Sand in the Clark's shoes in Camps Bay

AA and I took The Ginger Prince to Camps Bay for his dinner last night. At home TGP is normally a victim of a 7.30pm bedtime but we thought that with some effort he could be flexed into a kind of holiday mode, long sleep in the afternoon and up late so we could have dinner together. On his very first night he sat very seriously on two cushions and ate Thai rice and dim sum with his hands whilst the waitresses fussed around him. People love TGP out here, perhaps it’s the novelty of his ginger locks.

Camps Bay is sensational in the way I imagine Palm Beach to be. The drive in reveals an extravagant wall of houses built up into the green of Table Mountain, huge rectangles of glass and pink or cream plaster, staring proudly onto the glittering bay.

The sea front is throbbing with wealth and fun. It is impossible to resist it but just as impossible to shake the uneasy feeling that whilst you are quaffing champagne and watching Ferraris drive slowly past you are walking distance from some of the worst poverty you have ever seen.

We parked up and went down to the beach. The parking system is one of the many things I will have to get used to out here. Most streets are lined with self appointed parking attendants in flack jackets and with good memories, they each seem to have a patch, spot a space for you, guide you in, remember your face and watch your car. As you leave they nod and you tip them around 5 Rand, which is very embarrassing if you don’t have change. For me R5 (or 50p) is a good price to pay not only for your car to be safe but for the streets generally to be semi-marshalled and for you to feel that someone is on the look out when you come back in the dark.

I marched TGP straight across to the beach and popped him, bare foot, on the sand, which I have been aching to do since the realisation that he has never walked on the beach before. It sounds like neglect until you remember that we live in Scotland and he only learned to walk in September. After a bit of squeaking and pointing at waves I popped him straight back into his sandy Clark’s shoes and socks because in spite of the sun going down I hadn’t creamed him up in his factor 30 and thought he might burn just from contemplating the sea. Preserving TGP’s skin tone, white with a hint of blue, is going to be an ongoing struggle for us whilst in Africa.

We walked the length of the beach and I was reminded of a more upmarket Rio, buskers, music, Street performers and people sharing bottles of wine on picnic blankets on the sand. The strip of bars and restaurants delivered either an Ibizan feel (big windows, breezy house music and tiny girls in huge sunglasses) or else more of an over 30s, crisp linen and big wine glasses, type of place with low level blues music and smooth, elegant looking staff. Everywhere is relatively pricy (apart from a Nandos that snuck in there somehow) and we went for linen and big wine glasses in a place called The Kove in which the clientele wore a lot of tasteful jewellery and looked like they dined out professionally. TGP and I had a minor disagreement about his going into ‘settings’ on my phone and changing things about (we have discussed this before and it never ends well). Whilst the waitress brought my Sauvignon Blanc, and clearly wondered why anyone would bring a toddler to a place like this, I was trying, to no avail, to exchange a selection of animals, and a book about north Atlantic Fish (one of TGPs favourites) for my own phone. Its hard to negotiate successfully with someone who is crying and wriggling and trying to boss you about in a language that makes no sense. When tired TGP, who is very good humoured normally, can turn into a Scottish Wild Cat if crossed, all thrashing limbs and claws as he wriggles out of your grip. He hates being told what to do, unfortunate when you are not yet two, as being told what to do is 90% of your day. When at last our burgers arrived (true Brits abroad) he tried to go to sleep on the sofa. Not really my vision. I had thought that we would do as the Spanish do and adopt a more liberal attitude to meal times and bed times etc but the thing is TGP, is not a Spanish baby. Far from it. And no one discussed the new holiday rules with him. So we left feeling guilty and slightly panicky about the fact it was 8.30pm and he wasn’t in his bed. Not very continental.