This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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"Cape Town, Cape Town, Cape Town,
A place where I quite want to be,
Your mountains so lofty,
Your treetops so tall,
Cape Town, Cape Town, Cape Town,
Cape Town has it all"
By mdvipond, aged 40 and a half (with apologies to Monty Python).
Rooftop pool, Cape Royale Hotel, 24 hours after leaving Leeds
To put it frankly, we'd been stunned by the place. Our expectations were pretty high in the long run up to this trip but, in every respect, they were easily exceeded. Firstly, and perhaps most tellingly, the outbound delay (TR here) imposed on us by BAAs big-girl's-blouse reaction to the snow at Heathrow had done us the most massive of favours. The weather in Cape Town, which over Christmas had been - so we were told - cool and either foggy or windy, was simply faultless throughout our stay (assuming, like me, you relish wall-to-wall sunshine and 95º temperatures).
For the first couple of days the hotel, bars and restaurants were pretty packed, but we were reliably informed that this was nothing compared to how things had been over the Yuletide break. And, once those Capetonian types had buggered off back to work, it felt like we more-or-less had the place to ourselves (all bar the Waterfront of course, which strikes me as a place that is perma-busy - but charming nonetheless - regardless of the time of year).
While we were in Cape Town we hit just about all of the sights we'd planned to see: Table Mountain, which was staggeringly beautiful, despite the 100º heat and distinct lack of shade; a boat trip across Table Bay aboard the Spirit of Victoria, a traditional schooner, sipping pink fizz and relishing the sea breeze; driving along the breathtaking Chapmans Peak Drive, and down the peninsula for penguin viewing, ostrich encounters and the best fish restaurant in the world.
In fact, the food was so darned good throughout the Cape that each new restaurant we visited became our favourite. Our hotel in Cape Town, the Cape Royale, was one of the best we've stayed at during our travels. Elegant and luxurious, in a great location with truly outstanding service. One had to pity the poor doorman, however, who wore his full uniform of waistcoat, tails, gloves and top hat despite the tarmac-melting temperatures. It beggars belief how he survived, to be honest. It also had a cracking restaurant - 1800º - so called because of its custom-built oven which runs at this temperature, specifically designed to turn out the perfect steak. Money well spent, I would suggest, if the perfect cube of beefy heaven I experienced was anything to go by.
View from Delaire Graff Restaurant
Stellenbosch and the Winelands were equally jaw-dropping. Whilst the hotel and wine estate we stayed at - Spier - was a touch on the touristy side for our tastes, the suite we had was fantastic, complete with our own private terrace leading down to the Eerste River.
Suite at Spier Hotel
Slow, lazy days of winery trips, three hour lunches and general over-idulgence ensued. Of particular note is the Delaire Graff Restaurant, at the wine estate of the same name, which was possibly one of the best dining experiences this humble correspondent has partaken of. Four words: Slow Cooked Pork Belly - an almost religious experience.
Cured beef, gorgonzola, broad beans, red pepper, rocket. Bliss at Delaire...
Oh, and if you haven't stroked a cheetah, put it on your 'to-do' list. If you tickle their tummies they purr...
Cheetah stroking at Spier. Best approached from non-bitey end
But enough of the delights of the Western Cape; this is a V-Flyer trip report, for crying out loud! It should be about the debatable pleasures of time spent in close proximity to various strangers sharing long periods of time together in a pressurised metal tube (although I'll spout more Cape-related waffle and put some pics on my blog when I get the time).
Our hearts were heavier than usual as we packed our cases, our thoughts turning to the long trip back home, back to work and back to winter in Blighty. It's one thing coming home to the UK after - say - a summer jaunt to the Med, knowing that rain and heavy skies may greet you, but still aware that the days will be long, leaves will be on the the trees and the barbecue weather that the Met Office keep promising might just materialise. By comparison, leaving behind a glorious summer in the southern hemisphere to return to Yorkshire in January, with its dark mornings and icy windscreens, is enough to make you scream at the injustice of it all.
Still, having checked-in online for a flight the night before - and not being the types to stand around hotels screaming - we made the most of the long, last day which our late flight time (10:40 at night) provided for us. A trip to Franschhoek and another lazy lunch followed by a wonderful experience with the afore mentioned cheetahs made for a great last day. We'd kept the suite on, so were able to shower and change at our leisure before finally loading up the car and striking out for the airport at about 7ish.
Views of the Winelands mountains slowly changing colour with the setting sun were soon replaced by the sight of the townships which seem to all but surround Cape Town airport. The townships are pretty impressive to look at in their own way: huge areas of sheet metal and chipboard shanty dwellings coming up to a hundred yards are or so from the edge of the motorway. The intervening scrub, as we drove by, was occupied by bunches of young lads involved in numerous, impromptu football games. Not the sort of thing you see off the hard-shoulder of the M1, that's for sure.
We found the drop-off area for the rental car with ease (it being the same place we'd picked it up), which meant little more than a 10 minute walk to check-in. No queue for Upper, and everything handled politely and efficiently by the delightful agent who dealt with us, confirming our seats - our customary 6A/6D/7D - and providing us with directions to the 'Premiere' Lounge. Now, I'd been pre-warned that this 'ere lounge wasn't the kind of spot you were going to text a mate (let alone write home) about, so we decided to find a little something to eat before passing through security.
There seemed to be an impressive selection of eateries on the mezzanine above departures, but glancing around it all appeared to be of the fast food or glorified theme bar persuasion. Then my eye settled upon a sign which whisked me back to my 1970's childhood, to Tiswas and top loading VCRs, Sherbert Dib-Dabs and Swingball:
Wimpy.
Who'd have thought, some 6000 miles away from home in early 2011, we'd stumble across a Wimpy burger restaurant? And, unlike its bloated and proliferate spawn - McDonalds - these places really were, to all intents, restaurants. You sat down at a table, your order was taken, your food was brought to you on a plate and you could, should you choose, eat it all with a knife on fork. As I recall, as well as an array of burger options, they also offered a curled hot dog sausage in a bread bun, which appeared on the menu as a 'Big, Bendilicious Bender', or suchlike. I know, it's no wonder they died a death in the UK.
Regardless, I thought this would be the perfect chance for Tizer to experience a flavour of my formative years, so we took an airside-view-table (which was only slightly sticky) and ordered a brace of 'Wimpy Kingsize' burgers. They were, very nearly, palatable. Tizer liked the chips and the free pencil case, so not all was lost.
Security was just about deserted and although it was a bit of hike (and despite stopping off briefly for some antacids to assuage the after-effects of my WImpy) we soon found ourselves in the 'Premiere Lounge'. To call it drab would be unfair to drabness. The interiors of those hotels you find on the side of motorways are drab. This was more like a badly laid-out discount sofa store with two broken computers and a bar. Wi-fi, as well as atmosphere, were distinctly absent, replaced instead by a sprinkling of your standard, pallid-looking single business travellers and a middle-aged couple who appeared to be not talking to each other. I ordered a gin and tonic (Gordons, without the provision of either lemon or lime slice) and indulged in some colouring-in with Tizer.
Thankfully, we'd timed things well and didn't have too much to time to kill before our flight was called. Considering it was 10 o' clock at night, Tizer was doing admirably well. I think she would have struggled a great deal more if this had been our outbound flight, but the previous week or so had seen its fair share of later-than-usual nights for her, and I think her body clock had adjusted slightly to compensate. She led the way merrily down the jetway and onto the plane, barely pausing to acknowledge the waiting crew.
Aware of the late hour, we took the chance to change her into her PJs before take off, settling her into 7D which - with Mrs V on one side and a wardrobe on the other - continues to prove its worth as a great spot for a little one on the 340-600. Jackets were hung and Champers doled out before the FSM came onto the intercom to let us know were facing an 11 and a half hour trip back to 'the British winter'. Cheery sod.
Then we realised that we were, in fact, dealing with a bit of a card.
"Ladies and gentleman, here at Virgin Atlantic we strive to bring you the most attractive crew anywhere in the skies. Unfortunately, they weren't available today, so instead you'll be looked after in Economy by...". Ah, thought I; looks like we have a Comedy FSM on our hands. His banter continued after take-off:
"May I remind you that this is strictly a non-smoking flight. This includes the toilets, which are fitted with smoke detectors. Please be aware that anyone found smoking in the toilets will be invited to sit on the wing where are policy is: if you can light, you can smoke it..."
Most amusing. Drinks and dinner orders were soon being taken. I say, dinner, but by this time it was turned 11pm. Since both Mrs V and I was still experiencing the lingering taste of our earlier Wimpy experience, we decided to go for a 'light supper' option, choosing the warm 'n' gloopy offering of leek and potato soup, with the prospect of a stab at the cheese board a little later.
Tizer - who's suite we'd turned into bed mode as soon as the seat belt sign went off - was asleep, by my reckoning, marginally before her head hit the pillow. It'd been a busy old day for a 5 year old, and we were glad to see her finally make her way to the Land of Nod. How we'd have coped in Economy, I truly don't know; in fact, I'd go so far as to say that we almost certainly wouldn't tackle an overnight, 11pm departure with a young child if we couldn't do it in Upper or, at least, in a class that offered a flat bed. No amount of rough-arsed-sweet-throwing would make that a pleasant experience, and it wouldn't be fair on her, us, or our fellow passengers.
A most charming FA brought me a G&T, replete with wedge of lime. I'm not sure if she believed me when I told her how we used to purloin a lime from the Clubhouse in case there weren't any on the plane, but she agreed wholeheartedly that lime, rather than lemon, was the way to go when it came to God's Own Drink. It was nice that she took the time to indulge in a chat and joke - with other passengers, I noted, not just me - despite the fact that the cabin looked to be mostly full. It's testament to a crew member when they're able to do all the jobs that need to be done, but still have the time to appear relaxed and friendly with individual passengers. Far too often is seems the case - especially on returning night flights - that crew are rushing around as if their backsides were on fire, with barely enough time to exchange even a passing word.
Charming FA moved on to charm someone else, so I settled to a game of Trivia Challenge. Once again, no one on the plane wanted to play and although I managed to coerce Mrs V into joining in, she soon quit after getting the first two questions wrong, so I was left to battle on alone. I'm not one to brag, but by the end of the round a certain 'MDV' had found himself at the top of the high scores table. Oh yes! Sweet victory was mine! It was of great importance, I realised, that this moment be recorded so that future generations of mdvipond might know the quiz game omnificence of their forebear. And so it was that I was just taking a photo of the high scores table when Charming FA arrived with my soup. Caught in the act, I babbled on at her about my love of Trivia Challenge and tried to show her may impressive ranking (so to speak), but the screen had moved on and, although her charming smile never shifted, I think she had me down from here on as 'a bit weird'.
Who's the daddy? Well, quite clearly, me...
The soup was lovely and, for once, the garlic bread on offer was warm, bordering on hot, thanks to someone's ingenious idea of wrapping the stuff in foil before parading up and down the cabin with it. A good bit of lateral thinking, which led me to have not one but three pieces with my soup. Film of choice at this time was 'Easy A'; loosely based on 'The Scarlet Letter', it's an out-of-the-mold teen comedy about a squeaky clean, straight-A student who tells a fib about losing her virginity, then finds it terribly hard to live it down. For lovers of 'The Breakfast Club', or anything else involving John Hughes, it's a return to the kind of quality high-school-movie that graced the great decade known as 'the 80s'. Hell, it even has 'Don't You Forget About Me' on the soundtrack! This reviewer gives it - 4 stars!
Comedy FSM passed by a couple of times with wine and water, and took the time out for a little chat after I questioned the sparsity (in fact, the non-existence) of any South African wines on the menu. He agreed that it seemed odd, but pointed out quite rightly that the wines are sourced centrally by VS for all routes, and talked me into a very pleasant French white. Finishing my soup, I ordered the cheese and biscuits (well, we all knew I would, didn't we?). A nice selection of cheese, but only three biscuits, which seemed a bit mean. A quick word with Charming FA and a basket veritably brimming with biccies was presented to me.
Film over, and all of the cheese/most of the biscuits demolished, I nipped to the bar to stretch my legs and grab another glass of wine. Most of the cabin, Mrs V included, had taken to their beds, and I decided to change into my PJs and do the same. I had one last top up of wine and - because my throat had been as raw as if I'd been gargling razor blades for the last few days - I took a couple of painkillers that I'd picked up at a pharmacy in Franschhoek. To be fair, I knew they contained codeine, but I wasn't quite aware of the strength of tablets you can buy over-the-counter in South Africa. Not until I got home did I realise that these babies contain more than twice the codeine you can normally get in the UK. Combine this with a couple of G&Ts and few glasses of wine, and it's hardly surprising that the next thing I remembered was waking up some four hours later to find that not only was I being garotted by my own headphone cable, but that I also had rather damp right leg, which was worrying to say the least.
Untangling myself from the tightening grip of my Bose QC2s, I was relieved to discover that the damp leg situation was merely the result of passing out with a half a glass of water in my hand prior to hitting some pretty hefty equatorial turbulence, which made me feel an awful lot better about things. We were still bouncing around a fair old bit though; the seatbelt sign was on and there was no crew to be seen, so I bedded down again and slept fitfully or, at least, about as well as anyone on a rollercoaster could be expected to sleep.
I must have kipped for another hour or so, because I woke to the clinking of breakfast pots and the crew moving around the cabin. Mrs V was stirring, but Tizer was still out for the count, bless 'er. The toilets at the front of the cabin were free, so I made a dash to freshen up and get changed before the rush. Mrs V must have been after some brownie points, because she'd flipped my suite back to seat mode while I was gone, and Charming FA was soon at hand to check if I wanted anything for breakfast. Now, as I pointed out in the TR of the outbound leg, different time zones and flight times mean that's it's rarely actually 'breakfast time' when you're being offered breakfast. On the LHR-HKG flight, for instance, you're offered breakfast before landing, at which point it's time for a spot of dinner. Most confusing. But, time zone wise, all is as it should be coming back from CPT and so, as I was still on holiday (albeit not for very much longer), I opted for the waffles and the very largest espresso that dear, Charming FA could fit in a cup.
I glanced out of the window; dawn was breaking and it looked like we were in for a grey, January day. Deep joy. Comedy FSM had decided it was time for a bit more of his special brand of stand-up, as he bing-bonged his way onto the intercom:
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen, I do hope you've had a pleasant nights sleep. As we're now making our final descent into London Heathrow, this would be a good time to remind yourselves where your nearest exit is. And remember, like any good stalker, it could be behind you".
He was warming up nicely now;
"If you have a connecting flight after arrival at Heathrow, our ground staff will be available to help you. They're easy to spot - they'll be wearing Virgin uniforms, so they'll look very much like our crew today, except not as attractive".
Surely it was only a matter of time before Comedy FSM had his own TV show. At the very least, we expect a nationwide tour to be announced soon.
We were touching down at dank and dreary LHR more-or-less on schedule, but had to wait quarter of an hour or so for a free stand. Disembarkation was quick and painless, but not before we'd thanked the crew wholeheartedly for a great flight. Joking aside, Comedy FSM was clearly a very effective flight manager, and the fact that he and all the crew combined an efficient service with such a relaxed and friendly approach is credit, at least in part, to him.
The usual bonus of getting off the bus first was apparent, in that there was barely a queue at immigration. Our cases came off pretty sharpish, although the baggage hall itself looks like a run-down 1970s shopping centre at the moment. We were in Revivals within half an hour, where I was talked into a thoroughly delicious sausage sandwich (I was half through it before I remembered I'd already had waffles) and a cup or two of coffee. We 'phoned the nice people at Purple Parking, who told us our car would be waiting for us in 15 minutes. After a fond farewell to the lovely Revivals ladies, we took the lift to the rooftop parking where our car had just been delivered. Cracking service - can highly recommend it.
Then, all that was left was for us to make the four hour trek back up to God's Own County. It wasn't too bad, the vast majority of it being on the motorway (although I must have been on automatic pilot as I've no recollection whatsoever of passing Sheffield), and we were home by about 2 o' clock. We walked through the door, turned the central heating up as high as it would go, lit a fire and put a jumper or two on. And I found that if I closed my eyes, I could almost be back in Cape Town...
That's your lot for the foreseeable, I'm afraid. Apologies for taking so damn long to post - spare time has proved to be something of a rarity for me since we got back. I'll post some pics before too long. Thank you, as ever, for reading.
Last edited by mdvipond on 20 Feb 2011, 14:35, edited 2 times in total.
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, although assume delay in typing maybe due to arthritis setting in..
