A taxi takes us to the bus station for 6:30am. It’s raining again, this time with more enthusiasm.

When we arrive there is a bus already there, and people milling around. We check in and wait. The bus leaves and another arrives, which turns out to be ours. we get our bags stowed and board in time to leave just after 7am.

The bus driver makes his way down the aisle, offering tea, coffee and ‘juice’, which turns out to be something pretty vile and not really the juice of anything fruit-like.

The journey is uneventful until about 8:30am when we get to the South African border. We all have to get off and go inside the Mozambican departures building to get our passports stamped, then walk about half a mile across no man’s land to the actual border, where a very substantial sliding gate is open. We follow the pedestrian channel and enter the SA arrivals building where the whole process repeats itself. We already have an SA visa, and one entry and departure stamp (entry at Jo’burg airport, departure at Lanseria airport), so we just get another entry stamp.

Back on the bus.

Seems everyone made it into South Africa. Another two hours later, we’re in Neilspruit. The only thing going for this outback SA town seems to be the motor industry, which is everywhere. It’s like the South African Detroit. This seems promising since we want to rent a car. We are deposited by the bus at a petrol station on the corner of a busy intersection, and the sun is now shining strongly so make for some shade to apply sunscreen. An armoured car suddenly appears and two men with large guns get out and encircle a nearby cashpoint. One eyes us suspiciously and asks us to move away.

We go to the Europcar office, which turns out to be a desk in a hotel, and find it unmanned. The helpful receptionist phones a few companies for us and we end up with Avis, who also come and pick us up from the hotel.

Renting a car in Africa seems, like many administrative processes, to run on Africa time. It takes a full hour to complete all the paperwork, but at the end we’re on the road at the wheel of a marvellous grey Toyota Yaris – not quite the same model I have at home, but close.

First priority is food. It may only be 1pm, but we’ve been up since 6am and only had bananas for breakfast. Nick spots a Wimpey on the highway, and I manage to successfully negotiate a dual carriageway to get us there in one piece. One very irritating difference between this Yaris and the one I drive at home is that the windscreen wiper and indicator controls are reversed. I curse this fact for about the fourth or fifth time as I turn the windscreen wipers on in order to turn left. Other drivers may not know my intentions but at least the windscreen is being cleaned regularly.

I haven’t been to Wimpey for about 15 years. After a brief lunch of burgers, I reason that 15 years was about right, and could probably go another 15 years without visiting Wimpey again.

Finally at about 2pm, we’re on the highway heading for Swaziland. It’s back along the road towards Mozambique, and it takes about 90 minutes to get to the border. On the way we go through the toll gates that we came through in the other direction on the bus this morning. “I’m really getting to grips with the car” I declare as I roll to a gentle stop at the toll booth – and stall – having forgotten that I’m driving a manual. Seems it only takes a week driving an automatic to cause me to forget what the clutch is for.

We discuss the Swazi border and hope that it might be more efficient than the Moz/SA border we did earlier. Maybe even a drive-through operation.

We’re waved through the first gate – a good sign, but then we’re invited to park and enter the SA immigration building for our departure stamp. Back in the car we drive 100m and have to do the same again for Swaziland, including paying a £2 road tax for our car.

A billboard proclaims “Welcome to Swaziland”. And we’ve arrived.

The first town on the road leading away from the border is Pigg’s Peak, but before that we pass a sign for the Ph__________ Nature Reserve, which is on our map so we decide to stop for a visit. The turnoff is a dirt road that winds 2.5km though some spectacular scenery to the gates of the reserve, where we are charged £2 to enter.

A lodge sits at the entrance, with luxury cottages perched on the edge of views across the valley. We get a trail map from the reception guy and set off on one of the marked routes, through the densely wooded sides of the valley. Water runs everywhere, mainly through man-made channels next to the paths, and pours into natural ponds and eventually flows into the valley.

The trails are well marked. We reach the valley floor and a couple of bridges over the narrow parts of the river – only a couple of metres wide, but flowing fast and rough over huge piles of rocks.

We loop round back to the lodge. I want to know their prices for rooms but Nick prefers to press on into town. They’re full anyway – seems there’s a poker tournament down the road and the lodge is providing spillover accomodation.

As we drive on into town, we pass several large trucks that are carrying what appear to be sticks. They’re not logs, by any means, and it’s a jumbled collection of small branches piled high in a huge lorry. Just random bits of twig, by the lorryload. We thought Swiziland exported timber, but not sticks. Maybe it’s for the pet market.

In town the first B&B is full, and in driving up to their intercom to establish this fact, I have stopped the car on a steep downward slope. The Yaris strains in reverse but simply can’t make it back up to the road. We’re considering buzzing again to ask them to open the gate simply so I can turn around and leave again, but I give it one last go with Nick out of the car, and manage to heave the Yaris back up to the road. There is, however, a definite whiff of burning rubber in the air. I make a mental note to not mention this to Avis.

The final option is the Highlands Inn, which the Lonely Planet advises to leave as a last resort. Unfortunately it is in fact the only one left. Luckily they have rooms, and they actually seem to be perfect. We get two double rooms for £30 in total. The proprietor is a very softly spoken african woman who talks so quietly you can barely hear what she’s saying. The rooms are large, clean, have massses of storage and very comfy beds, so we’re actually quite impressed, but the restaurant is awful, so we resolve to find somewhere better to eat tomorrow.

Nick looks up the times for breakfast, and notes that they start serving at 7:30am, which is “quite early”. I disagree, pointing out that most hotels serve breakfast from 7am at the latest. “Ah yes”, contends Nick, “But many don’t serve breakfast at all”. Right.