"How on Earth can you carry enough clothes on your bike for ten days? For two of you?" Asked my brother incredulously.

"You don't" I replied. You use the HRM."

"The what?"

"The Host Recoil Measure. You just wear the same clothes every day until the host at your next B&B opens the door and visibly recoils - while at the same time silently thanking the Covid regulations that dictate they wear a mask at all times."

We can't exactly remember whether our host at the stunning Linda se Dop guest house offered or we asked for laundry services but I'm guessing we hit a new record on the HRM scale. You see, it's got quite hot. And we've been out a few days.

Linda's place is in Nieuwoudtville, on the very top of the escarpment, a part of which includes Table Mountain. It's lofty position ensures a cool 32c, a welcome drop from the 40c of the plateau below which we just crossed and which it must be said contributed to the unprecedented HRM reading.

Our sweaty arrival in the town
marks our exit from the Western Cape and entry to the Northern Cape.......... of South Africa if you've just joined or not been paying attention.

What with the heat and my sore back we were glad to get here. A few weeks ago I knackered my back. Despite this, we'd set off for the Northern Cape and got almost 2 hours away from Cape Town before the pain got too great, even for me, someone that can really bear intense pain, without complaint.

Nonetheless, it seemed smarter to head back than press on so we turned around and headed back to Cape Town and spent another few hundred quid on a chiropractor. One whose speciality was causing more intense pain by sticking long needles in my bum. A bit "out there" for a sceptic like me but it seemed to do the trick. It certainly takes your mind off your sore back.

The good news was that the voodoo doll treatment seemed to work so a few days ago we boldly set off to retrace our steps north and restart our northern trip again from Saldanha Bay and Paternoster.

Unfortunately a dodgy back and motor cycling aren't great bedfellows and by the time we got to the luxurious Paternoster Manor I was somewhat uncomfortable and in dire need of more needling, deep-tissue massage or copious quantities of Sauvignon Blanc.

However, John, the manager and a top level kayaker is a convert to the art of "rolling" and while that's appropriate for a kayaker, in this context it's rolling around your sore bits on a rubber covered plastic tube until your eyes water. Again, it seemed to help so after two days of rolling recovery we boldly set off northwards into the wild. Or perhaps, the veld.

Nothing but miles and miles of scrubby desert and a rock and gravel road shaking our fillings loose. It was a shortcut to our lunch stop at Vredendal. A shortcut that was half the distance but three times as slow.

Sustained by lunch at the first air conditioned wine cellar we could find, murder isn't it, we set off into the desert for the last leg over the blistering hot plateau and up the escarpment to Linda's.

So, while the washing gets done, it's time for some R&R beside the pool and in the absence of needles or a masseuse, Doctor Sauvignon Blanc is on the case.