There and back again

The first time I went to Hogsback, it was overcast and rainy. The mood in the car was excited and apprehensive. My sister and her fiancé were in the back seat, full of optimism that this was going to be their wedding destination. My boyfriend and I were in the front, tentatively hoping that this trip would show us that we should stay together.

A sleepy little town in the Amathole Mountains of the Eastern Cape in South Africa, it is reached by driving up a precarious winding road that appears to have been stapled rather haphazardly to the side of the mountain. It earned its name from the three of the peaks of the Amathole which, if seen at a certain angle, look like the hairy ridges on a hogs back.

Thick underbrush and tall trees create the illusion of driving through a climbing winding maze. The recent deluge of rain has caused little cascading streams to spring up everywhere and as we make our way, they bubble merrily across the road at intervals; like fluid sleepers in an uneven railway leading to heaven. Samango monkeys leap playfully between the trees. The smell of wet earth and wildflowers drifts in through the open window, laden with promises. A hush descends in the car; we are close.

The overhanging flora quite suddenly clears and a worn inconspicuous sign welcomes us to Hogsback. As we drive further into the town, gap-toothed leathery faced men smile and wave us down to purchase their wares. They wave their carved wooden walking sticks and beaded animal figurines at us like they are diamonds. We pass the entrance to Camelot Fairy Meander that promises a spiritual experience in a garden filled with elf sculptures. We drive on past the arboretum, which houses mighty redwoods and old oaks. We know already what our first stop will be.

The one thing that brings us here, besides our tangled love lives, is our love for JRR Tolkien and his works. It is said that he drew some of his inspiration for The Hobbit from Hogsback. As we come to a clearing in the trees beside the road, we know we have arrived. Vibrant reds, yellows and blues flow unbroken to the foot of the mountain. The heady scent of wildflowers hangs heavy in the air and I sneeze for good measure. The mountain itself reaches imperiously to the heavens, disappearing into the low hanging clouds. A deep rumbling reaches us from a distance and it takes a few seconds for us to realise that it is just thunder. There are no dragons here, but we are satisfied. We have found the Misty Mountain.