12. - 18 Dec.: Swellendam kayak and sherry

Great breakfast, one of those you remember, and I am picky with breakfast! Lots of freshly squeezed juices make for a great welcome.

Italian songs from a half a century ago or so gently fill the atmosphere in the background.  In particular, they keep playing "Tu vuoi fa l'americano", a song by Neopolitan Renato Carosone that was released in 1956. In fact, I will hear this song in several lounges and breakfast rooms during this trip. Not sure why, but it seems to have made a more long lasting impression here than in Italy, where it has long since forgotten and is hardly ever played in public spaces. If you've missed until now, you can listen to it here.

Trip to the dam for canoe. I asked the waitres of our hotel for directions to the Swellendam lake, but she kept referringto the "dam". That's how they call artificial lakes that are formed as a result Sunny and pleasant but a bit windy. Lots of tents around the artifical lake created by the dam.

So Yan drive off satiated by a and musically enriched by Renato Carosone and soon we find ourselves driving by what does indeed look like a fairly good size prison, with fences barbed wire and everything you would expect from a prison. Yet, somehow, a prison does not fit in this pristine and wild environment that is a celebration of freedom and wildlife.

We get lost, our navigator can't find the way, until we stop by a road block and ask a few friendly policewomen who ask a male colleague who apparently lives there and in no time we are on our (correct) way. As we get there it gets again a bit confusing as the camp is quite large and there is no indication where the canoes are, but with some persistent trial and error we get there! We are welcomed by Kelly, who tells us it's 100 rands for the canoe we can pay on our way out . She kindly gives us some sun screen when we ask and we are ready to paddle.

We choose a two seater kayak over two separate ones. In the water we start easy downwind, but soon we are at the other end of the lake, oops, of the dam, and working our way back upwind requires a fairly strenuous effort.

Some kids make merry on a floating platform moored in a crevice in the rock. We are about to ask them if we can join, but in the end we prefer to sit back and enjoy the sunshine in our face.

Dinner again in villa. Colonial feeling of luxury of old. Tonight we take and share the quail again and for contrast we gor for salmon. Both superbly prepared and served with delicate vegetables that fit the bill perfectly. Again a South African red wine helps wash it all down.

After dinner Yan and I decide to sit down in the living room, by the fire place. Sherry and port wines are available for a small charge and it's basically all you can drink, at least I did not see anyone check. Not that we wanted more than a small glass. David, a bubbly young black man who waited on us at the restaurant, comes to stoke the fire and ask if we need anything. This mellow experience we share with an elderly German couple who speak good English.  He is a retired Mercedes Benz manager, and they are driving pretty much the same road we are.

After the German couple politely excuse themselves to go to sleep, David comes again to stoke the fire. We strike a polite conversation but he gets very excited when I tell him I am a writer. Well not a household name of a writer exactly, I hasten to add, I used to write about international politics and nuclear weapons but now prefer to concentrate on travelogues. He seems overwhelmed.

"Do you mean I now know a real writer?" he says with his eyes wide open.  I am not sure what to make of it. He asks what my latest book is about and I tell him, it is on the Maldive islands. He'd like to see it and I offer to show it to him, but it's only in Italian. (Again, my mistake not to write it in English.) He says it does not matter, he's love to see it. So with immense pleasure I find myself almost blushing at someone asking to see my book. Not a friend, not a relative, but a perfect stranger who can't even read it. In the morning I'll present him with a signed copy and wait patiently for some feedback that will never come.

11. - 17 Dec.: Knysna properties and drive through the mountains to Swellendam

Get up and breakfast in Mike's terrace. It has been too short, these four days in Knysna flew by so fast. The view in front of us here is spectacular, so is the house behind us. We don't want to leave but there is so much more to experience during the rest of our time in South Africa.

We talk about real estate, it would be fun to invest and spend some time here every year. Just for fun, we look at a house on sale. A newly renovated townhouse with two bedrooms, a good size living room and a huge kitcken with a dining area. Asking price is 1.2 mill rand, about 70k euro, negotiable. OK the Rand is weak this year but this won't buy you more than a parking spot in Rome.

We take some final pictures with Mike and his classy and nostalgic Merc SL convertible. He chose to have his name on the number plate to make it even more persona. Time to go.

Today we are heading west, toward Swellendam. Mike come with us part of the way, until Sedgefield, a small town on the coast about half-way between Knysna and George. We are going to have lunch with a friend of his who is building shopping malls all over Africa and wants to talk to Yan about Chinese business. As everywhere else in the world, the Chinese are pouring into South Africa, both to buy (raw materials mainly) and to sell (pretty much everything). They also want to invest the immense capital that they have accumulated over the last decades of break-neck export growth.

Easy drive to Swellendam. We don't take the shortest route toward Cape Town, but instead opt for climing up the mountain and enjoy the incontaminated landscapes of the interior. Several hours of infinite emptiness. Reminds me of Nevada, or Arizona.

We miss our chance for an ostrich ride by ten minutes at Oudtshoorn as they close at 4 in afternoon. This region is known for its ostrich and yan wanted to ride one. Oh well. I would not have been able to anyway as I just exceed the maximum allowed weight  (I won't say what that is).

By the evening we reach Schoone Oordt Countryhouse, a well appointed boutique hotel in an old  colonial house. Old style but classy property ran by a couple from Cape Town that bought a dilapidated manor about ten years ago and made it into their lifetime project. Big room, bed with posts and a fireplace which we actually enjoy in the evening before going to bed. Or while in bed for that matter. It is a bit of time travelling.

Dinner in the villa. Very few choices in their menu which does not change for the week, but they are all excellent. Quail for me and salmon for Yan. They politely suggest that, tomorrow, we may want to try another restaurant in town. They are not really a restaurant, not yet anyway, as they mostly cater to hotel guests. By the end of the dinner Yan and I agree we don't really need another restaurant tomorrow, we will come back here. A bottle of mellow and fruity Pinotage 2013 by African Java provides the necessary lubrication for all of the above.

And this is the official celebration of my birthday, for which we get complimentary dessert :)

10. - 16 Dec.: Knysna golf and dining

Tour of downtown Knysna. It's a wonderful late Spring day and it is obvious that Summer is knocking at the door. Lots of people strolling about, eating in the numerious terraces, drinking and shopping. Inevitable in an upmarket area like this, most shoppers and diners are white while many of the workers are black.

As I walk aimlessly around I meet a painter of dogs. A man in his mid-sixties perhaps, kind of short (even by my own 1.69 cm standards) and sporting a long graying beard almost down to his chest. His thick mustache do not completely hide a sweet greagarious smile. A pair of rectangular glasses with a thin frame combine very appropriately with a black beret to produce a perfect blend between a carefree XIX century bohémienne and a modern alternative street artist.

Yes, Teddy is a painter of dogs. He has a dog with him, a small hairy dog called Jock. I know the dog's name because it carries a bright golden badge around its neck with the owner's phone number, in case it should get lost. Teddy paints Jock a lot, it is his main subject, but he also paints other dogs. Occasionally, he paints something else, mostly when he gets motivated by a commission for a specific subject, he told me. But dogs is what he likes to paint.

Just a few steps from his position a couple of sturdy guys are playing their guitars while singing country music. It is a rich mix of Southern country, with some occasional blue-grass overtones, and other local street music. They both wear black T-shirts, a thin necklace, dark sun glasses and a hat that reminds me of Indiana Jones.

Our walk continues to the local supermarket, where Yan and I fall in love with the most colorful baskets of tropical fruits. You can buy it as it comes from the tree, or for a small premium they will serve it nice and peeled in small trays. Prices are incredibly low, at least for our strong Euro, but Yan tells me these delicacies would be far more expensive even in Beijing.

Afternoon back to golf practice. Trying to hit the ball into a more or less straight trajectory toward some flags planted at varying distances into a huge field. I aim at the 50 and 75 meters flags, with mixed results, but who cares? Mike, Lifang and I have a fun and relaxing time while the sun gently sets behind us.

Dinner with local friends at Cafe Mario by the Waterfront. There are no black or colored patrons. My local friends say it's normal because blacks like different food and each of the peoples of South Africa keep to the company of their own kind. Just like Germans and Italians. Well, maybe. It is true, when I live abroad I tend to have more Italian friends than others. But here other considerations come into play: safety, a backlog of racial distrust, if not hatred, that has not yet been completely overcome.

I ask them a question that I will ask a number of times when talking with white South Africans old enough to remember apartheid. The question is: All whites now say they are for racial equality, but what did you think then? (Actually not all whites would agree, there are yet some factions of overtly racist white South Africans, but they are marginal.)

The answer I get today is that they did not know much of what was going on during apartheid because there was no tv in South Africa until the 1980s and a strong censorship prevented news from spreading even within the country and even among rich whites. It is true that there was no TV in South Africa until very late, it started broadcasting only in 1976 to be precise, and then only one channel was available and it was strictly controlled by the government.

And yet I find it hard to believe they did not know, there was so much noise around the world, they certainly knew of Archbishop Tutu winning the Nobel peace prize in 1984 for his anti-apartheid activities. I come out of this conversation with a belief that while most whites were, and are, honestly open and not racist, they acquiesced with apartheid at least, and feared change.

In a way this reminds me of Italy and Fascism: most of my compatriots supported it as long as it was successful and made them feel special, but after 1945 it was virtually impossible to find anyone who would admit to having been a Fascist. And of course many claimed a role in the Resistance, just like many South Africans now say they operated to end apartheid for what they could and were never racist to begin with.

Be that as it may, the restaurant serves very good, real Italian, ossobuco, the best I can remember having outside my beloved peninsula! Italy is well known here for the food, of course, but not for much else. My friends are an exception: they are highly sophisticated lovers of the arts and know Rome as well as any bona fide civis romanus.

When I ask, however, I am surprised no one remembers another Italian who made South Africa known around the world in the 1970s: Marcello Fiasconaro who almost accidentally broke the world record for the 800 meters wearing the blue Italian shirt with a tricolor in the middle. The world record was gone three years later but the Italian record still stands forty years later and counting...

Back home, just after midnight, Mike pops a bottle of bubbles. It is now 17 December and it is officially the day of my 54th birthday.

9. - 15 Dec.: Knysna golf and spa

Breakfast at home on our panoramic terrace. It is inspiring to overlook the estuary of the Kynsna river from up here, an unobstructed view that stretches to a distance where the naked eye can barely make out the low lying buildings that make the Eastern side of the town.

Mike then takes us for a town tour which is made even more enjoyable by the fact that we are driving is his vintage convertible Merc. Knysna is indeed an idyllic paradise and I have little difficulty understanding why many like to spend time here, especially the warmer months between November and April.

Another round of golf practice (yes I am getting addicted, I know because I get the first blisters on my hands and don't mind) and it's time for some shopping downtown. Great opportunities for outdoor clothing and equipment here. I am like a child in a candy store as all this khaki colored multipocketed garments are my favs. Besides being practical, they project my ego into endless Indiana Jones fantasies and make me feel less a tourist and more an explorer. Well, at least an eccentric travel writer.

In the afternoon massage Yan and I book a massage and steam room at the Conrad. We are given a twin room and get our muscles pain relieved by a couple of young South African ladies, one white and one black, both excellent masseuses.

Dinner (which was included in our massage package) is in the Conrad's terrace. The sun is setting behind a row of houses but it's still warm enough to keep our bleach-white robes on for the meal. As some point Yan feels a draft: because of an open door nearby the warm air from inside the building gets sucked out and blows over our table. Funny, usually a draft is only a problem if one is inside: and the ladies then ask to close the windows or doors. Superb cheese cake to close off the night.

8. - 14 Dec.: Knysna golf and tour

Today we take it easy after the intense pace of the last few days. Breakfast at the Pezula golf club, sitting in a wide terrace under a blue sky. Full English breakfast with the most appropriate African enhancement of tropical fruits.

We then go and try some golf. It is my first time ever and I kind of like it. I can see how it can become addictive. Just try some putts for now. I am quite excited so I run to gather my balls after shooting my first set too far from the flag, only to be gently reprimanded by Mike who intructs me that one never runs on the golf course lest the impacts of fast feet landing on the delicate grass should dig holes that would distort the game. OK lesson learned.

My first ever golf ball

We then drive around a bit and explore the Pezula property. About 400 hundred lots, some two thirds of which have beed developed into beautiful villas of various sizes. Eighteen golf holes naturally, plus all the infrastructure that makes this a world-class course. It seems that most owners, who are by right members of the Golf Club, don't even play golf at all, but enjoy the setting, the scenary and the company.

Dinner is at a family run restaurant downtown, Pembreys. Well appointed yet informal and warmly welcoming atmosphere, with excellent fish from the region, and of course Cape wines. The owners are Vivian and Peter Vadas, who besides their lives share a passion for Mediterranean and especially Italian cuisine. Their son Peter John has moved on but not before he absorbed his parents' dedication to high quality food, and recently has become the chef of a top notch restaurant near Cape Town. I opt for a pair of excellent Cape soles, nicely grilled and served with potato wedges.

Much to my own chagrin I decide not to drink nearly so much as I would like. Alcohol tests are apparently taken very seriously here and spending a night in a local prison (the usual penalty for speeding, it seems) is not my idea of an alternative, off-the-beaten-path journey through South Africa.

Another problem with driving home is that the speed limit changes every few hundred meters and, while I strive not to exceed it, Mike tells me not to go too much slower either, lest I become suspicious as the police think I can't cope with the allowed speed. It's a little stressful to keep within the narrow speed range that will keep the police away for either reason - I did drink a bit after all. But eventually we make it home in one piece and can cap off the night with a little grappa.