Our house skidded to a halt metres from the plunging waters. Plates clattered, cutlery clashed and someone catapulted down the passage, cursing. Ahead was at least 100 metres of flooding Olifants River right across the road. I backed up the motor home and hauled out a map. Was there another way to Sanddrif? I was about to whip off my kit and do the stick-walking thing through the flood when a Jeep pulled up.

"Blocked again," the driver sighed, stating the obvious. "I wouldn't walk across if I was you," he added, noting my heroic intentions. "The water digs big holes. You could disappear. You'll have to backtrack to Clanwilliam and cross the river there. Then take the back road along the river." An hour later we were on the other side of the Olifants, gazing across at where we'd been thwarted. It seemed a good place to stop for a cuppa and biscuits. This, I had to admit, was a definite plus in a motor home: everything you need is right where you want it, when you want it. Especially a cup of tea.

Caravans have always worried me. I think it's because of the skinny little link between the tail end of the car and your portable cottage. Irrational, I'm sure - it's made of serious steel. My family doesn't have that hang-up, however, so we compromised on a motor home. Our destination was Sanddrif, a farm in a remote valley with cottages and a first-class campsite.

Before being allowed to drive the large Mercedes camper out of Maui's yard, I had to have a lesson on how to sail her. Clutching a fistful of keys, Jean Holtshauzen toured the exterior. "This opens the storage compartment, this one the water flap, down there's the gas flap - don't forget to close it when you travel. The electricity plugs in here and this is the waste tank. When it gets full, you need to empty it."

"It has a toilet?" I asked. "Oh yeah, and a shower, a full kitchen, even a cocktail cabinet," said Jean. "Sleeps five. But watch out for overhead branches. It's quite high."

That was an understatement. It seemed enormous. But, once in the driver's seat, the big windscreen, power steering and comfortable seats eased my fears. By the time we'd packed up and hit the open road the next day, I had all the confidence of a mini-bus taxi driver.

"Slow down," yelled my daughter from the back.

"I'm only doing 100."

"Well it feels too fast."

"That's because you're staring backwards. Come sit up front."

"No, we're playing cards."

By the time we hit the dirt road, nobody was interested in cards. On the corrugations, the noise was deafening until we stuffed a towel into the cutlery drawer and rearranged the cocktail cabinet. I did slow down, however, mainly because of the spectacular scenery.

A weather forecast had predicted rain in the Cederberg, but we had decided to chance it. Wild clouds were swirling round the high peaks as we wound up towards Algeria, the "capital" of the wilderness area. Everywhere the fynbos was begging bees and butterflies with outrageous flower displays.

At Sanddrif we were settled in by David Nieuwoudt, whose family has farmed those parts since the 1830s. "It takes a Nieuwoudt to survive up here," he said. "It's a kilometre high and the temperature drops to minus-8°C in winter. But there are no pests and... just look around you... it's beautiful."

David and his father used to farm fruit trees, but now it's mostly vines. In the '0s it was tobacco and sheep. Other attractions are that Sanddrif is the base camp for hikes to the Maltese Cross, Wolfberg Arch and Wolfberg Cracks.

We planned to hike to the cracks, but the predicted rain came down so we hauled out the cards and sampled a bottle (okay, several) of David's wine. Their wines win prizes and there's just something about uncorking a good red on the farm on which it's made.

"Good job we've got the Turtle," said my son as the rain pattered on the roof.

"Who's the Turtle?"

"This," he swept his arm around the mobile room, "the camper van. Without her we'd be out there in a tent. Nasty in this weather." So the Turtle she became.

The clouds took a day or two to clear, but eventually we could tackle Wolfberg. From up there, the Turtle looked tiny and, by then, compelling. Way down there was a hot meal, some good wine and a soft bed. She was undoubtedly a bus made for adventure. Taking her back to Maui the following weekend seemed like desertion.

Published by arrangement with Getaway magazine. For the full story, see the March edition.