurant.

But bus tours don't just pop in; they book. Which means someone did not staff properly for the day. And the restaurant was still half empty. Lord knows how they cope with a full house. It was the only meal we ate away from Birkenhead, mostly because we didn't feel like the 40-minute drive home just to get lunch. A pleasant meal, overall, but one that could have been really memorable if served with a bit more speed.

Speaking of meals at Birkenhead, come back for the next entry, where I'll tell you why the hotel deserves to be known as a foodie destination all on its own.

Whales, flowers, giant mice and a great hotel kill desire to wander far from Hermanus

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

And finally, south to the Cape. After the luxury of Mauritius and the adventure of the Sabi Sand, would this be a disappointing denouement? Happily not. Honeymoon Part III was distinct enough from its predecessors to deliver its own memorable delights.

We arrived in the glistening new Cape Town airport mid-afternoon and picked up our rental car. It was odd, after 10 days of being shepherded everywhere and waited on hand and foot, to suddenly be on our own, thinking for ourselves and reading our own maps. A good transition back to the "real world" that lay five days ahead, we thought.

Our objective was Hermanus, a coastal town 75 miles southeast of Cape Town. Getting there is a truly gorgeous drive. It takes about 30 minutes to get through the urban sprawl of Cape Town itself, then you're climbing towards Sir Lowry's Pass, with the whole Cape penninsula spreading away beneath you. Up and over, the views change dramatically. The landscape of fertile valley interspersed with dramatic hill and mountain stays the same, but now everything is agricultural. We pass mile after mile of orchards, vegetable fields, grape vines, with little more than the occasional farm shop or fruit packing plant to break the pastoral idyll. I get the same feeling that haunted me the first time I was here: It's California, before too many people mucked it up.

We reached Hermanus in 90 minutes and, despite having a car at our disposal, didn't wander more than about 15 miles from there until it was time to return to the airport. This is a place to slow down, linger and appreciate life. The town ... a cluster of low buildings, mostly galleries, tourist boutiques and restaurants ... sits on cliffs in the elbow of Walker Bay, famed as a wintering spot for the southern right whale. Spreading out from town on either side are neighbourhoods of gracious seaside villas landscaped with a dazzling array of exotic seaside flora; again, you'd think you were in California if it weren't for the abundant security around each house. (Every prosperous South African seems to have his own personal security detail; this place is a gold mine for ADT.)

There's a coastal path that runs along the bay, cutting up and down through black rock cliffs dotted with vivid flowers, sometimes falling straight into the sea, sometimes encircling pristine little beaches. Eventually, this path comes down onto Grotto Beach, a wide, flat stretch of white sand that runs for more than a mile. Last visit I spent a happy afternoon at Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens but, honestly, this coastal path was just as impressive. Some 10% of all the world's flowering plants are found in South Africa; the Cape Peninsula alone has more indigenous plant species than all of Great Britain. I think I saw half of them on my hour long walk on the path between hotel and town; this could only have been improved with a naturalist to talk me through what I was seeing!

The whales have made this a major tourist site, but the sheer beauty of the place ensures its popularity. This is, according to a South African colleague of mine, the place to which every native of that country dreams of retiring, and many of the well heeled already have. The whole area reeks of money, with lovely architecture, wineries and an abundance of restaurants.

Birkenhead House started life as one of those luxurious beachfront homes, now expanded and converted to an elegant little hotel with just 11 rooms. These are arranged around a series of courtyards and public rooms stretching back from the sea. First, there's a white marble patio with an infinity pool and stunning views of Hermanus to the right and Grotto beach to the left. Staff magically switch out furniture as weather and time of day demand; sometimes there are thickly-cushioned sun loungers, sometimes dining tables. Behind that, through glass walls that bring the outdoors in, is the combined sitting room and dining room, open plan and with a large fireplace which proved most useful for keeping the chill nights at bay. Then a small courtyard with a burbling fountain filled with fish, then a much larger courtyard with a lap pool and lounging area ascending in tiers, sitting areas on one side that can be opened to the air or shut behind glass doors. Steps up to another lounge area, then another fountain-based courtyard, then finally an arched tunnel leading to the suburban street.

While I only managed to peek into four or five rooms, I have to assume that the footprint of the public spaces is at least 50 per cent greater than the rooms themselves. This is, quite simply, a great place to loiter. Augmented by a magnificent staff that got to know you quickly and anticipated every need. Why stray far when you can collapse into the overstuffed white couches with one eye on a good book and another on the whales outside, the lovely Marius appearing at your elbow a few minutes later to ask if you're ready for a G&T? Or you might linger over a multi-course meal on the sunny patio, or curl up for a nap on the round, tented sun loungers; or settle between fire and television in the pool-side lounge to watch rugby. If you're tempted to walk the coastal path to town, you simply need to pop into the Marine Hotel and ask them to call Birkenhead for you; a driver arrives in 10 minutes to whisk you back home.

Because Birkenhead started as a private house, rather than being purpose built as a hotel, there's a big difference in size and layout of various rooms. We were given a choice when we arrived: Room 11, a decadent space with a four-poster bed, a dark, sexy boudoir style and a big bathroom, or Room 2, a small double with gentle, white decor and a lovely but equally small bathroom. I chose No. 2. Why? It was the room with the view. No. 11, for all its opulence, had a small balcony screened by trellis work that looked over a suburban street. I could have been anywhere in middle America. No. 2, positioned on the front corner of the building, had sliding glass doors on each side, separated by just a small pillar at the corner, giving a panoramic view of sea, the coastal path and Hermanus itself. Our balcony hung over the patio and cliffs, the sea below and whales regularly visible without much effort. (In fact, I spotted my first on our first morning before I even got out of bed.) We got a peek into No 1, just across the landing from ours. Similar view, much bigger, additional balcony looking over internal courtyards. This is the room to which I dream of returning.

Birkenhead is a fabulous spot to base yourself for a holiday, with plenty of activities both nearby and within an hour's drive. I can easily imagine spending a week or more here, although my waistline couldn't tolerate it. (For more on Birkenhead as a culinary hot spot, stay tuned.) The simple pleasures of walking and whale watching could fill several days on their own.

The whales come to this area from June through November to give birth and mate, before returning to colder waters for the rest of the year to feed. Massive (15-16 meters long, on average), predictable and docile, their name comes from the fact that they were the "right" ones to hunt. Easy and profitable. With most hunting now banned, their population is healthy and Walker Bay is a top gathering spot. In three days, I don't think we ever had to wait more than 15 minutes to spot one, be it via the distinctive double spouting of their blowholes or impressive breaches. They're much more fun to watch than the Hawaiian humpback whales. While those just teased us with an arch of body and a fluke of tail before diving, the right whales seem to enjoy being on the surface, wallowing in the sunshine and slapping their fins on the water. Evidently, the sunnier and the calmer it is, the more the whales are likely to come close to shore and bask in the shallows. No wonder the poor things were easy fodder for hunters. Today, mostly protected and with life spans of 90-100 years, they're making a different contribution to the economy by pulling tourists from around the world. Hermanus even employs a whale crier, whose sole job is to keep a lookout and blow a horn whenever he spots the animals.

The whales aren't the only wildlife worth watching around here. This coast is rich with bird life, there are some colourful lizards basking on the rocks and it's not unusual to spot seals lounging on the rock promontories jutting into the surf. If you take a drive down to the Cape of Good Hope (about two hours, something we did the day we returned to the airport) you can see penguins, baboons and even wild ostrich. My favourite animal of this part of the trip, however, was far less showy. I didn't even know it existed.

Imagine my shock to be walking the coastal path, come around a corner and come face to face with a giant mouse sitting atop a wall, staring at me with a placid expression. I thought I'd stumbled into Narnia and come face to face with Reepicheep. Nope. It was a rock hyrax, also called a dassie. On closer look, they're more like oversized guinea pigs, and so adorable you want to pick them up for a cuddle. (They'd be a comfortable armful.) But they're skittish creatures who dash for the undergrowth quickly so, while abundant on this coast, you're likely to see them for just a moment before they run for cover.

After exploring the flora and fauna, the obvious sightseeing here is all about appreciating another kind of plant: grape vines. Of that, more in the next entry.

Sabi Sand offers remarkable density and variety of African game

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

Safari, of course, is about the animals. Forget the luxurious lodge, the adventure in arriving, the dramatic landscapes. A safari's success is determined by the quality, quantity and variety of photos you carry home.

We were armed with unexceptional cameras; basic point-and shoots with a maximum 10x zoom, a Flip video and the still and video features on my iPad. And this, honestly, is all we needed. The Sabi Sand is so rich with wildlife, and the animals are all so used to game trucks settling beside them, that just a single drive will probably bring you within 20 yards of more African animals than you've seen in all of the zoos in your life, combined. Our photographic game bag, after deleting all the average stuff, is more than 600 files.

We saw "the Big 5" in the first hour of our first drive. Elephants loping along in family groups, from the grizzled old matriarch to adorable infants. Buffalo streaming to the water hole in a herd so big it stretched beyond the horizon. A rhino, placidly grazing in a grassy copse, not the least bit disturbed as a sleek leopard strolled by casually. (We, however, were stunned.). Best of all, a pride of lions, the male sitting majestic and aloof while several lionesses kept a close eye on a pack of gambolling cubs. We sat in between them, papa lounging elegantly just six feet to my right, three cubs chasing each other up and down a tree perhaps 20 feet to Piers' left.

I was so entranced I didn't even consider the fact that any of these gorgeous felines could take me down for dinner with a few swipes of their huge and lethal paws. The animals completely ignore the trucks, however. We were under strict instructions to keep hands inside and not stand up; evidently, as long as everyone stays in an even line, the animals just see the truck as another, single animal, too big to bother with.

In the lethal but beautiful stakes, it's hard to pick a favourite between the lions and the leopards, both of which we saw in multiples every day. The leopards have a lithe elegance that's hard to beat. One night, just before sunset, we watched a male in his prime stroll across a meadow towards our truck and circle it. We then followed him for about 20 minutes as he wandered through the brush and up the road. Even at a slow pace, his power was obvious. Muscles rippled beneath that exquisite skin, everything moved with elegance and a restrained power. It is surprising, actually, that lions are more associated with monarchy and power since, when you get close to those tawny beasts in the wild, it's hard to shake the feeling that they're just oversized house cats you want to scratch behind the ears and curl up with.

We only encountered the pride with the male and the cubs once. The rest of the trip we tracked a group of five lionesses. At rest, they were gorgeous and dozy. These animals have mastered the art of expending only the energy needed for the necessary jobs; otherwise, they lounge. I like their style. But the lounging is deceptive. This was a group of voracious hunters. One morning we encountered them finishing off the remains of the impala they'd taken down over night. The guide doubted they'd move again, as they'd finished off a buffalo the day before. And yet, by 8:30 we found them crouched beneath bushes next to our watering hole, watching as a herd of buffalo came to drink. Still, silent, rigid with concentration, they sat there for hours. After the large herd had drank their fill and left, a smaller bachelor herd arrived.

At 1:30, while we were sitting down to lunch just across the lake, they made their move. One lioness to taunt someone out of the herd. Others to circle around and behind. A dance of death. Because slowly, surely, by a step here and another there, they eventually coaxed one foolish buffalo out of the herd. And once he was separated, our guide told us, the game was over. There was still one hell of a fight ... one of my enduring images is one of those lionesses being head butted up into the air between the horns of the buffalo ... but eventually, the tawny huntresses got their claws and teeth into his neck and head and drew things to a close. It was the spectacle of our trip. It would be two or three days before the lions would have their fill and give up the carcass to the secondary predators like hyena and the vultures who were already gathering, by which point we had moved on.

There's far more than the Big 5 to see, however. Impala are abundant, roaming in small herds and quick to dash off. And why not? They are the McDonald's happy meals of the bush. We saw almost as many water buck, and a fair number of the more majestic kudu with their beautiful spiral horns. Herds of zebra were skittish, but even more attractive as they galloped away. The giraffe are fascinating as they graze their treetops and, when startled, lope off with such an odd gait due to their shape you have to wonder about the logic of Darwin's theories.

I find it a bit mysterious that buffalo are considered part of the Big 5 but hippo are excluded because, honestly, they're much more fun to watch. Fascinating in shape, adorable in youth and remarkably loud; the haunting bellows of the family in the water just outside our room woke us in the middle of the night. One of my favourite afternoon pastimes was to pour myself a G&T, settle on the deck and watch the hippos slow and stately interaction in the water below. Yet these giants can move at high speed when needed. We saw those voracious lionesses chase a hippo the afternoon after they'd taken down the buffalo and I couldn't believe how fast those stubby legs got the animal back to the lake. But not before she whirled around and faced off with the lions. Maybe this speed was what the Greeks had in mind when they first named them "water horses".

It's not just the big, showy zoo stars that grab your attention. The more drives you go on, and the more you get used to seeing the iconic creatures at your elbow, the more you turn your attention to smaller and more unusual things. Like the elusive honey badgers we tracked in circles around the scrub until they finally made a dash for their dens. Or the side striped jackals, who were far more attractive, and dog-like, than my jackal expectations, which had been entirely set by ancient Egyptian gods. There were monkeys in chattering social groups in big-canopied trees, crocodiles occasionally surfacing in our waterhole and warthogs who epitomised the concept of "so ugly it's kinda cute". Even the bugs were fascinating; a red dragonfly held my attention for ages as it hopped amongst lotus flowers in the lodge's water garden.

But when it comes to the small and unexpected, the guides told us that multiple Safari visitors often end up most intrigued by the birds. And this is no surprise, as the variety, colour and sound of these bush dwellers makes me understand the allure of bird watching. The fish eagles at our watering hole were just as majestic as their bald American cousins, and entertained us regularly by fishing their dinner out of the water as we watched. Burchell's starlings look like your bog standard blackbird until they wander into direct sunlight, where they turn a metallic blue. Vultures are quite a bit more majestic than their cartoon image, and come in many varieties. In fact, we saw one juvenile version ... evidently a highly unusual spotting for that part of Africa ... that looked far more like a hawk. Three Egyptian ducks put on an argumentative show, chasing each other in splashy circles, every time we came upon them at a small neighbouring waterhole. Flocks of guinea fowl often ran alongside our truck. But the most miraculous vision of all had to be the lilac breasted roller, which our guide told us has 14 distinct colours in its plumage. We watched it sitting on a branch for nearly 10 minutes, utterly fascinated. When an approaching truck frightened it away our disappointment was mixed with awe, as watching it in flight was like seeing a rainbow condensed and set in motion.

For most of the guests, this was a rare adventure. For a few ... usually those kitted out with the most impressive camera equipment ... safari was a regular holiday destination. And I can see why. The spectacle of the animal world, from the biggest elephant to the tiniest dragonfly, is a show that changes daily, and never ceases to amaze.

For luxury in the African bush, it's Chitwa Chitwa

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

Camping has never been for me.

Don't get me wrong, I love the great outdoors. Looking at it, taking pleasant strolls through it, watching David Attenborough talk about it ... but I have no need to forgo pleasures like hot water and good linen to get close to it. In recent years there's been quite a trend for "glamping" ... tents, but with all the accoutrements of a luxury hotel. It's a movement that started in the African bush, and there's plenty of opportunity out here for upscale roughing it. But that is not, thank heavens, what we got at Chitwa Chitwa, where the only rough item in the place is probably the exfoliating scrubs in the spa.

Chitwa Chitwa was once a family home, the centre of a vast private game reserve. As times changed and safari tourism took off, the Brink family followed the pattern of many in this area, expanding their lodge with guest accommodation and building a pattern of activities around game drives. The Sabi Sand region is filled with lodges like this, most fairly small and working together to expose their guests to the animals criss-crossing this enormous, fence-free land.

While I have no real comparison, only seeing the other lodges from the outside, I suspect the Sabi Sand experience doesn't get much better than Chitwa, whether we're talking luxury, quality of the staff or the proximity to animals.

The lodge is actually more of a village; a cluster of thatched buildings spread around one side of the biggest watering hole in the area. That fact alone provides a game-watching advantage. We watched families of hippos, herds of buffalo and elephant, and even lions, from the comfort of our own deck. Each of the nine suites is its own detached building. All are different in size and decor, yet share features like private decks and plunge pools, king-sized beds under cathedral ceilings wreathed in mosquito netting and high-concept modern bathrooms, with all of the walls facing the watering hole of glass to make the whole suite a viewing platform. Ours was particularly enormous, as it's actually two bedroom suites, each leading off a comfortable sitting room with overstuffed couches and piles of coffee table books, sharing a deck big enough to host a cocktail party for everyone else in the lodge, if you were in the mood.

The decor here, and throughout the lodge, is a quirky mix of traditional African and modern art. Our suite had black walls, abstract paintings, rich upholstery (including a faux fur bedspread), rococo gilt mirrors, an enormous silver candelabra next to a cocktail tray crowded with crystal, polished spirals of kudu horns and a towering carved tribal figure. A strange, dark mixture, but it worked. Probably because during the day, the glass walls drenched everything with light and spectacle, and at night the staff let down the mosquito netting, transforming the bed into a giant, rose-petal strewn white tent. Given the odd sleeping patterns necessitated by the drive schedule, we spent more time in this room than in any other on honeymoon. It deserved and rewarded our attention. And that's probably one of my top tips for safari; you'll spend the middle of every day in your room, so make sure it's nice.

Of course, if the room hadn't been quite so beguiling, we might have spent a bit more time in the public areas. All of these continued with the modern African rococo style, distinguished in many places by skulls and bones of former occupants of the reserve, gilded and transformed into chandeliers or striking objets d'art.

At the centre of things is the main game lodge. Its primary room is a combination sitting room, bar and dining room, one area flowing into another, all continuing the place's oversized proportions. We gathered every night here for cocktails and conversation. The guests ... affluent, well educated and from a variety of countries with a range of fascinating jobs ... were an interesting bunch, bringing almost as much entertainment to the evenings as we'd had on the game drives. The night we ate in the dining room there were more than 20 of us at the table. Another night we ate as couples at lantern lit tables on the wide decks, and our third night our individual tables were arranged in a 3/4 circle around a bonfire in a wooden walled, roofless enclosure called a boma, set up behind the main lodge.

The bar and living area opens up onto a thatched, open sided veranda as wide as the building behind it. Clusters of thickly-cushioned couches and armchairs sit here, separated by yet another bar; this one used for morning and afternoon coffee and tea. Around the corner, also under a thatched overhang, is a check-in desk backed by some oversized tribal masks. Off here, there's a luxuriously appointed library with the only television in the place (necessary for some people checking rugby world cup results) and a shared computer with internet access thanks to a slow but steady satellite link.

Between all of that and the watering hole, there's a field of decking, part including an infinity pool that overlooks the watering hole, the rest just wide-open area for strolling, lounging and watching the animals. Across that, continuing along the arc of the watering hole, is the dining pavilion. Here, with gravel crunching under your feet, thatch cooling you above and white gauze curtains blowing in the breeze, you settle in for breakfast and lunch, indulging in delicious food and copious wine as the watering hole puts on its own show. (Of that, more in the next entry.)

A path of wooden decking runs from here, away from the water and up a gentle hill. There are gardens and ponds here, taking partial shade from a high stone wall and a few trees. A thatched cottage off to one side is the spa. At the top of the little incline is another large, thatched pavilion, holding a gift shop filled with tribal arts and crafts, and Chitwa Chitwa clothing on one side, and the business office on the other. There's a towering breezeway dividing them in the centre, dominated by a chandelier of elephant bones and framed by sculptures of cheetahs on each side. This is the portal through which we depart for game drives, and where Dino welcomes us back each evening with the signature cocktail of the day.

As night falls, the hippos bellow, strange things splash in the night and we stick close to Andreis as he escorts us from lodge to suite. We are in the lap of magnificently African luxury, but in one respect, this is no different from camping. We are visitors here. The land belongs to the big things prowling the darkness.

Game lodge routine brings structure to some extra-ordinary days

And now, it's time for the excitement and adventure part of the trip.

It had already been a long day of air travel (four hours from Mauritius to Johannesburg, a two-hour layover in Joburg's sleepy local terminal, another 40-minute flight from Joburg) when we touched down at Kruger. The landing was an adventure in itself; don't look out the window if you're a nervous flyer. Nelspruit Airport sits on a flat plateau high above the town of Kruger. Beyond the end of the airstrip is what looks like some impressive cliffs down which an over-shooting plane could tumble. Our landing was smooth, however, despite the recent cool front and clouds heavy with rain. It wasn't the weather I'd been expecting.

The airport, however, left no doubt we were in the African bush. It looks like a big game lodge, thatched and cozy with just a single long atrium for arrivals, departures and a cafe. There was nobody to meet us on arrival so Piers went wandering to try to find our rep from Odie Air. Soon one of the locals offered to call her (Odie, it turns out, is a woman and a company) and we were told to sit tight, the plane was on its way. Not long after, our pilot James turned up, grabbed our luggage, took us back through security and onto the tarmac. His plane was a six-seat Cessna, and we were the only passengers.

If I'd been excited before, I was now at fever pitch. This was a real "Out of Africa" moment, leaving the airstrip in a tiny plane and flying so low as we headed into the bush. From this perspective you can see the web of game trails, criss-crossing the bush like a network of nerves, veins and arteries with the occasional human road intersecting them. The landscape, which looks a dull brown on first glance, is actually a wonder of subtlety, with a rich variety of pale greens, tans, golds, browns and blacks. Our route took us over Kruger National Park, mostly a vast, flat expanse, with drama added by the odd river (mostly dry beds at this, the end of the dry season) or towering plateau. Nearing our game lodge, James pointed to the dirt airstrip running up a gentle hill between the leafless trees. He couldn't speak over the noise of the propeller, but I remembered his grin back at Kruger when he'd said "this is as tough of a bush landing as you get!"

We were on our way in, got close to the ground, then pulled up and circled again. I realised James was buzzing the runway to clear it of warthog and giraffe. Animals pushed back, we came in again for a landing that was gentler than many a jumbo jet on smooth tarmac. Just a stone's throw from the plane's stopping point sat one of the game lodge's trucks, and next to it our tracker, Rodney. Tall and slim, kitted out in classic bush khaki, with skin the tone of black velvet, a musical accent and a grace of movement shared with the local wildlife. He bundled us in the truck and drove us a scant 300 yards to the lodge entry, where the manager pressed glasses of champagne into our hands and told us it was time to move fast. Afternoon game drive was leaving now. Grab warm clothes and your camera, tell us what you want for sundowners (cocktails as the sun sets) and scramble aboard.

And thus began the pattern of game drives that would mark our days at Chitwa Chitwa.

5am wakeup call. Throw on clothes. Pile on the layers, as it could be bitterly cold at dawn. But bring the sun protection, as it will be blazing by 8am. Gather on the veranda for coffee before climbing into our game vehicles at 5:30. You're assigned a vehicle when you arrive, with tracker Rodney perched on a seat bolted to the front left corner, and our driver and guide Andreis behind the wheel. Three tiers of seats rise behind the driver, 10 guests at the maximum ... but we never had more than eight. (I sense this is one of the advantages of Chitwa, as vehicles from other lodges looked more crowded.) About half way through the morning drive, our team would find a spot safe from animals, pull over and set up morning coffee, with some baked treat from the kitchen to hold us over until breakfast.

We'd return to the lodge and a hearty breakfast around 9. After which a walking safari is usually available, but not an option on our days due to lions in the area. (Of them, more later.) The hours until the afternoon game drive featured much needed naps, lounging in our luxurious suite, watching the hippos and other wildlife interact at the watering hole and indulging in multiple-course al fresco lunches with matching South African wines poured by Dino, our ever-present bartender who kept us well hydrated, from that first 5am coffee to the last scotch before bed.

At 3:30 pm tribal drums would summon us back to the main lodge for afternoon tea or coffee before the next game drive. Off we'd wander into the late afternoon, taking in abundant views of game until the sun set and Rodney and Andreis pulled over to set up camp for sundowners. After cocktails, we'd drive back to the lodge with the assistance of Rodney's high beam spotlight, which often picked out nocturnal animals. Without the sun, the nights were bracingly cold; we quickly realised the heavy wool blankets in the trucks weren't just decorative. Above, a night sky free of light pollution glimmered, the long smudge of the Milky Way clearly visible while the Southern Cross proclaimed we were most definitely in a strange place.

We'd arrive back at the lodge about 7, now needing to be escorted to and from our rooms. Nobody walked alone after dark, a precaution that ... even if I hadn't seen the sense in it immediately ... would have become logical on our first morning when I could see clear, large feline paw prints in the sand outside our door. After an hour to freshen up and enjoy a cocktail from the all-inclusive mini bar, the drums would sound again and Andreis would materialise out of the darkness to take us to dinner. Up at the main lodge we'd talk with the guides, trackers and other guests, making a comfortable and conversant party of about 25. By 10:30, most people were letting guides take them back to their rooms, ready to slip under the impressive canopies of mosquito netting and get a good night's sleep before it all started again.

And that, quite simply, is what we did for three glorious days. But each day varied, distinguished by the variety of animals, the meals back at the lodge and the arrival and departure of fellow guests. Three nights and six game drives was enough for us to settle into a routine, and perhaps to reach a level of satisfaction, though we certainly never got bored. Next, it's time to talk wildlife.

Dolphins disappoint, but paragliding becomes a new favourite

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

With a sufficient pile of reading material and the occasional dip in pool or ocean, supplemented by the odd cocktail, I could spend months on a beach. I am most certainly NOT one of those people who gets bored in the scenario; in fact, I'm hoping heaven exists, and provides me with an eternity of reading really good books in lovely surroundings without having to move around much.

My new husband is a far less slothful soul. He is also so pale that, even slathered with factor 30, spending more than half an hour in direct sunlight is dangerous. So we had a challenge. The week of beach lounging was definitely for me, but if he was to have as good a time as I was having, we needed to do more. Thus I reduced my novel consumption and agreed to spend some time on my feet.

Mauritius seems to have about a dozen tourist attractions across the island, all of which are advertised in the Air Mauritius in flight magazine and then pushed steadily to you by hotel concierges. In our case, it was a rep from Mauritours, our travel agent's local partner. Sadly, the rep was the only really bad experience we had on the whole trip. An unenthusiastic, ill-informed, disorganised and inarticulate English expat who looked badly rumpled and smelled worse, Roger certainly didn't fit in to our luxurious surroundings. His trips were good value for money, however. Averaging £60 per person, they provided transportation, access to activities and refreshment. Quite a deal when we were paying about that much each night for wine and cocktails.

We chose two tours: swimming with dolphins, and Ile aux Cerfs. Our big lesson: We should have pushed the rep for far more information. In both cases, our experiences didn't match his short descriptions (in one case worse, in one better) and we were unprepared for the day.

To get to the dolphins, we had to be ready for pick up in the lobby at 6:30. Too early for breakfast or any chance of coffee. We were picked up by a taxi driver who, unlike our airport transport, spoke little English and wasn't interested in attempting much conversation in any language. The rep had recommended this over another place where you could play with lion cubs because that one was so far away; we ended up driving past the lion place on the way to the dolphins. The drive was an hour and a half, crossing the whole island and stuck twice in urban traffic. Combining the drive out and the return, we spent more time in the back of the taxi than we did with the dolphins.

Arriving at a small public beach just below the posh holiday home enclave of Flic en Flac, the taxi driver motioned us towards three motorboats anchored in the shallows, without any more instruction. One of the captains decided we were with him and told us to wait. After about 20 minutes of aimless milling, about a dozen of us clambered aboard and headed out into the bay.

This is not, it turned out, the kind of swimming with dolphins that's offered in many tropical resorts, where the dolphins are either captive in a facility or tame and trained to come to a certain area. These are wild dolphins, who come and go at will and move fast. What Roger SHOULD have said is that you will probably see dolphins, and you'll get in the water, but you may not get that close. That expectation not set, this trip was a bit of a bust. Wild dolphins do frequent this bay, in numbers and varieties that change daily. Some days there are 200 bottle nose, who love people and come right up to the swimmers. On our day, there were about 30 spinners who are far more reticent. We would motor up to them and jump off the boat, only to have them disappear. I saw some dark shapes below, and could clearly hear their clicking communication, but the photos from the boat were our closest encounter. After 40 minutes of chasing the elusive beasts, we progressed on to a reef and had the option to snorkel. The reef didn't look as well-populated as ours at the hotel, and towels weren't provided on the boat (another critical piece of information Roger didn't provide), so I decided to stay on the boat and bake dry; the thought of an hour and a half in the back of the taxi in damp clothing didn't appeal.

The second trip was more of a success, though again bore no resemblance to Roger's description, which was basically ... you'll go to the very pretty Ile aux Cerfs (island of the deer), and lunch will be provided. This time, we were ready with towels, but left behind the waterproof camera we'd brought for the dolphins.

The trip should have been described as a day on a catamaran, with a wide mix of activities and a stop by the island at the end. After a 40-minute drive down the east coast of the island, stopping at three resorts to pick up others (and confirming that we were at by far the nicest place) we arrived in the fishing village of Trou d'Eau Douce, where a small harbour lies at the bottom of a steep hill. This is filled with catamarans and mock pirate ships and is, clearly, the key port for excursions on this side of the island. Ours was a medium-sized cat with a crew of three and about 25 passengers, though we could have held more.

We spent the first hour sailing further south down the coast, though it was such a still day we eventually had to add the motor. This offered the most beautiful views of Mauritius on the trip. As we sailed between the reef and the shore, with beaches, green coastal plain and mountains framing the view, we were treated to scenes on par with the best of the Caribbean, complete with crystal-clear waters and a dizzying array of blues. Eventually we turned into the mouth of the Grande Reviere Sud Est, waiting our turn for the next part of the excursion. The river gets very narrow very quickly, so the passengers on each boat need to transfer to smaller, flat bottomed craft to make their way up it. Once aboard that, you motor up the river, flanked by stone cliffs and jungle foliage. Monkeys play in the trees and exotic birds skim above you. After the driver navigates some boulder-studded shallows, you come to an impressive waterfall crashing through volcanic black boulders. It's a sight worth the effort to get there.

Back on the boat, the crew had the barbecue on the back corner smoking, the bar open and Mauritian pop music blaring. (The latter is a mix of reggae, Bollywood and urban funk. Fun and appropriate for the day, but I won't be looking for an iTunes download.) We then motored out to the reef and dropped anchor for a bit of snorkeling before lunch. The reef at the hotel was actually better, with richer coral and a colony of striking purple spiny sea urchins, but I spent about 40 minutes happily floating here before lunch. (Piers, not a snorkeling fan, stayed on the boat.) There followed a very competent meal of chicken, slaw and garlic bread, with the crew eager to refill your plate or top up a bottomless rum and coke.

The lunchtime lounge finished, we headed for the headline destination, the Ile aux Cerfs. Which is, technically, two islands. Tourists get dropped on the margin between the two, which at low tide is a stretch of beach between pine forests and at high tide a strip of water 10-feet wide that can be easily waded through. The south island is mostly the golf course of Le Touessrok, the north left to nature, and the strip in the middle provided with some sun loungers, a bar and restaurant and a cluster of huts selling local crafts and ice cream. It is, according to the guidebook, possible to walk around the whole island in a couple of hours and in so doing you can find completely deserted beaches. But we only had an hour here, so settled for getting an ice cream and sitting in some shade (Piers had begun to realise he'd overdone the sun by this point) to take in the stunning views.

The fact that we only had an hour, I must admit, was due to the fact that we'd taken a 40-minute detour via the paragliding platform on our way to shore. This turned out to be one of the top 10 experiences of honeymoon. Strapped into harness together, linked to a parachute behind and a speedboat in front, it's amazing just how smoothly you glide off the platform and sail up into the air. You're only aloft for about two minutes, but every second was astonishing. The views are exquisite, the sense of weightlessness intoxicating and the silence magical. Sadly, I have no pictures in the air because there's always a chance of taking a dip if you miss your landing (ours was perfect) and the staff don't want you blaming them for water-ruined camera equipment. So they stand on the platform with your camera and take pictures of you, instead. I had the underwater camera, of course, which could have done the job. But it was back at the hotel thanks to Roger's failure to mention most of the activities of the day. At £60 for the two of us it was a pricey two minutes, but we'd do it again in a heartbeat.

I'm glad we got out to see something of the island beyond our hotel, but in retrospect I would have skipped the dolphins. The experience didn't merit the six hours we spent away from the paradise that was our own hotel. But the Ile aux Cerfs expedition was definitely worth the effort. If you do it, just remember to bring your waterproof camera.

Melange of ethnic traditions makes Mauritian food a treat

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

Sitting along a rich trade route gave Mauritius its political value and influenced its history. The location is also the source of its culinary traditions, a rich melange of western European, Indian and Asian.

We were caught by surprise by the range and quality of the food here. From bread and pastries as good as any in Paris (remember, this was a French colony for a long time), to delicately spiced curries to top quality sushi, centuries of world travelers left their mark on our dinner plates. We were so impressed, in fact, that we spent half a day on a cooking course with one of the hotel chefs.

The Constance Prince Maurice has two restaurants, one in two large, thatched pavilions beside pool and overlooking the lagoon, the other on floating pontoons back amongst the mangrove swamps of the lagoon itself. The latter is only open for dinner. The standard package at the hotel is half board, with a generous buffet breakfast and a three course dinner included each night. Lunch, snacks and drinks are an additional charge. (Cocktails and wine from a fine list each night, of course, adds on quite a bit to the final accounting at check out.)

Lunch was rarely necessary, of course, given the size of the breakfast and the fact it was served 'til mid morning. All the traditional English options were there ... eggs, bacon, sausages, roasted tomatoes ... plus a dizzying array of French pastries and a nod to the Northern Europeans with platters of cold meats and cheeses. There was a chef making crepes, and another carving up an array of tropical fruit. But so far, so traditional. The only truly Mauritian thing on the breakfast table was smoked marlin. Delicate and sliced so thin as to be almost transparent, this is an ingredient I'd use a lot if it were available in Europe. But I've never seen it before, and doubt I will again any time soon.

It was on the dinner menu that the exotic and the multi-national really came into play. Options always included both Mauritian-inspired and traditional European, and sometimes it was very hard to make a choice. More than one evening mixed things up. Starting, for example, with gnocchi in a saffron cream sauce before moving on to prawns in a spicy tomato creole sauce. Or putting the green mango salad up front before rolling into the steak with Hollandaise sauce.

Several evenings had a particular ethnic theme. On Asian night we mixed satay ... served with its own table-top barbecue to finish the cooking yourself ... curries, sushi and sashimi. The Mediterranean buffet night featured a range of classic Italian and Provencal dishes, with a bit of North African thrown in for good measure.

Like any good restaurant, however, what distinguished all these meals was the quality of the raw ingredients. Mauritius is one of the world's leading producers of hearts of palm, which showed up not only in salads but cooked into terrines and sauces, or included in the canapes served with cocktails in the bar before meal time. The tomatoes were the best I've had anywhere outside of Italy, like a concentrated version of the varieties you get anywhere else. Local pineapples and passion fruits were both a revelation, and the barman's signature passion fruit mojito was my favourite cocktail of the entire honeymoon. And though the meat was good, it was, unsurprisingly, the fish that stole the show. Local prawns are like little lobsters and don't need much beyond a few turns on a grill to bring out their flavour. Several types of oysters farmed from the lagoon, swordfish and tuna were excellent, particularly the albacore tuna, which was unlike any variety we knew. White with a slightly pink centre when served rare, it was a whole new ... and utterly delightful ... experience.

It took less than 48 hours of exposure to this cornucopia of delight for us to decide to sign up for the half-day cooking class with the hotel chef. Priced at £130 per person, it was cheaper than classes of similar quality back in London. And far more exotic!

We met the chef and our four classmates at 9:30, piled into one of the hotel vans and headed for the local market, which had one of the most impressive ranges of fruit and vegetables I've ever seen. But the first sense to kick in wasn't sight; it was smell. The air was intoxicating with a combination of thyme, coriander and the sharp, unmistakable tang of freshly harvested tomatoes just out of the field. Much was familiar, but at least 20 percent deserved the chef's explanation: breadfruit, jackfruit, white cucumber, mysterious varieties of eggplant, zucchini and gourd. I had anticipated Mauritian food being hot, but there were many more herbs than spices for sale here. And almost no meat, with the exception of a few stalls crammed with a wide range of dried fish. Interesting, but covered with flies. Not very appetising! Far more appealing were the local pineapples, usually not much bigger than your two fists clamped together, skinned and carved in showy spirals before being wrapped in cellophane and a ribbon. Turns out what I thought was exotic presentation on the Prince Maurice breakfast table was just the standard way of packing the fruit at the local market. Clearly, a people with style!

Back at the hotel, one of the restaurant pavilions had been reconfigured as an alfresco kitchen, with portable cookers and prepping stations for all of us arranged in a square, with the chef's demonstration table on one side. We learned how to make tuna tartare ... a European dish made exquisite with local fish ... and seafood vindaye. The latter was a stir-fry style main course of mixed fish with a mustard and vinegar base. An unusual combination, but one we'll definitely try again at home. The course also came with a Mauritian cookbook, which offers lots of inspiration. But I'm not sure where we'll find ingredients like batfish, manioc or green papaya. But the hunt will be fun.

Prince Maurice sets my new standard in luxury hotels

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

It's official. From this point forward, all hotel entries on this blog will be compared against a new model of perfection. It is the Constance Prince Maurice on Mauritius' east coast, and it can claim most of the superlatives I have to offer. Best service. Best view from the room. Most remarkable bathroom. You get the idea. Honeymoon is supposed to be the holiday of your life, of course, and I can confirm that this hotel made for a blockbuster start.

One story captures the levels of care and attention that go into making the guests happy. One morning we were sitting on the wide deck beside the pool, eating our breakfast and gazing out over the beach and lagoon towards the line of surf where the Indian Ocean broke over the reef. I saw six snorkelers close to shore, kicking their way from the boat dock towards the large, D-shaped area of water roped off for swimming. Once inside of it, they started snorkeling back and forth in a regular line. What were they doing? Cleaning the sandy bottom to ensure that nothing disturbed a guest's tender feet.

These are the kinds of things you can do with what we were told was a 4-to-1 staff-to-guest ratio. That's not the first thing you notice, however. Upon introduction, all you can really grasp is just how beautiful the place is.

Mauritius offers no impressive architecture on the way from the airport. It's neither traditionally tropical, nor charming, but modern, functional and very basic. All of which makes the luxury of the Prince Maurice even more striking. On the main road just past a ramshackle village, you find a plinth of volcanic stones with the hotel's logo set in a metal plaque. Turn in, and follow the road for about a mile through sugar cane, tea and potato fields. At last, you'll come to a sturdy gatehouse flanking elaborate iron gates, staffed by guards in smart uniforms derived from the 19th century age of empire. Nobody without a reservation, or employment on site, gets through. It's another half mile of driving now, but here the agricultural fields have slipped away and we're into tropical gardens, with palms and piles of volcanic tufa screening the village of apartments of live-in staff to the right. Finally, the main building comes into view.

It's a large, open-sided thatched pavilion with towering peaked roofs. Staff in pristine white uniforms know who we are already (thanks to those efficient guards), welcome us warmly with cool towels presented on a silver tray, whisk our luggage away and escort us into the main pavilion. We walk up the stairs of the formal entry, over a short wooden bridge that spans the moat-like reflecting pool, and onto the glistening marble floors of the reception area. It's so quiet the only thing you notice is the gurgle of the fountains in the middle of the room (cream marble enlivened by yellow and red hibiscus floating in the water) and the call of birds. Ahead of us, the far edge of the pavilion frames a view of the infinity pool, bordered by other thatched buildings, and beyond that the lagoon, a far tropical shore, the reef and the ocean. Yet another staff member, this one a beautiful young woman who could easily pass as a southeast Asian princess, sits us down on a wicker couch to enjoy the view while a waiter turns up with fresh fruit juice. I am, officially, in heaven.

The first five minutes set the pattern for the whole place. Architecture: Thatched pavilions with open sides to let the breezes and the birds pass through. Decor: Colonial chic with lots of wicker, teak, Asian art and fresh flowers. Staff: Constantly attentive without being intrusive. Mood: Quiet tranquility.

In fact, one of the marvels of the place is how they create the mood. This isn't a small place; there are more than 70 rooms. Given the staff-t0-guest ratio, even if only half of them are "front of house", this means that with good occupancy rates there are easily 300 to 400 people wandering around. And yet, aside from meal times, we often felt we were some of only a handful of people there. Both the price and the honeymoon nature of the place contribute to this mood, of course. Almost everyone here is in couples, and interested in a quiet, romantic time with each other, alone. There are no loud packs of friends on holiday together, and almost no children. We did spot two families with progeny, amazingly. Who spends almost 300 euro a night on kids? (Honeymooners get a 40% discount.) The staff, highly aware that a loud child could destroy the whole ambiance of the place with the force of a tsunami, circled around them like a private entertainment detail, managing to shut them up the moment they uttered much more than a gurgle of happiness.

The standard rooms are billed as junior suites and are 70 square meters. The polished wooden floors, high ceilings and glass on three sides at the front (screened by wooden blinds for privacy), with french doors leading out to a large loggia with table, chairs, couch and gorgeous view, mimic the open air feel of the public spaces. Inside, in addition to the king sized bed, there's a sofa, coffee table (laid with champagne and sweets on our arrival), a desk and a large, flat-screen TV with internet access. (There's free wi-fi throughout the resort as well.) The view towards the lagoon and the mountains was the best part of our room, closely followed by the enormous and luxurious bathroom.

That had double sinks, his and her closets stocked with two dressing gowns per person (terry cloth for after bathing, cotton for relaxing), a large dressing area, separate rooms for shower and toilet, an enormous built-for-two tub complete with pillow for lounging and pot of lavender bath salts, and an oversized ottoman in the centre on which someone could sit to converse with the bather. We were delighted to spend many hours in our suite, and afternoon naps within it featured largely in our schedule. In fact, we were so immediately attached to the place that we ordered breakfast in the room on the first morning, which came with two waiters who brought not only food, but enough linen, china and silver to dress the table on our balcony as if we were in a top restaurant. Then they quietly disappeared, leaving us to enjoy our food and the view, swaddled in those cozy robes.

We didn't want to spend all our time indoors, of course. The beach called. The hotel features a long, completely private stretch of it. At the centre of things, overlooked by the pool and the main buildings, it's unoccupied except for a few dining tables in the sand. Want to have a formally served meal but not leave the beach? No problem. Relax under the umbrella and the staff will take care of you. On either side of this, stretching in front of the pavilions housing the accommodation, are large teak sun loungers with thick mattresses, arranged in pairs underneath big market umbrellas. Choose one, and a member of staff is there quickly with towels and bottles of cold water to help you make it your own. Lounge here long enough, and they may pop by with some ice cream or an offer to clean your sunglasses for you.

On one side of the pool are two restaurant pavilions and a bar, on the other side another bar. The latter had a small stage for entertainment, generally mellow jazz, plugged into a sound system that carried it around all the public areas. Further back, so to not squander the sea views, were several shops, the Air Mauritius office, the spa, a pitch and put green and a children's play area.

If you followed a raised walkway past our room for about a quarter mile, you walked into the lagoon, through mangrove swamps and to the hotel's floating restaurant. Four pavilions on pontoons, reached by bridges and lit by swaying lanterns, bobbed gently on the water as leaping fish added to the soundtrack of the night. We ate dinner here twice, and spent the rest of our time in the main restaurants.

A discussion of food, however, signals a transition to another entry. Mauritian dining, and our fabulous local cooking class, comes next.

Mauritius is eastern-influenced melting pot with potential and disparity

I wrote this entry after returning from Honeymoon, but the posting date coincides with when we were actually experiencing what's described here.

I am fairly sure that I made it through my formal education never having heard of Mauritius, much less being able to identify it on a map.

I first encountered it in some history of piracy, no doubt. Its position in the Indian Ocean, between the southern tip of Africa and the Indian sub-continent, made it a perfect place to lay up while stalking trade routes. This is Captain Kidd territory. But it didn't come to prominence in my mind until we started discussing honeymoons. It is surely one of the Top 10 locations for European newlyweds who have the time and money for a long-haul trip.

And for good reason. The island, formed by a long-extinct volcano, has all the attributes of the stereotypical tropical paradise. Powdery white beaches bordered by swaying palms, hibiscus, bouganvilla and other exotic plants form the coastline. A reef rings much of the island, creating shallow lagoons glimmering turquoise and pale blue. Inland, the land rises to a central plateau dominated by sugar cane production, though fields of tea and all sorts of other vegetables intersperse. Like any volcanic territory, the earth is incredibly rich and well-drained; bananas, mangos and pineapple all grow wild by the roadsides to be harvested by locals as needed.

Pinnacles of black stone, their tips eroded into jagged, picturesque shapes, frame the horizon. Occupying the best coastal spots, as with most tropical paradises, are upscale resorts. Fantasies of thatched pavilions and infinity pools, staffed with graceful, smiling natives who provide unparalleled service. I'll get to that in a later entry.

But in this introduction to the island, it's important to say that dream world is just one small part of Mauritius, and not a representative one. We had excellent drivers on our one-hour transfers to and from the airport, and from them we got a good sense of what life is like beyond the resort gates.

The island is a true ethnic melting pot. It was uninhabited when discovered by Europeans, thus today's native population reflects the different peoples who came ... either as slaves, indentured servants or immigrants ... to work the cane fields. The faces are mostly African, Indian, Southeast Asian or a mixture thereof. It's a huge point of pride for the islanders how well everyone gets along. Most villages we drove through had a Catholic church, a mosque and, most impressively, a giddily-decorated, god-encrusted Hindu temple sitting cheek by jowl, and almost everyone will quickly use that as a proof point of community spirit.

Add to that the cultural overlay of colonialism: first Dutch, then French, then English. (Plus those pirates of every nation.) Today this is a part of the British Commonwealth and the official language is English. But, frankly, you'd never know that without a guidebook. In reality it's French that dominates here, and though everyone in the tourist trade pretends to understand your Anglo-Saxon words, a working knowledge of French will prevent a lot of misunderstandings.

This is no Shangri La, however. It's immediately obvious that this isn't a rich country. Once you're off the single main highway that cuts cross-island from southeast to northwest, the roads are winding, narrow and often bumpy. Look to the fields on either side and you'll see natives, many of them old women, hand harvesting with machetes and straw baskets. Villages are a haphazard hotch-potch of mouldering governmental buildings, tiny shops and snack bars, patches of waste land (some strewn with plants, others with rubbish) and brightly painted houses.

Many of these residences look surprisingly big for such humble villages, but this is because the Mauritians tend to live in multi-generational family groups; the average house may have 15 or 20 occupants. At least one of them is probably assigned middle-of-night water duties. Mauritius is suffering a drought, with global warming suspected to have interfered with the once-dependable annual rains. Thus while resorts fill their infinity pools with millions of gallons and sun-worshipping guests take multiple showers a day, the natives are limited to a couple of hours of running water daily, when they need to fill buckets to supply themselves for the other 22. They are philosophical about this, though. The hotels pay plenty for the water, the guests pay the hotels, it all puts money in the economy.

The villages are interesting to drive through, but offer little sightseeing. These are utilitarian places for living and putting food on the table, not Tuscan farm villages converted for picturesque exploring. In fact, you really don't see white (tourist) faces outside of the resorts and the official attractions. Indeed, one of our drivers confided to us that "whites" means rich people in Mauritian creole, even if they're Indian or Chinese. The average salary here is between £200 and £300 a month, roughly the same as most honeymooners are paying for a single night in their luxury suites. I suspect our view ... through a BMW window en route to and from manicured tourist spots ... was a typical tourist one. There's little trickle down effect to the "real" people from tourism, beyond the tips those in the industry take home. (And those, of course, can equal a month's salary in a few good days.)

Unlike many Caribbean islands, however, Mauritius isn't entirely dependent upon tourism. Those cane fields aren't just decorative; this is one of the world's major sugar producers. There's a thriving textile manufacturing industry, and the same geographical placement that made the island a hot spot in the days of sail is starting to come into play again as China and India continue their rise to prosperity. It feels like a place with great potential, yet it also, according to one driver, suffers the usual African problem of corrupt government. The rich and powerful are harnessing the country's resources for their own prosperity rather than for the general advance of the population.

In our limited exposure, we didn't hear or see anything to make that disparity a dangerous one. All the locals we talked to seemed happy, helpful, truly concerned that we were enjoying ourselves and inordinately proud of their homeland. Still, I left with a nagging concern for the future. There's clearly a lot of money pouring into this place, and tomorrow looks set to bring more. If that cascades down to help establish a comfortable middle class, then the potential here seems vast. If, however, all the profits stay in the hands of a few, then I have to believe that someday the Mauritians, despite their abundance of cheerful contentment, may lose patience and demand a bigger slice of the pie.

Honeymoon Overview: Balanced, idyllic and adventurous ... the trip of a lifetime

This entry was written after returning from Honeymoon, but the post date is the day we left on the trip.

Any regular reader will know that I'm a compulsive travel planner. It's a trait I got from my mother. As soon as one trip concludes, I'm online researching the next. I am inevitably the organiser of holidays, whoever I'm traveling with. So it was completely out of character for me to follow the age old tradition of running the wedding show, but leaving the honeymoon to the groom.

I am delighted I did. Not only did he do a fabulous job, but I didn't have to lift a finger. I just let the wonder of every day wash over me, unconcerned about what was coming but sure it was going to be great.

For two weeks of primarily laid back relaxation, there's an enormous amount to report on. So we'll start with this summary entry before dipping in to a series of articles on the specifics. Hopefully, you'll enjoy it, while the writing will help me hang on to the sun, service and romance for a little longer.

The trip divided into three distinct phases. First, soul-reviving sun and sea in Mauritius. Second, stimulating outdoor adventure in the South African bush. Third, foodie delight on the coast near Cape Town. We had generally good weather throughout, though the second week was a bit cooler than expected (making the fleeces we both purchased at the game lodge our major souvenirs of the trip.)

Our home for the first week was the Constance Prince Maurice, on the east coast of the island. A retreat of almost shameful luxury, we were told the staff-to-guest ratio was four-to-one. And though there are more than 70 rooms, the place is so well designed, and the spaces so generous, we often felt we were two of just a handful of guests. The hotel sits on a long lagoon screened from the ocean by a coral reef, providing the advantages of a private snorkeling area, wide, shallow swimming beaches and multiple water views.

Like so many tropical islands, there's a melange of culture here that makes it a cultural experience as well as a beach holiday. French, English, Indian and Southeast Asian influences all blend here, influencing food, architecture and social traditions. It ticked all my beach holiday boxes.

The exotic beach holiday had excited me most in the planning stages, but in the reality of travel, it was safari that brought the trip's most extraordinary moments. Mauritius and the Cape held elements familiar from other holidays; safari was completely unique. From the moment our private bush pilot met us at Kruger airport, walked us out to his six-seat Cessna, flew us over a landscape that had The Lion King soundtrack pounding in my head and landed us on a dirt airstrip he had to buzz once first to drive away the giraffe and warthogs, I felt like I was in a film. I had been on safari before (see 5.10.09), but this experience was vastly superior.

We were at Chitwa Chitwa in the Sabi Sand, one of a network of private game reserves to the west of Kruger National Park. There are no fences for hundreds of miles here. Wildlife wanders free, is fiercely protected and accustomed to the safari vehicles that accompany them each day. We saw the Big 5 (lion, leopard, rhino, buffalo and elephant) daily, often from a distance of less than 10 feet. The experience was enhanced by a knowledgeable and friendly staff, the handful of other guests and a jaw dropping suite that resembled our own game lodge rather than a simple hotel room.

I feared anything after this would be a disappointment, but the radical change of scenery and the culinary delights awaiting us in Hermanus were magical in their own way. This part of the Cape is, I suspect, what California must have looked like before humanity paved it over. A narrow coastal strip bordered by rocky cliffs, boulders jutting into the pounding surf and beaches in picturesque coves. Seals basking on rocks, flowers cascading along paths, mountains framing the view inland. In between those mountains, lush green valleys carpeted with vineyards and orchards. You'd be hard pressed to design a landscape more perfect than this one.

The point of Hermanus isn't just scenery and wineries, however. (As if that weren't enough!) It's whales. Specifically, Southern Right Whales, who spend their summers basking along this coast, giving birth, rearing young and mating to produce the next generation. The bay on which Hermanus sits is so full of the animals that there's no need for whale watching excursions. Linger on any cliff path bench, stare out to sea and it's unlikely you'll spend more than five minutes before spotting one of these giants send up a plume of spray through its blowhole, lift its fin out of the water for a bit of sunshine or breach with a massive splash.

I doubt there's anyplace more luxurious from which to watch this spectacle than Birkenhead House. Essentially an extremely upscale B&B. What was originally a private home atop the cliffs is now an 11-bedroom hotel built around a series of courtyards with pools and fountains, with a glamorous sitting and dining room, looking out on a wide terrace with infinity pool hanging over the bay. The meals served in that dining room were the best of our trip, with fantastic wine pairings.

We had one of the two oceanfront bedrooms. Quite small, and therefore lacking some of the magnificent bed frames we saw in the other rooms, but I'm a sucker for a view and this one was hard to beat. I saw my first whale before I got out of bed in the morning. The sliding glass doors on two sides of the room opened up a wide vista of sea and coastline, and we were welcomed with flowers strewn across the bed and a bottle of champagne. I was happy.

I have never had a better trip. Magnificent locations, complete pampering, succulent food and wine, and all in the company of my adored (and adoring, he adds in the editing process) husband. Flowers and champagne showed up on all the hotel beds, in fact. That's part of the magic of honeymoon. I suppose that a few nights in Bognor Regis would have been just as wonderful, given the extraordinary celebration of sharing my life with the man of my dreams. But I'm glad I didn't have to test the theory. One of the reasons he is my perfect match: he orchestrated this magnificent holiday, designed to trip every pleasure trigger I have. I fear the travel reviews in this blog will now be setting a much loftier standard.

For more on our adventures, stay tuned over coming weeks as I go into detail on the hotels, the food and the sights.

Just as planned: Wedding is the party of a lifetime (with great music, too)

This entry was written after returning from Honeymoon, but posted on the date the activity described concluded.

Throughout the wedding planning months, Piers and I were captivated by a game show called "Four Weddings", in which four brides each attend the others' ceremony and reception and rate it to name a winner. Every bride always believes hers is the best wedding, and is incredulous when someone else wins.

I know how they feel.

My wedding day was perfect. It fulfilled fantasies I'd been concocting since my Disney princess days. The ceremony was grand, the reception elegant, the groom looked like a prince, everyone had a great time, everything went to plan. Let me tell you about it...

From the bridal perspective, the day started with breakfast at the Lansdowne Club, where the reception would later be. We started hair and make up at 8:45 in order to be ready by 12:30. Beauty is hard work.

The highlight of the morning: my lovely husband-to-be getting Classic FM to do a long dedication to us, noting how we met through the station's dating web site, how we loved (but debated over) opera, and wishing us well. Fortunately, this happened before my make up started, so I could cry all I wanted over E lucevan le stelle.

By mid-day I was kitted out in my bridal finery. Something old: Mom's wedding dress. Better than anything I saw on the market, the 1962 lines were elegant, demure and sophisticated. Something new: Diamond and sapphire earrings I had made to match the coming wedding ring. Something borrowed: The Hannegan family pearls. Something blue (and borrowed): Hannah Wright's garter. The BT-branded taxis turned up on time and traffic was non-existent, leaving us to wait around the corner from the church for 20 minutes so we weren't too early. Meanwhile Piers, resplendent in his new morning suit and Favourbrook waistcoat, was having a pub lunch with the boys and his family at the Duke of Wellington.

We had spent a great deal of time planning the service and it was, I believe, as magical and otherworldly as we had hoped. Certainly that's been the feedback from guests who, even if they weren't church goers, appreciated the drama and the majesty of "high church" ceremony. The sunny day meant that the nave was filled with light, colours from the stained glass reflecting on floors and walls while the gold on the altar and the clerics' copes glistened. Father David's sermon was masterful, poking fun at us for choosing "Simple Gifts" as our hymn for a ceremony that was anything but simple, then using the lyrics ... "by turning, turning, you come round right" ... to talk about how humanity and completion is found in the love of others. Yes, I cried. Again.

As expected, the choir was the icing on the ceremonial cake, the eight voices, organ and two violins swelling in magnificence. I'm partial, I know, but I don't think I've ever heard them better. After the traditional American hymn Simple Gifts, the bridesmaids processed in to Brahms' Variations on a theme by Haydn, which is also the Northwestern University song. That brought another touch of joy, as memories of all those wonderful times of youth rose to join with this day. The processional to Wagner's wedding chorus from Lohengrin, sung, was a triumph. As expected, most people had no idea that familiar melody had words. The choir was suitably operatic and my dress and veil were old fashioned enough to transport everyone back a century or two.

About half the service was sung or played rather than spoken, and most of that to Mozart's Coronation Mass. We added on two movements of the Exsultate Jubilate for the signing of the register; it was a special, quiet moment when Piers and I stood together in the vestry, where we'd adjourned for the signing, to listen to the soprano hit those stirring notes. The second hymn, to honour the English side, and Piers' rugby passion (and it's also his school song), was of course Jerusalem. Now into the musical spirit of things, the congregation performed their audience participation on this one with vigour. And finally, out to Vivaldi's Gloria, certainly in the Top 10 list for the most joyful piece of music ever written. To paraphrase Shakespeare, if music be the food of love, we left the church very, very full.

To add to the whole dreamy, fairy tale aspect of things, a cluster of little girls from the local school had been waiting outside to see me when I emerged. I did, indeed, feel like a Disney princess at that moment. We'd hired a classic Routemaster double-decker bus, so loaded all the guests on board and made our way to the Lansdowne.

At the club, all my recent joys were trumped for a moment upon my first sight of the cake. I'd worked closely with my baker, Rachel Hill of Planet Cake, to create something that was architectural rather than floral, evocative of the late Georgian setting and reminiscent of Wedgwood. It was perfect. And it tasted good, too!

As every bride who went before me predicted, the rest of the day passed in a blur. The first half of the cocktail reception was taken up with formal photos, the second with bustling my generous train and getting the veil off. (I almost had a spectacular tumble backwards off the stairs in the ladies' lounge when someone came crashing through the door before me, but my bridesmaids caught me.) I was too busy to try the canapes ... mini burgers and cornets of coronation chicken to acknowledge the Anglo-American nature of the wedding, crab because the groom loves it ... and soon found myself next to Piers ready to cut the cake. That's certainly one of the great ironies of weddings. All those hours searching for a baker and planning the cake, all her work, all that money, and it's on display for just 90 minutes before it's cut and whisked away to the kitchen. Thank heavens for photos.

After Dad's speech, our guests moved into the ballroom. We had seven tables, in addition to ours, decorated with bunches of hydrangeas in the centre, a sprinkle of dried hydrangea petals across the table and the traditional Italian favour ... five sugared almonds (two shades of blue, and white) in an organza bag with blue ribbons ... by the wine glasses. Two-tone ribbon ties around each napkin and silver chairs with blue seat cushions completed my Wedgwood colour scheme.

We made our formal entrance as Mr. and Mrs. Bencard to Brindisi, the drinking song from La Traviata. Most people couldn't hear it over the applause, but we'd printed the lyrics in both English and Italian in the menu card ("let's drink for the ecstatic feeling love arouses"), so hopefully people noticed. We then sat down to a hearty meal of ham hock and rabbit terrine matched with a cotes de duras sauvignon blanc, followed by duck breast and caraway cabbage with a Cointreau jus, paired with a vega del castillo merlot. The bride and groom didn't linger over their food, however, as we wanted to mix and mingle amongst the dining tables to greet our guests.

We broke up the speeches and added time for both the bride and the matron of honour, with Piers and I giving our toasts just after the starter, and Anne Bruneel and Robin Bencard delivering the main attraction after the duck. Evening guests started to arrive at 7:30, as Robin was finishing up his speech. We then all adjourned to the gallery next to the ballroom, where slices of the wedding cake (three flavours: fruit, lemon and chocolate) were laid out with a cheese board, coffee and port, while the band finished their set up and the staff cleared some tables for dancing.

Our second musical extravagance, the Sinatra-style band, was another fine choice. Paul Young and his backing quartet delivered a mix of the great classics in the first two sets before swinging into some classic rock and roll in the third. We did our first dance to Just the Way You Look Tonight. Two dance lessons and some practice made for a serviceable performance, though I don't think we'll ever qualify for the ballroom circuit. As a special treat, Kaci Machacyk, one of the American extended family, sung Someone to Watch Over Me and My Funny Valentine, a real highlight of the night.

And then, suddenly, it was over. Midnight struck, people were saying goodbye and the last few guests were lingering in the ballroom as the Lansdowne staff struck the tables around us. We were exhausted, but happy. It was the best party I've ever thrown. As it should have been.