🌙 The Monks Cowl Midnight Splashdown

We arrived at Monks Cowl just as the Drakensberg sky decided to reenact the opening scene of The Lion King, but with more lightning and significantly less singing. The “dry” riverbed beside the campsite had transformed into a fast‑moving, ankle‑deep ribbon of water that looked suspiciously pleased with itself.

By the time the storm eased, it was pitch‑black — the kind of darkness that feels like it has mass. I insisted we set up the tent anyway, because nothing says “competent outdoorsman” like hammering pegs into soggy ground while muttering motivational phrases to yourself.

The tent went up at a jaunty angle, but it was upright, and at that point I considered that a triumph.

Hours later, nature called. Loudly. Persistently. Rudely.

Armed with a torch that flickered like it was powered by regret, I set off toward the ablution block — guided only by a faint glow in the distance that I hoped was a bathroom and not someone’s car headlights.

The ground squelched. The air smelled of wet grass and poor decisions.

Then came the moment.

My foot found… nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Followed immediately by cold, rushing, very wet something.

I plunged into the newly resurrected riverbed with all the grace of a startled wildebeest. My torch flew out of my hand, performed a brief aerial ballet, and landed beam‑down in the water, illuminating my flailing like a spotlight on a very confused amphibian.

There was a splash loud enough to wake the ancestors.

I emerged, soaked from the waist down, hair plastered to my forehead, dignity leaking away like runoff after the storm.

And then — because the universe has a sense of humour — a voice drifted from the darkness:

“Shame, are you okay there?”

Not a helpful voice. Not a sympathetic voice. A voice belonging to someone who had clearly witnessed the entire aquatic performance from the comfort of their dry, elevated campsite.

I croaked out something like, “Yes, just… inspecting the water quality,” and sloshed my way to the ablutions, leaving a trail that could have been followed by rescue dogs.

The next morning, in the daylight, I discovered:

The “river” was only about 20 cm deep
The path I should have taken was two metres to the left
And the faint glow I’d been following was not the ablution block at all
It was a porch light on a chalet occupied by the very person who had witnessed my splashdown

Naturally, I pretended nothing had happened.

Which fooled absolutely no one, because my shoes were still wet.

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