Nelson arrives at 9.30, as promised. He works as a tour guide for Calabash, a local charity I’ve been in touch with, who are investing in education within townships, assisting children and empowering communities. They also provide tours of the surrounding areas for tourists, in particular the Addo Elephant Park, with proceeds going back into local fundraising, and that is where we’re going today.

We cover ourselves in the citronella cream that is provided but are still bitten by the ever-present mosquitoes that accompany the monkeys, but our itchy weals are worth it to experience gibbons swinging at speed literally right above our heads on a swaying 128 metre rope bridge and to see giant tortoises in coitus on the path in front of us, their slow orgasmic exertions leaving deep tracks in the soil at our feet whilst their guttural exultations ricochet through the forest. 

Clasping our buckets we feed the elephants fruit and vegetables, their grasping trunks muddy and rough on our skin, and once fed they wander off into the large park with us following alongside. Sally, the matriarch, sets the tone with a huge bubbly fart and a satisfied dollop of excreta, but with a watchful eye, she and the other huge beasts allow us to walk amongst them,

We head out of town, past ostrich farms which tourists now visit, feed, eat and even ride ostriches at. We’re visiting the less ethically questionable spectacle of one of South Africa’s top ten tourist attractions, the Cango Caves followed by one of the greatest drives in Africa.

We know very little about this part of South Africa other than it’s beautiful, hot and home to the ostrich farming community which enjoyed enormous wealth around the end of the 19th Century… from now on, we’re in desert country and the scenery is both rugged and astonishing. The temperature gauge is already climbing into the 30s and the road shimmers with heat.

Five Irish people and a hungover Brit embarking on a wine tasting tour in the African sun should be a recipe for carnage… and in my sleep-deprived state the spittoon placed in front of me at our first stop might well double as a bucket for last night’s indulgences, which are coming back to haunt me. 

Philip, or Fil-eep as he pronounces it, has the sharpest South African accent we’ve heard since we touched down. Bald, fierce and in his fifties, he’s our tour guide for the day, having collected us and a few other Brits and Americans, from our various hotels.

We’re only staying in Cape Town for a few days so today is all about sightseeing in the most practical way possible – on an open top bus tour. However, crawling at a snail’s pace up the hill towards Table Mountain breathing in traffic fumes whilst baking in the African sun isn’t quite what we were expecting!

It was a spur of the moment decision. An email arrived one morning a few months ago announcing British Airways had just launched a brand new service to South Africa that day, and with seats booked with air miles and a very favourable exchange rate it shouldn’t cost much more than a blast of winter sun in the Canaries!