Kaapsehoop: This Is NOT My Weekend. This Is OUR Weekend.

So no, I didn’t grow up with glamorous getaways to exotic lands. My childhood holidays were the sparkling destinations of Durban or Hunter’s Rest in Rustenburg.

Fast-forward to adulthood, and things didn’t improve. I married a man even more antisocial than me (crazy, but true). We gave the whole “holiday” thing a try, but the brochures lied, the people were annoying, and naps at home were infinitely better.

Then came the kids, where a “resort” meant driving two hours to a family braai, and a “spa treatment” was managing to pee without a toddler kicking down the bathroom door.

So yes, I was essentially deprived of adventures for the first hundred years of my life.

But dammit, I’m making up for it now. Hiking has become my escape hatch. It’s adventurous, quiet, requires no airport, lying on a beach or a fake smile at a hotel buffet.

Hiking: The Late-Blooming Obsession

For as long as I can remember, two random names lived in my head: Clarens and Tsitsikamma. Why? Honestly—no clue. I knew absolutely nothing about them. But they “spoke” to me.

And after years of this bizarre obsession? I finally ticked them both off.

So there I was, on a hiking weekend at High Five, when someone mentioned the word "Kaapsehoop." Just like that, it joined the list. Because apparently, places don’t have to make sense—their names just have to "speak" to me.

Book Now, Panic Later

Now , when it comes to planning a getaway, I am all about book now, panic later.

Always worked out for me. My friends, however, would beg to differ. These sparkle divas—accustomed to nothing less than curated, brag-worthy escapes—have endured nearly three decades of my “organizational style.” The trauma has been well-documented.

Back when our kids were young, I somehow became the designated getaway planner. And not once did I meet expectations. My legendary “fails” are still brought up like folklore—stories retold with the same dramatic flair as Greek tragedies.

And yet, they kept letting me plan. Honestly, that’s on them. Fool you once, shame on me. Fool you twenty times? Buckle up, guys—you already know how this ends.

These days, when I plan weekends with my hiking bud Sage, things work out perfectly. I throw out the idea; she (ever so subtly) reminds me of all the things I’ll forget. No offence taken ...I totally accept that I’m fantastic at planting a seed. Just not nurturing, watering or watching said seed grow.

Then there’s my other hiking bud, Rosemary. She either has blind faith in me… or she just doesn’t care. Honestly, could go either way. But fingers crossed, because I recently had another one of my “great ideas.”

Kaapsehoop: How I Accidentally Became the Planner

So there I was, heard the word "Kaapsehoop"....thought: “Completely!”

A few eager-but-slightly-terrified faces nodded like it was a plan. And then it hit me:  they weren’t just agreeing. They were looking at me to arrange the whole thing. So, before the expectation set in, I laid down the law. Loud and clear:

I cannot be trusted.

I need to be double (read: triple) checked.

And this was OUR weekend, not MINE.

Everyone nodded… again. Which, apparently, was code for: “Congrats, you’re in charge now. Don’t mess it up.”

Excuse me? Did I not say cannot be trusted?

But fine. If it was going to happen, I had to make it happen. Step one: create a WhatsApp group. Because nothing separates the definites from the maybe’s faster than a new group chat.

That’s when I repeated (loudly, for those in the back): This was NOT my weekend. This was OUR weekend.

I sorted the accommodation—hopefully… allegedly… in Kaapsehoop. Beyond that? We’d just wing it. How hard could that be?

Apparently, very.

Because two weeks before, the chat exploded. Ping. Ping. Ping. Suddenly, people had questions:

Which permits?

What’s a braai?

Fridge what??

Excuse me? Since when was I expected to have answers?

So once again, I stressed — in bold, italics, and possibly smoke signals — this was not MY weekend… this was OUR weekend.

But as the questions piled up, the horrifying truth dawned: dammit… crap… this IS my weekend.

And So… Here Goes Nothing

So this weekend is around the corner. The accommodation is (hopefully) real.

The WhatsApp group is restless.

My so-called no-plans plan is falling apart.

Here goes absolutely nothing. Wish me luck. Or decent trails. Preferably decent trails.