Going for Galpin

“It’s an insignificant stroll of one and a half hours to the hut. We won’t even break sweat,” snorts Richmond MacIntyre dismissively over the third bottle of wine, as we debate the following day’s outing. “Better start early and have a proper, full day in the hills.” My husband Matthew Holt and I groan, for our Hermanus-based friend’s notion of exercise involves pounding up steep flanks before dawn.

This is, after all, payback. A few weeks earlier, I’d had the temerity to suggest a hike in Richmond’s hood, inviting him to join us on a Glamtrail. My idea of a fine hike, it was a leisurely amble of seven kilometres that took in one ascent, two wine tastings and a three-course lunch.

Although he’d fully indulged at the time, Richmond had in riposte devised what he considered a more characteristic route to show off the best of his backyard, in the Fernkloof Nature Reserve. We could expect peak bagging, a night at the spartan Galpin