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Since Namibia has a population of about 14, we were all craving social interaction by the time we reached the South African border. Initially, this came in the form of a portly South African customs official shouting at me for taking his parking space. Other than this, our passage into South Africa was without incident. From the border on, plant life became invigorated with chlorophyll, previously parched river beds were quenched, and the landscape burst up into plump, lavender-scented hills.

Spirits were high, and since we’d been on the road for a good five days, we felt we deserved a day off the road and into the bottle. The latter was particularly important since our first evening on South African soil (Springbok) was devoid of alcohol. To most people this wouldn’t – at least shouldn’t – have been a problem, but once we’d set up camp and eaten, we soon found that we’d nothing to do. And it was only 8pm. After we had a cup of tea each (we had to drink something), Davy’s noble yet ultimately futile attempts to point out the Southern Cross constellation, and locking ourselves out of the car, we went to bed at 9pm.

With a view to taking vengeance on our lazy livers, we set off to Stellanbosch, the beating heart of South Africa’s wine country and home to one of the country’s most prominent universities (ergo, awash with students). What is effectively a suburb of Cape Town, the picturesque town of Stellanbosch is set to the backdrop of ripe, rolling hills that contrast to the precise angles of the surrounding mountains. The area is undeniably beautiful, though I’d describe its beauty as ‘comfortable’. Looking back, I was more affected by the harsh, unforgiving vistas of the Namibia’s dunes and desert. Having said this, I was more than ready for a bit of comfort.

Accommodation for our tenure in Stellanbosch was at the aptly named Stumble Inn. Since there was no room to set up the roof tent, the three of us squeezed into the ground tent for two nights. This didn’t matter a great deal since our romp around town that evening ensured a deep, dehydrated sleep. The revelry continued the next day when, still wild-eyed and busy-handed from the previous night’s antics, we set off on a wine tour of the region.

I’ve been called many things with a ‘phile’ suffix in my time, but oenophile isn’t one. My wine knowledge is limited to me liking tasty wine and liking lots of it. This proved a perfect combination for our tour, which consisted of four vineyards and countless wines. The day started in a fairly civilised manner at the Fairview vineyard. Albeit somewhat distracted by the prospect of getting stuck into the local produce, it was fascinating to find out a little about how this quite wonderful drink was made. After my first couple of glasses, I was already plotting inroads into the industry. All I needed to begin producing northern England’s finest wine was:

10 hectares (to break even)

7 years for my vines to start producing good grapes (though whether this would be enough time for my north-facing slope back in York, remains to be seen)
Budding wine farmers, or whatever they’re called, will also be interested to know that 1 hectare produces around 5,700 bottles; there’s no crop rotation on vineyards; and you mash grapes at 12 degrees centigrade. I think. The facts became blurred as the day progressed.

By the time we reached the second vineyard, we had reverted to form: I monopolised the cheese tasting counter; Davy, red-faced and more incoherent than usual, had to go for quiet time outside with the residence goats; while, Giles, one hand swirling a crisp Chenin Blanc, the other gesticulating wildly, explained to a couple of European ladies how seeing whales off the coast of South Africa gave him an ‘immense sense of spirituality’. Oh dear.

Two vineyards later, we had purchased 30 bottles of wine.

At time of writing (two nights later) we have 20 left.