Dullstroom had seemed like an agreeable setting for a long-weekend jaunt and, after rallying up support from the mates, they all heartily joined in. So with the accommodation secured, bags packed, fishing rods stowed, groceries bundled in the boot and friends in tow, we were off!

The 260km drive from Johannsburg journey passed amiably, and one tollgate and two-and-a-half hours later we arrived, elated to be out of Joburg and in the picturesque countryside. But there was a niggling feeling that all was not well with Dullies.

It wasn’t the weather, which was refreshingly chilly, as to be expected since Dullstroom lies romantically in the middle of a mist belt. It couldn’t have been the architecture, as the cobblestone tenements were still charming with their tin roofs and wrap-around porches. The Dullstroom Inn, a legend in its own right, was still standing firm like a welcome beacon for the travel weary, thirsty and ravenous.

No, the familiar local characteristics were firmly in place and mostly untouched. The overwhelming feeling of unease could be attributed to something far more menacing: a myriad new restaurants, pubs and craft shops had spread like a virus, completely cramping the little town’s style. They litter Dullstroom relentlessly, particularly the main road. What’s more, an imposing new petrol station of monolithic proportions has unceremoniously usurped the charmingly old-fashioned two-pump petrol station further in town.

Dullstroom is steeped in history. Paul Kruger was a regular visitor and the area was a hotbed of activity during the Anglo-Boer War. The first settlers from Holland must’ve been pleased with their lot upon arrival during 1890. They took it upon themselves to establish the small village that was eventually to be christened Dullstroom. Kruger later proclaimed the village a town in 1892 when it consisted of a mere 48 souls, eight houses, three stables, 10 cattle kraals and one meagre trading store.

Not always so peaceful

All too soon though, the settler’s lives and dreams were shattered when British soldiers occupied Dullstroom in 1900. They razed the village to the ground and sent the women and children to brutal concentration camps. After the war, those that still remained began the inevitable task of rebuilding the village from the ashes, and a stone memorial and garden of remembrance in town poignantly reminds us of those times.

By 1921 the village was granted the status of a Town Council. Quaint Dullstroom, as I knew it, had finally arrived.

At some point, corporate Joburg discovered the joys of casting flies at trout-filled dams and Dullstroom soon became arguably South Africa’s premier fly-fishing region. Dullies used to be a sleepy little village in the mist belt, but the seeding of a few trout fingerlings has turned it into the Holy Grail for all trout fisherman; a veritable Mecca for all those who covet “Woolly Buggers” and “Damselfly Nymphs”.

Slightly disheartened, but determined not to let the small matter of over-development get us down, we ambled on towards our home from home. Our rented abode turned out to be a rambling renovated farmhouse, comfortably furnished and spacious enough for all six of us, including Smudge, the rambunctious Jack Russell Terrier. We hastily assembled a roaring log fire and broke open the Old Brown Sherry. With the flames lapping at our stockinged toes and the pup placated, all was well with the motley crew of travellers again.

Trout smugglers!

The rest of the weekend flew by all too rapidly. Hearty pub lunches at the Dullstroom Inn, chilly, misty evenings spent lolling around the fireplace, book in hand. Naturally, the boys tried their luck at fly-fishing and returned triumphant! The fine specimen was destined for the pan, to be accompanied by a mouth-watering dill and butter sauce, but my hopes were soon dashed when it was nefariously smuggled out of Dullstroom, headed no doubt for a Joburg braai! Which I still consider to be a travesty of 'g-astronomical' proportions!

The weekend ended all too soon and soon enough we had packed up and hit the road for our trundle back home. No sooner had we left, when we landed in the middle of an unprecedented traffic fiasco, 30kms outside of Dullies. This bumper-to-bumper debacle is unheard of and was probably the most bona fide indication that Dullstroom was no longer the sleepy little hamlet that I remembered it to be. Frantic calls were made and accommodation was secured again for one last night.

Alighting at the eternally faithful Dullstroom Inn, we noticed our party were not the only Joburger’s driven back by the relentless traffic; the Inn was teeming with frustrated, travel weary city slickers!

In hindsight, the next time I’m in need of a little rest and relaxation, I’ll head for a less sought after destination. I hear Waterval Boven, 30 kms past Dullies, is positively Dullstroom-esque, without the hordes of tourists. Boven beckons and it sounds blissful!