a life in the castle

a life in the castle by Chr i s Mur phy

a life in the castle is intended to be a reminisce of my first impressions of riebeek kasteel, and subsequent relocation there in the mid 1990s.

Chris Murphy May 2021

Not really a castle, but a village with a castle as part of its identity – Riebeek Kasteel. With the preoccupation of downscaling in the 1990s, this hamlet proved to be the perfect location.

By the time an advertisement appeared in The Cape Times, the Riebeek Valley had been occupied by humans for millions of years through the stone ages, then spotted and settled by European and others for nearly 350 years. And still they arrive.

‘House to Let – Riebeek Kasteel’ the ad stated.

Where on earth could that be, we wondered? Victoria and I had only been in South Africa for a short while; me back after a long sojourn in London, a short few years in Cape Town, and this was part of our promising new adventure.

We were so recently arrived from the UK that I had to borrow my sister’s car to make the journey, and guided by a map (we had no inkling of the town’s location, no GPS either of course), we travelled the hour north from Cape Town into unknown territory. Driving through nearby Malmesbury was a little unnerving: it was a big, agricultural, not particularly attractive town dominated by wheat silos. It did not bode well for the destination.

When we reached the summit of the small pass that

precedes the Valley, however, we took deep breaths.

Unfolded before us was this vast vista, galloping towards distant, never ending mountain ranges, over a verdant plain. And snuggled against this castle mountain, Riebeek Kasteel, and a mere 5km further, Riebeek West. It was later to be revealed that we were not alone to be overwhelmed by this view. Victor the hairdresser, on his travels seeking a new location, arrived during a full moon and was so totally blown away that he knew the Valley had to be the place.

Like many before or after us, we experienced something of an epiphany at the summit of the pass leading to the village. There sprawled below was a scene from a European movie: olive groves, vineyards, wheat fields, a church steeple peeking above an elegantly situated village.

We were enthralled. It was a serene summer day, indigo sky looming above the distant hazy mountains, the surrounding green vegetation creating a mixed palette against this backdrop A memorial at the summit of the pass (now at the Riebeek Valley Museum) commemorated the first European party under Corporal Pieter Cruythoff, who ventured on an expedition from the Cape settlement in 1661, seeking a famed golden city called Monomotapa.

The memorial to Pieter Cruythoff outside the Riebeek Valley Museum.

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Paintings on Kasteelberg left by the Khoekhoe and the San.

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That entity was never discovered, but despite being harassed by a pride of lions, the visual riches of the Riebeek Valley must have been a substitute. It was no less so centuries later.

Very shortly after the expedition, within 50 short years, settlers laid claim to portions of the landscape.

The indigenous San, then the Khoekhoe, left their record on the mountain, and details of their conflict with early settlers is documented. They were soon displaced by the new arrivals, the colonists.

We checked out the house that had been advertised; it was a charming, spacious old Victorian place with yellow trim, slightly worn about the edges, but certainly attractive. Then we had a look around the village.

Everything about it intrigued: some simple yet stunning buildings, open space, farm animals (mostly sheep and chickens) on many plots, and quiet; streets devoid of traffic. In fact of people.

A little way up Main Street was the Royal Hotel.

These, along with Masonics and Grands tend to be the mainstays of small rural villages and towns. This was no exception. It had an extremely long veranda (at a later stage it was claimed that it is the longest in southern Africa, but who knows?).

This appeared as some sort of dream idyll. There seemed no other option but to retire to the long stoep and savour a cold beer whilst assimilating what we had encountered. The hotel had that old world charm, slightly, well more than slightly, ‘lived in’, but expressing a statement that it had been there for quite a while, and as I was only a passing feature, it could endure me.

There had been plenty before me, and inevitably there would be a constant supply thereafter. It definitely had attitude.

I vaguely recollect a tall woman coming out to check that we were okay. We subsequently came to know that she was the owner, Yolande.

We were not able to take up residence at that

time, for a number of reasons (we had not even sorted out how to make an income, no transport even, so an idealistic dream). The owner of the house to let wanted to use it over weekends, which would have been somewhat inhibiting. But the Riebeek seed was planted and then grew over the following years until we were in a position to move. In the interim we visited often; the quest for an escape, Sunday afternoon drives into the ‘country’ most often led to the Valley or to find a place to live outside Cape Town invariably resulted in Riebeek Kasteel being the destination.

There were certainly other options: Darling (a little lacking in atmosphere at the time), McGregor (ideal character, but too far from Cape Town, which was a determining factor), Greyton and Napier (even further away still).

And other towns and villages did not make the grade at all – Franschhoek, far too posey, Stellenbosch had grown out of its boots. If there was another contender it was Philadelphia, but it seemed impossible to find a house or plot to purchase, or even rent for that matter.

Other criteria came into play: the villagers of Riebeek Kasteel we met were very embracing – I felt as if I was coming home on every visit. When our gorgeous cottage was eventually found, and we announced that we were coming to roost, the warm welcome was palpable.

The first couple we grew to know and love were Hilton and Lizzie – they owned one of the only two watering holes in the town (the other was the pub at The Royal Hotel). The Village Taverna it was called. We could just arrive, plonk ourselves down on the stoep, and the day would unfold.

They had apparently met whilst in South America.

Two South Africans, both dark complexioned and dark haired. Abroad in the same country, speaking Spanish.

There must have been an attraction for they ended up,

The Village Taverna in its original state, and the Royal Hotel dated 1929, the year the stoep was added.

The house in Riebeek Kasteel which was advertised in the Cape Times, still with its yellow trim.

Early cottages in Riebeek Kasteel.

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The article which appeared in the Sunday Independent on the same day I met Mike G-T, written by Guy Willoughby.

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according to their tales, in Africa, in a situation where they were forced to flee because of the political intrigue with very little but their freedom, and ended up in the Swartland.

The whole Taverna image, the fact they liked to communicate in Spanish, created an ethos of living on the edge. ‘Che Guevara’ and his partner had found refuge in this little village.

On a visit I had one of my spooky connections.

Over a cold beer a local resident appeared and was introduced: “Guys, we’d like to introduce you to Mike G-T”. He lived mere metres from the pub and was a regular. He seemed an intriguing sort of person and we chatted for a while. Later at home, while looking through my Sunday Independent supplement I was greeted with a half-page image of Mike, and an article about the ability to live in semi-remote rural locations because of modern technology. It just felt totally weird!

These coincidences always strike a discordant note.

The feature was compiled by Guy Willoughby, a well known journalist, actor, writer, bon vivant. He had a bent for promoting the Riebeek Valley, where he was living at the time. It later became apparent that the large photograph of Mike G-T was in fact taken in Scotland because nothing else was available at short notice. I really should have noticed the dry stone wall behind him.

But back to the house hunting. On one of our visits to the Taverna we, as usual, were sprouting our mouths off about wanting to live in the village, when, surreptitiously, Hilton contacted a local estate agent, and before we could comprehend, were being escorted around looking at potential homes.

Amongst the properties we came across something we considered we could live in, an early 20th century house just below Church Street on a large plot. We put in an offer, which was accepted. We were ecstatic! As it happened though, we had a trip planned to the UK

at that stage and left the process to evolve. When we returned things had changed. A phone call from the owner’s brother expressed ‘regret and sadness’ that the old woman (living with a sister who suffered from Altzheimers) had had a change of heart and was in no position to actually sell. And would end up on the street if she did.

Legally we were in a position to enforce conclusion, but we decided that we could not proceed, thinking this would create a situation of extreme distress. We backed off. Only much later did we discover the agent had ‘whispered’ a word in the ear of the seller that she had undersold. But in the nature of life things progressed.

We saw a number of other properties but they never really gelled, sometimes needing too much attention, or just lacking character. We spotted a house for sale in the press and contacted the agent, Alan Knight. We arrived to look at the property but it was too small, a low-ceilinged cottage that could be too oppressive in reality. When we said it was not what we were looking for he invited us back to his home for a ‘cup of tea’ to discuss options.

As we were leaving we noticed a handmade sign on the gate of the cottage across the road: HOUSE FOR SALE and a phone number. The place looked charming, so we called. A few days later we drove up to the village after work to meet the seller. We first stopped at The Royal, setting a pattern in motion, and encountered a few of the locals. “Why were we there during the week?”, they asked. We explained.

Leo, the owner, arrived and took us to have a look.

In a matter of minutes we concluded we had found what we were looking for. He was not prepared to budge on price (R195,000 in 1995) and I suspect he knew we really wanted it. The following morning we were in a solicitor’s office in Cape Town signing the offer the purchase. Our bank agreed the bond – we were on the way!

No 2 Roos street, still with the for sale sign, 1995.

The meagre possessions unpacked.

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The lounge once it had been adapted in style.

The signboard relating the tale of the last leopard seen in the vicinity, on the Riebeeksrivier Road.

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I have to say that Leo told us he had two out of town properties, the one we were viewing and another at Betty’s Bay. He was selling the RK one. “Why”, we asked? He replied that BB did not have a pub, which appealed to his wife!

We returned to The Royal and the guys nonchalantly looked up and asked, “So?” We said we had put in an offer. “You’ll be coming up for weekends, then?” they enquired. “No, no”, we replied, “We’re going to live in the village full time”. There was a tangible altering of their attitude. After hand shaking and embracing we were taken into the fold. The response was unequivocal – beers all round!

Property hunting and solving had become a serious issue; the legal and financial matters progressed quickly, and within a couple of months we had packed up in the city, hired a transport truck, and were en-route to Riebeek Kasteel. A life altering moment.

Even the journey out was auspicious. We travelled with our cat, McGregor, snuggled tightly on the floor of our car as we followed the removal truck.

The driver claimed to know a short cut to the Valley and we followed him through, and out of the back of Malmesbury, onto a sand road. Mesmerised we watched all our worldly possessions swaying in the truck, bouncing along what we then considered a perilous road.

But we all arrived safely, on new year’s eve, 1995.

Our meagre goods were offloaded, we had a quick drink, and with friends, Danielle and Harry, from Cape Town who had joined us, then made our way to Franschhoek to celebrate. We actually did not spend our first night in the village! And Harry decided to pick that night to spring a surprise wedding proposal. It was an intoxicating time.

Returning the next day we set about cleaning up a bit and when we came to retire that night, our friends who were still with us, chose to sleep outside on the

stoep. That was when we discovered the missing clause, the fine print as it were – mosquitoes. We were all severely bitten, and shortly thereafter were out hunting for sprays, nets, anything to keep the pests off us.

In fact, for the first couple of nights we made an impromptu plan – sheets strung over chairs at the corners of the bed. The neighbours must have considered that kinky people had arrived in the area.

As were still working in the city we pretty quickly settled into a routine. Up and out early, late home. But being summer, we arrived back in the light and were able to savour this idyllic spot we had found.

It felt as if we had arrived in heaven. Riebeeks Kasteel and West nestle against the side of Kasteelberg, a massif rising out of the surrounding plains. A Kirstenbosch authority and historical documents stated it contained flora unique to the area, and duiker, baboon, porcupine, even lynx, amongst other species occupy its steep slopes. Rumours of the return of Cape leopard (never quite substantiated), and last resident well over a century ago, sometimes became part of local conversation.

The views from the summit take you all the way to Table Mountain in the south, to the Piketberg and Piekernierskloof in the other direction, and an endless chain of peaks running north via the Winterhoek Mountains to the Cederberg and beyond.

Covering the slopes around the villages are vineyards, set amongst farms (like Goedgedacht, Kloovenburg, Allesverloren and Sonquasdrift, some established as long ago as 1704), olive groves, and in the winter months, endless fields of green wheat. The colours constantly change with the seasons, providing a variable palette to stimulate any eye.

FIRST IMPRESSION We had only just settled in and on one Friday evening at The Royal, Anton the co-owner asked us if we would like to join a party to an event the following morning, a Vroueoggend at the sports grounds in Riebeek West. I showed a lot of ignorance in accepting this invitation.

Vroueoggend? Surely that should have indicated what the event was about? Our group assembled on schedule and made our way to the grounds, where a large amount of women, strangely, were gathered. In the hall we had a table on the side, away from the main throng. Mercifully, I thought, but it was not to prove so.

The ceremony proceeded, speeches, talks, and a performance by a Charl somebody-or-other, I have never subsequently heard of again. Intriguingly, women’s underwear was been thrown at this young man. This was particularly fascinating considering we were in rural Western Cape. London, New York maybe, but here?

Someone missing from our party was Guy, but not for long. At the far end of the hall was a set of closed doors, before which stood a table containing bottles of sparkling wine and glasses. Spectacularly, after some heavy banging, the doors were forced open with devastating results – the upturned table with the contents were strewn noisily onto the floor, and there stood Guy, totally unphased by the uproar he had just caused.

Even more miraculously he spotted our table across the vast hall, and made his way directly towards us.

We could not deny he was a member of our group – we had the only seating with males in the entire place! The earth really should have graciously swallowed us up at the moment.

Another Vroueoggend was never, to my knowledge, held in the Valley. Whether there was any connection to this intrusion I really do not know.

We too were found. There were precious few

newcomers at that stage. There had been the first wave, including Kokkie and Julia, Daniel and Karen, Mike and Jill, Guy and Finuala.

Victor and Peter, Sue, and others were there too.

A common denominator was English. Very quickly we were invited to dinner, to a ‘club’ of sorts. Much as the intentions were good, the particular crowd were a bit older and more conservative than where we had arrived from, and we graciously declined further invitations.

It was wonderful to establish a firm friendship with Hilton and Lizzie, though. Working with them was someone recently relocated from Franschhoek, John, who with his ex-wife had started Le Quartier Francais.

Another new recruit to the Valley was Cecile and soon these two were making their own waves. They too became part of a close group of friends.

A theme established itself, ‘peasant evenings’, where we would go round to one of the group’s houses and indulge in one-pot dinners. That was the rule: one pot.

And unlimited amounts of wine.

Because the area was inexpensive and visually stunning, therefore inspirational, artists and creative types found refuge. I soon came to realise that there were painters, ceramicists, sculptors, metal workers, wood workers, leather workers, musicians, writers . . . virtually any creative discipline that could be considered, were in residence.

In one of the later escapades Mike and Guy came together to produce a fascinating reminisce of one of their explorations. They had decided to write a musical together on the local pubs of the Swartland; probably more specifically in the area around Malmesbury.

On one of the ‘research’ escapades they ended up in a pub in Kalbaskraal. At the time the village, if you could call it that, was little more than a collection of small houses, a railway junction, shop and the village pub, Mama Ria’s. It must be said the area was occupied by Cape Coloured peoples. Naturally

The Petite Boetiek and location of the vet, who arrived once a week on Thursdays from Moorreesburg, and offered her services for the morning.

The ox and cannon guarding the square.

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Goedgedacht on the Riebeeksrivier Road.

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Mike and Guy’s intrusion occupied their attention.

On one infamous occasion one of the locals asked unambiguously, “Julle is nie van Kalbaskraal nie, is julle?” This gave the pair the theme for their venture.

At De Oude Kerk some time later, the production was staged. Mike on piano, Guy vocalising. All the locals were invited to listen. And to bring their own libation. To the sound of clinking glasses, falling-over bottles, much interjection, we were overwhelmed by Ons is Nie van Kalbaskraal Nie. To complement these talented people, newcomers over the succeeding years began opening restaurants, guest houses, bars and new shops – steel furniture, country craft, second hand furniture, a couple of wine emporiums, clothing boutique, nurseries, and soon an art gallery, and a crisp, fresh produce outlet. Together with wine and olive products available from outlets or cellars, there was not much one needed to venture away for. The growth energised the impressive area, and embellished the established farming activities that were long the central focus.

The relative newcomers to the towns invariably carried with them their ‘previous’ lives, their work ethos, various skills, styles, interests, social backgrounds, which were melded together to create a diverse, varied crowd. In order to survive in a rural environment many combined their experiences: an architect became a web designer; the plumber was also a master furniture restorer (and painter and photographer); a shoemaker who became a garden nursery owner, then publican; a military test pilot who was part of the SALT and Joule project teams. One could go on about the cross section of humanity that made up this cassata.

Inevitably this situation came to change. There is apparently a pattern in settling country villages where the more bohemian move in, often dictated by the cheaper existences, but once ice has been broken so to speak, the more conservative city people can feel

comfortable in the surroundings. The situation here is that they brought their ‘suburban’ mindset, and eventually the villages become offshoots of major settlements; perhaps not in actual location but in the manner of the inhabitants.

These were originally working towns, centres for the farming community to congregate, and mingle with the villagers, creating vibrant hubs. For some reason people of different nationalities found this little outpost: we had English, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, Zimbabweans, an Australian, Germans, a Malawian, Belgians, a Frenchman, someone from the Congo and our northernmost resident, a Fin. Couple this to the complex cultural groupings from South Africa and we had a veritable United Nations.

But how ironic the (rapid) change. On a stay at a guesthouse in Langebaan, the owner, on realising that I was from Riebeek Kasteel, proclaimed that she had lived in the village during the 80s. Deciding she would like to purchase a property she approached her bank for a bond. On being turned down she subsequently went to all the major lending institutions and without exception was declined. The reason? The area was considered to have no future economic potential. When the subsequent growth is considered it might seem too prudent a decision but then the villages only supported static farming communities.

With so many new places opening and this almost Mediterranean setting in a vast African vista, the number of visitors was and is constantly increasing.

The Olive Festival must be some sort of yardstick of growth, from the first when maybe a couple of thousand attended to the huge numbers later. But at what cost?

Farming was the backbone of the Riebeek Valley since the late 17th century. Three of the earliest farms are Sonquasdrift (left), Kloovenburg (top right) and Allesverloren.

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Guy propping up the bar.

The Village Taverna, with Lizzie, Hilton and John who later joined the venture. It subsequently became the Arts Inn, then Kasteelberg Country Inn & Bistro.

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THE EARLY HOSPITALITY ESTABLISHMENTS OF THE VALLEY All of them made evolutionary progress to what we now witness, whether by name change or ownership, usually a combination of both.

THE TAVERNA, ARTS INN, KASTEELBERG COUNTRY INN & BISTRO In the early days of the village life there was no such thing as set opening hours. On a venture to one of the only two establishments in Riebeek Kasteel during the week you literally took pot luck. If one was trading – bonus time!

But in those sparse times you could virtually guarantee a stimulating time if your fortune cookie turned right side up. Hilton or Lizzie or John at the Taverna could always entertain. Yolande or Anton at The Royal similarly.

In contemporary terms the layout was spartan, but certainly eclectic. Evidence of Lizzie’s creativity was everywhere, as in the hand-made tiles on the tables and bar, which snuggled into the small, front room. The walls of the pub were white-tiled, and customers freely scrawled graffiti, tales of ventures and inspirational or witty gems.

One of the gathered crowd, Irish Peter, described a far-off place, Solitaire in Namibia, where he ended up during a visa application to remain in South Africa.

The place name was duly noted and at a later stage I visited – I was not disappointed. Solitary Solitaire, just beyond the boundaries of the Namib-Naukluft National Park was and probably still is, one of those remote stations that have evolved into folklore.

On one particular evening a group of locals was sitting having dinner and drinks. Nothing untoward.

Then Hilton started playing Ravel’s Bolero on the music system. Out on the street a performance began to evolve. Cherie began a slow, sensual, balletic dance to the music. The piece progresses slowly, tempo and

volume increasing. The whole audience sat mesmerised, transfixed by the impromptu performance.

On a later New Year’s Eve, dinner during the evening was a quiet affair, a gentle rounding off of the year. Then, out of the darkness, a group of local musicians from Esterhof materialised, set up outside the restaurant and began playing. The transformation was astounding: clientele up and dancing in the street, until the early hours of the new year.

THE ROYAL HOTEL Many small towns in the country had a Royal, or at least a Masonic or Grand. This one had been in the league of the grandest of the Royals.

When I told a friend of mine in Cape Town that I was moving to Riebeek Kasteel, he exclaimed that his dad and the owner of the Royal had been friends, and that the family had driven up on occasion to visit in the 60s. “Was the bar counter still there?” he enquired. It was, I was able to confirm.

The earliest ritual was happy hour on Friday evenings – this inevitably led to happy night, and in fact happy morning, Saturday morning. It was the meeting place for locals at the end of the week. In fact not only locals, but many who were entitled to be honorary members of the ‘club’. And any visitor was equally welcome to partake.

One such was Smokkel, from the city. He was based at the University of Cape Town; he arrived one Friday evening and melded with the crowd. As things began to warm up he asked if anyone had access to a trekklavier, a piano accordion? Anton responded that his mother played and had one. “Could you fetch it?”, asked Smokkel. When the instrument arrived he proceeded to perform. Mike G-T accompanied on piano. It was a riot!

So Fridays became a procession to the pub. It was inevitably a long night. Invariably something happened to entertain. Yolande and Anton were sublime hosts, tolerating any and all.

The Royal in a more contemporary guise.

The reception area of the hotel in its previous state.

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A performance in the barn at the Royal Hotel, and Smokkel doing what he did best, playing the piano accordion.

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Not only was the pub a focus, but the rather eclectic restaurant. Green pebble-dash walls with one semicircular; a novel addition to the old building during the art deco years. With creaking old wooden furniture it oozed atmosphere and charm. Sundays were hectic with visitors pouring in the savour the boerekos.

A sad story unfolded after one particularly revelling Friday night. On the way home, standing on the back of a bakkie, Stefan, the master puppet maker, fell off the back. He incurred a head injury that at first appeared to be manageable, but became terminal.

His remembrance was in the grounds of The Royal, attended by a vast number of locals, and for many years his ‘memorial’ stood, a wrought iron affair surrounding a rose bush, under which his ashes had been buried.

During another happy hour, Nick, another local, and Anton announced they were undertaking a trip. To northern Mozambique, in an old bakkie.

“Yes”, we all thought, “what a great idea”. The motivation for the expedition? South Africa had become too safe and mundane. They needed some adventure.

In the heady days of the 90s this probably made a modicum of sense.

The first breakdown was at Hermon, 10 kms away.

It was to prove thematic for the rest of the route. But they made it all the way, and back, bringing tales of far-off castles and silversmiths, tropical landscapes, and villages untouched by progress. It seemed a magical, mystical voyage.

One tale I remember with some humour. Our friend Danielle, who had been with us on our first day, came to visit, accompanied by her parents. As we had insufficient space to accommodate everyone they booked into the Royal, and off we went for dinner.

When we returned somewhat later the place was firmly locked; we were in a quandary. As I lived just down the road I suggested going home and phoning (no

cell phones then). Everyone standing on the stoep could hear the shrill ringing, but no response.

In desperation we decided to ‘break in’. One of the windows overlooking the veranda was slightly ajar so one from the party opened it and crept into the room, which happened to be occupied by a couple in the throes of love-making. “What the f . . . are you doing here?” the man exclaimed. No reply was necessary and Dan’s parents were let in through the front door.

Yolande eventually needed to move on, and the Royal acquired new patronage; Kurt was general manager at Grand West in Cape Town and The Royal must have been a bit of a sideline, a much simpler operation for him. Much of the style and atmosphere was retained, however; dancing on the bar counter was still very much in vogue.

Then the old lady moved into, or was it back to, another era, with a vision of Africa – The Royal became colonial chic. After extensive renovations a different hotel emerged; gone was the 1929 from the facade, indicating when the structure had been converted into the present form, and 1862 prominently supplanted it, supposedly the date of origin.

Coupled with other changes the ethos of these small, country villages was beginning to evolve.

BISHOPS/RIEBEEK VALLEY HOTEL This establishment went a long way to demonstrate the evolution. The original owner when I arrived was Amanda Bishop, married to an English County cricketer.

Called ‘Bishops’ the name survived in the restaurant’s name for some time.

It was a wonderfully eclectic palace. Like The Royal, slightly run-down, but with charm. It had apparently been a girls’ boarding house in a previous incarnation.

The restaurant was separate from the main structure, where the bar relocated, and I recollect a particularly splendid meal around the central fireplace on a cold, wintry evening with friends from Cape Town.

The gardens of the Riebeek Valley Hotel.

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The restaurant at Carol Ann’s and the building when it became Dalmar (right).

Joe Jowell.

Karen and Bobby were the master chefs at the Burgundy Snail.

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Then a curious incident (in the night?). Wife swapping. It was rumoured that the hotel had become a venue for this. In the corridor linking the main building to the indoor pool, floor to ceiling curtains made an appearance, which did nothing to dispel the notion.

Gordy volunteered for bar duty, and as a spy recalled the guests placing keys on the counter which were selectively retrieved. Sodom and Gomorrah had arrived in the Riebeek Valley.

A succession of owners followed. Gail and Basil, but was not long before the business was back on the market. Alison, who had a promotions company in Cape Town arrived, and with her the motivation to establish hiking trails on Kasteelberg, and then the formation of the very first incarnation of a tourism body.

The next owners joined the new wave of proprietors in The Valley appearing to not want local patronage.

Visiting for a drink or dinner you felt that you were an imposition on the staff, and we stayed away.

THE CAPTAIN’S TABLE, BURGUNDY SNAIL . . .

This is possibly the most renamed establishment in the Riebeek Valley! Before I lived in the area this was The Captain’s Table. Bobby and Karen had newly taken over when I arrived and created The Burgundy Snail. I never had a bad meal there! Well, Karen was a Silwood trained chef, after all.

What the restaurant possessed in food quality, however, lacked in atmosphere. It was well used by locals, as virtually the only high quality food venue, and one of the ploys was to take your own music. Patrons arrived with CDs in pockets and proceeded to create a vibe that suited the exquisite cuisine.

Then the evolution began, after the Snail, the Cook and the Gardener, then Grumpy Grouse, Farmer’s Arms to Ox and Wagon, and . . . who knows? It has been difficult to keep track.

CAROL ANN’S, DALMAR . . .

The building has a claim in history in that it was the birthplace of Joe Jowell, who went on to establish a very successful national transport company.

By the time I arrived it was in its first incarnation as a guesthouse, Carol Ann’s, then quickly becoming Dalmar. Housing an early shop in the village, this section was converted into a charming restaurant, with part located on an internal mezzanine balcony creating a different dimension.

OLD DALBY Chris and Channon’s restaurant, and she another Silwood chef in the Valley. Chris’ dad owned a wine export business and the restaurant was located in the same building, where a revived version is today.

L°ATITUDE, SIX DEGREES, MAMA CUCINAS In reality this was the first petrol station in Riebeek Kasteel, but long before most of the present residents can recollect. I first remember it as hosting a hairdressers, with rather livid (word used intentionally), purple decor. It was next to Pieter Bester’s building.

Bought by Hilton and Lizzie after they sold The Taverna, they established a second-hand furniture shop.

One Saturday afternoon sitting at ARTorchard discussing various ideas, they, along with Anton (from The Royal), came up with a master plan, to open a pub. That same weekend they set to work, creating and painting a bar counter and rearranging the fittings to accommodate clients.

The following week l°atitude was ready to trade.

Suzie and Pete were invited to open up. Not only serving alcohol, all the furniture was for sale. On many days or evenings clients could be seen loading chairs and tables onto vehicles and driving off. Quite legally..

A change of ownership, and interior decor, resulted in someone commenting that the place had become ‘an airport lounge’. In effect this was giving an indication of the beginning of change in the village, from a slightly

Old Dalby.

l°atitude.

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The Travellers’ Rest with happy staff and clientele. Right: Andras.

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hippyish bohemian environment, to something a little more conventional.

It became Six Degrees, until a name change to Mama Cucina’s, which was the last incarnation.

TRAVELLERS’ REST, THE RED TIN ROOF Colin and Marie. A story of the Englishman, Welshman . . . well, not quite, but they did have a more or less South African son, András. It was always a pleasure to ensconce oneself in the intimate little pub, or dine in the rather extravagantly coloured dining room, which led out to lush gardens. This place was such a little hidden island.

One day András, while still at school, appeared in my studio and asked if he could be shown what could be done on my apple computer. He took to it immediately and years later runs a successful web design operation in England. I like to think of that moment as his inspirational spark on his journey.

PLATANA, AUNTIE’S, EVE’S This became another interesting episode. The land for the proposed new business to be constructed actually was part of the supermarket. In its first incarnation, Platana, run by Daniel and Victoria, had a wonderful, rustic charm, then followed the progression of becoming ever more polished.

THE WILD HEN This institution was owned and run by a most unique woman, Carol – the name aptly described her flamboyant (and Flamboyant ironically became the restaurant’s later name) character. Not only were you well fed, but entertained by this rather unique person. I actually spent the first hours of the 21st century in this eclectic place.

THE BARN A slightly later addition to the Valley’s hospitality venues, Guy and Steve ran this warm hearted establishment with spectacular views across the Valley.

It also became the second home of ARTorchard.

In its original position between Short Street and the supermarket, the first incarnation was Platana before becoming Auntie Pasti.

The Wild Hen was located on Church Street, just along from the Riebeek Valley Museum

The Barn to which ArtOrchard relocated. And its menu.

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The Stoned Olive Building appearing from Bester Tegniese Dienste.

Locals outside the Stoned Olive Building.

Lizzie’s stained glass window in the building.

George Ballot performing the opening ceremony for the Stoned Olive Building.

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Syco Deli was part of the first development, with ArtOrchard in its third base.

THE STONED OLIVE BUILDING Pieter Bester’s workshops were next door to l°atitude. In the early days it was an engineering works, somewhat out of kilter in the pioneering spirit of the village. When it was bought by Hilton and Lizzie it signalled that a central feature was about to change.

Many alterations were required to make it functional in those developing times. A complete new front was built, a mezzanine floor added inside, with further (never achieved) plans for a theatre. Little stalls lined one side of the ground floor.

We were invited and persuaded to relocate from our first gallery to this new venture. It was too tempting to resist: much larger space (including the upstairs mezzanine), with elements, like the kitchen area, custom-built to our requirements. It felt as if Riebeek Kasteel was now stretching to its full potential, and we had to be part of it.

The opening was performed by George Ballot. Wellknown in television circles he had first encountered the village during a film shoot, apparently falling in love, and bought a property.

The first tenants: Syco Deli owned by a couple from Cape Town, and run by Guy and Steve, two new arrivals from England. ARTorchard was the other. For a short time some others occupied spaces at the back. Even Lisa had a workshop producing her wonderful pieces for a while.

A significant feature of the three businesses alongside (deli, gallery/coffee shop/pub restaurant) was the ability to co-exist. The seating in front of The Stoned Olive Building hosted clientele of all three: food and snacks from the deli, coffee and cake from the gallery, and drinks from the pub. Customers continuously asked how it worked. “Don’t worry,” we said, “we’ll sort it out”. And we did. And they loved it. It was probably our strongest selling point.

RETAIL DIE GEEL WINKEL Jill’s outlet next to the Royal Hotel was probably the first attempt at an art outlet in the Valley.

IKE’S HARDWARE STORE This was a store of individual character: purporting to be a supplier of hardware, it was difficult to find enough to construct or repair anything. Usually occupied by a group of elderly, apparently retired, gentlemen, it came across as something of a local social hangout more than a retail store.

After some years Ike decided it was time to move on, and the last I heard was that Ike and his wife had relocated to Gouda.

It was time for fresh ownership, and the complex was purchased by a newly arrived couple, Bernard and Suzie. They added substantially to the cultural mix, he being from Ireland and she from Finland, after meeting in Switzerland. The complex was to undergo a substantial change under their ownership.

First of all, the front section was stripped and cleaned, creating an attractive row of shops and offices.

I jumped at the opportunity to open Orchard Design in a public space, and started trading from a back studio, with posh reception area. On one side was a small, strangely conceived flatlet, on the other, the fledgling Pam Golding office, manned by Daniel and Daniel (English and Afrikaans pronunciations), and Dan’s mom, Ursula, performing secretarial and reception duties.

At the end a hairdresser relocated from where the entrance to Beans About Coffee is now. This business was to prove the bane of my life when the gallery was in operation. The central pay-as-you-go electricity unit was situated within this section and invariably the units expired over a weekend, precisely when the gallery was open, resulting in a frustrating attempt to contact someone to relieve the situation.

Jill in front of Die Geel Winkel.

Die Mossienes, mostly known as Ike’s, long before Beans About Coffee made an appearance.

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4

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3 The four incarnations of ARTorchard: 1 Fontein Street 2 The Stoned Olive Building 3 The Barn 4 Short Street.

Middle: Launch of an exhibition of works by Kevin de Klerk and Lize Marie Strydom.

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ARTorchard We began the first gallery and coffee shop in the village. When the complex was developed, an old structure, apparently one of the early prisons, to the rear of the main building, was revamped, creating two units, at the outset one business, the other residential.

Realising we were putting ourselves out on a limb, we really considered The Valley had potential, and decided to set up in the business unit. In hindsight mode, we were just too early.

The first incarnation was behind where Beans About Coffee is now. With the dearth of visitors to the Valley, we only opened on weekends, but were well supported by locals. One couple in particular remain in my memory; they were owners of a guesthouse in Tulbagh, and when the last clients had departed on Sunday afternoons, they would wend their way to ARTorchard to sit and chill. @ THE MOVIES There was a time when home entertainment was via hired movies. On occasion movies were screened in a small back room, everyone one floor cushions. Then when the end of the year arrived, the building could be dressed up in its finery.

SERVICE INDUSTRIES BANKING – FNB The bank had an agency in Riebeek Kasteel in the early days. Its main function was to provide the cash for farmers to pay their workers, thus the requirement was for it to be open – one morning a week, Friday, with the hours 09.00 - 11.30.

For the rest of us with an account at that bank it took some planning to coincide requirements in the days of cheque books.

POSTAL AGENCY Jeanette has ‘always’ been the post agency in Riebeek Kasteel, no doubt with a huge knowledge of who we

@ The Movies, dressed up for Christmas.

Extended banking hours.

The early home of the postal agency and First National Bank.

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were all in contact with. In the 90s we still had postal deliveries to our homes, by a guy on a bicycle, then along came post boxes, and he was obsolete. The postal agency moved too, from overlooking the square, to around the corner.

TELKOM In those distant pre-technology days we had a manual exchange, with three digit telephone numbers. Mine was 660. With the digital revolution we needed to update to more complex numbers in order to connect to the outside world. Our connections were slow, with dial-up modems that had a knack of disconnecting just before large files were downloaded.

The Sprinbok Kafee.

The Friendly supermarket.

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SUPPLY SHOPS The supermarkets were initially incredibly basic affairs, and a trip to Malmesbury was definitely necessary to stock up on essentials. The Spar in Riebeek West and Friendly in Riebeek Kasteel gradually evolved to become more user-friendly.

The Springbok Kafee was situated on the corner where Wykland is now. My endearing memory is of Clive especially ordering my English Sunday newspapers as they were unavailable in the area.

He was a lifesaver!

Slowly retail outlets were established around the square. And then arrived Short Street. When Anton first described his vision to me, standing on the stoep of the Royal overlooking an open space, I could just not picture the finished project, thinking the space too small. I was humbled by his concept when complete.

THE EVENTS THE LAST PLAASMARK Yolande from the Royal had organised a plaasmark for a number of years, but was tiring of the effort of organisation, so produced one final event.

In some ways this was a predecessor to the olive

festival. It had a certain charm, naive some might say, but so much more enjoyable for that reason. The last one that I can recollect had a truck parked on the village square, with Valiant Swart performing on the back. It summed up the sentiment of the day.

THE FIRST OLIVE FESTIVAL The first festival was an interesting affair. We had only recently started our art gallery, ARTorchard, and coffee bar. Even though I had been involved in the publicity, especially in creating a ‘newspaper’ for the event, nothing could have prepared us for that weekend. Mike and Juliana of the Riebeeck Olive Boutique were the fire behind the concept. One aspect was to create some interesting background to the noble olive, and Christine, Ashraf’s wife was the organiser.

Along with Ashraf’s pertinent writing we produced a publication that was eclectic, defining the ethos of the early event.

On the Friday before the festival we had collected a bakkie-load of cakes from Ronel’s Bakery in Malmesbury; we’d hired a coffee machine, gazebo and tables and chairs. My sister and brother, and a friend of his had been roped in to assist. During the Friday night the weather turned particularly inclement: heavy rain and snow showers on the surrounding mountains.

We awoke to a particularly cold, windy, rainy morning. Putting up the gazebo (we had decided to do the catering outside to leave the gallery clear) in those conditions was particularly difficult, and once up we wondered why? There was hardly anyone about. The day dragged tortuously on, and we began to reconsider the wisdom of being part of the first (and at that stage imagined to be the final) festival.

Sunday began clear and sunny, though. We set up again and were proceeding gently until about 11 o’clock when someone threw the proverbial switch.

Being the only coffee venue in town everyone was steered in our direction and we were overwhelmed. As

Valiant Swart and band performing at the last Plaasmark.

Above: Juliana and Mike, instigators of the Olive Festival.

Right: Cover of the first Olive Press.

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A kind reference to the Riebeek Valley Art route in Country Life.

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fast as we poured and cleared the next deluge would arrive; our production line held fast: making, pouring, cutting, serving, clearing, washing, drying, then the cycle all over again.

Throughout this I could make out a procession of customers walking from the gallery, clasping parcels.

When the volume of humanity finally departed we were left exhausted. Drained of energy, of merchandise.

It turned out the gallery had had a fantastic day, with phenomenal sales (including many deliveries to be made the following week); the coffee shop side too had been a major success.

Our original intention had been to go next door afterwards, to The Arts Inn and relax with all the other participants, after the weekend with a few drinks. We were all so exhausted that we managed to have a single drink, then slope away to recuperate.

Sadly, the exuberance and energy of the first event was never to be repeated. Each successive year seemed to attract more and more visitors, and an ever greater number of stalls, but with an ever diluted theme. What had began as an olive festival soon became an event that only retained the name, but not the concept. The huge number of attendees became the measurement of success of the festival.

ART ROUTE After Eileen from the Arts Inn suggested we form an art route I designed a logo, and identification boards for the partakers, and we launched our publicity campaign. One of the most successful promotions was that written by Nancy Richards for Country Life Magazine. It featured most of the participants and drew many initial visitors from the city.

One memorable event: artists were encouraged to open their homes to the public. One participant was Robin, who was not feeling particularly sociable on the occasion. When some visitors arrived at his abode he told them rather bluntly to “f . . . off”. We obviously had

some way to go in the PR department.

The conclusion to the evolution of this establishment was when it was purchased by Allan Barnard, known for his radio show on KFm. What could be read into this is that the Valley was being noticed, being placed on the map as it were.

SHIRAZ & ART WEEKENDS This was the natural successor to the art route, although intended to be an annual event. Essentially backed by Riebeek Cellars, it continued for quite a few seasons and was, in my opinion, successful, but not by everyone as the numbers did not match those of the exploding olive festivals. But surely that is the nature of an art celebration?

CRICKET MATCHES An annual cricket derby between the two villages, planned for Boxing Day, took off, and was enthusiastically supported by the Valley community.

OTHER EVENTS Not all events are organised, of course, some are as a result of an accident, or just nature behaving in her own impulsive way.

THE FIRE I was driving back from a day in Cape Town, and leaving Malmesbury noticed a pall of smoke arising from the Valley side of Kasteelberg.

By the time I passed over Botmaskloof and rounded the rump of the mountain it was evident that a fierce fire was ravaging the mountain, and spreading quickly.

Over in Riebeek West I stood with Dan, our cameras in hand, in awe as we watched the bluegums above the village exploding into flames. The fire was travelling both north towards PPC and south in the direction of Kloovenburg. On that farm the fire fighters worked throughout the night to prevent the destruction of the vineyards.

It is common knowledge that indigenous vegetation

Riebeek Cellars converted to an art gallery.

Group photograph of one of the early cricket teams.

The fire raged on Kasteelberg.

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we know fynbos needs to burn at certain intervals to propagate, but with the infringement of agriculture and human occupation close to the mountain it becomes a very threatening situation.

SNOW In many areas of the world snowfall is a regular and predicted part of the annual cycle, but not so in the Swartland. So, one day in winter 2003 I gazed out of the bedroom window to be greeted by a scene reminiscent of Switzerland – Kasteelberg topped by snow cover. It did not take long to venture out with my camera to record this unusual scene. I was not alone, with many others doing likewise.

A view not out of place in the Alps.

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A FEW CREATIVE PEOPLE The Riebeek Valley has been home to some remarkable, unique and talented individuals, seemingly feeding off one another’s creative juices. These are just a few.

MAJOR SCHISSTIRRER Guy Willoughby was a man of many characters. In the time I knew him he was a journalist, writer of musicals, gallery curator, actor . . .

When I first settled he was part of the original gang, living diagonally below my house. He was one of the group who first welcomed us to the village.

On many nights in The Royal he would join Mike G-T, and serenade the gathered throng. I would not propose that his was the greatest of voices or ranges, but he managed to perform with such gusto and enterprise that we as an audience were always enthralled.

A step towards formality was when he performed one of his ‘creations’, Major Schisstirrer, in the barn behind the hotel. He exposed his other characters too, a Sea Point lady dealing with her everyday life in the old South Africa. We were all much wiser (and entertained) by his dalliances.

During the last Plaasmark Guy put on a show at Riebeek Cellars, in one of the wine cellars. It was a

theatre dinner affair, with the tables arranged on the ground level amongst the huge tanks, and Guy utilising the walkways above as his stage. It was spectacularly entertaining. His theatrical use of the ‘platform’ gave him room to expand and expose his characters at random.

I once again connected with Guy when he was curator at the Bellville Arts Centre. It seemed a strange choice of direction for a man who was intimately connected to words. I do not believe it was successful as his tenure there was very short.

STEFAN – PUPPETEER EXTRAORDINAIRE Stefan was quite literally a human of a different time and place, located by some incidental occurrence on planet earth. He possessed a quiet spirituality in his attitude to everyday logistics. But he had the impressive talent to create puppets, which seems too simplified a description for his creations.

One masterpiece I could describe was of a giant, suspended lizard. Before construction he studied film of the creature’s movements so that it could be replicated.

The body was created by circular metal bands joined with chain links. Manipulating the guide strings created the most fluid, stalking motion that encapsulated the life form completely.

Stefan’s one great desire was to join a group in France, where puppetry is considered an art form. Sadly he never made the journey.

CLIFFY My first encounter with this quiet man was to view potential work to show in the gallery. We turned up at his house down a sand lane that was part of Kloof Street. I was a little taken aback – Cliffy led a frugal lifestyle, to say the least. But he had some interesting artworks to show, most especially his self-portraits. His landscapes were a little too delicate for me, but his views of himself were penetrating, showing a perception of a deep, inner soul making startling statements.

Stefan’s ashes were buried in the grounds of the Royal Hotel.

Stefan beneath one of his creations.

Above: A deeply reflective self-portrait by Cliffy.

Right: Although Amanda was not a resident she recorded an album in the village.

Cover by Orchard Design.

Ashraf launched his book at ARTorchard and Guy performed his ‘assault’ in the barn at the Royal Hotel.

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S O M E C R E AT I O N S B Y A

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A R T I S T S O F T H E VA L L E Y

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Bev opening Short Street.

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At a later time I encountered some of his installations and they exposed a curious mind in this reticent guy. Combined with a recycling mindset he created abstract installations depicting episodes such as water flow.

BEV GOWER When Bev, who I considered something of a mentor, passed away, I was deeply saddened. His memorial gathering was very moving and also uplifting – so stimulating when people gather and remember all the strengths of someone special. Two of his offspring had flown in, from Canada and Australia, and together with the local clan, managed to divulge insightful views of a man who obviously inspired.

An early recollection of him was an afternoon in the gallery, when he appeared, excited. “Chris,” he exclaimed, “A new heritage conservation group has been formed in the Swartland. I know you will want to join”.

He was right, of course, and sign up I did, to the embryonic Swartland Heritage Foundation. Little did I know how this group would come to dominate my life for a decade. The principle was simple, to encourage people in area to be conscious of and preserve their heritage. Mostly it would involve buildings but I always felt it should have had a far broader perspective.

For years I drove all over the area, talking to people, advising, pleading, speaking to business groups, dealing with the local municipality, always attempting to ensure that conservation was achieved. Ultimately I failed: the public considered it interference (despite conservation legislation), the municipality considered it a burden and the support from the provincial heritage authorities was often lacking or contradictory.

Eventually, after a decade, I gave it up.

This did not detract from the inspiration that Bev offered, his unwavering support.

He had unbridled enthusiasm for his projects. I

remember visiting one day; he wanted to describe a green development concept he had for the piece of land he owned below his house. It was late in the day when I departed, filled with his vision of a semi-submerged estate with naturally reticulated water cycles, solar energy, roofs of turf to encourage vegetation and simultaneously provide insulation for the living quarters.

Such was the man.

TRACEY DERRICK I encountered Tracey many times over the years.

Whilst we never became close friends I always enjoyed our encounters. She was forthright, interesting and passionate about . . . photography. Our subject matters and techniques could not have been further apart, but I respected her ability to not sell out. It naturally created financial and time obstacles for her, as she kept house and raised two daughters.

She had a smallholding on the Paardeberg, and was living the ‘good life’ when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, had an operation to remove a breast, then endured chemo. Being Tracey, she had the surgeon photograph the whole procedure. She is absolutely obsessed with photography which is probably why she would envisage and allow such a penetration into what is essentially a physical, brutal removal of her womanhood, together with all the psychological aspects of dealing with such a feared disease.

At a later stage she approached me with a proposition. An arts organisation, The Visual Arts Network of South Africa (VANSA) were seeking concepts that would be funded, with the theme: 2010 Reasons to Live in a Small Town – was I interested in joining her?

Indeed I was.

Somewhat less than a town, we identified Hermon as a location, but then had to decide on a theme.

Spending time there we walked around, talking and watching the local activity. One afternoon I did a double-take when I spotted a group activity on a

Above: A document I created to commemorate the Domino Effect.

Left: A record of all the events on the theme 2010 Reasons to Live in a Small Town, produced by VANSA.

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pavement: domino playing. “Wow,” I thought, “this could work”.

So we proceeded with our proposal. It was accepted!

This led to many months of involvement with the community that I would not have missed for the world.

The only sadness is that the permanent legacy we hoped to have left, the children’s play area, the trees surrounding the exposed sports ground, for example, were not maintained and evidence of the tournament has subsequently disappeared.

Top: The range of brochures I designed and produced for tourism.

Below: The Riebeek Valley Handbook added to the information regarding the Valley.

Right: An initial letter to local businesses in 1997 in an attempt to launch a tourism initiative.

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TOURISM While all this had been happening it became apparent that the changes were needing promotion; whilst the growth was organic, if the Valley was to sustain the new direction it would need support and guidance.

The Riebeek Valley Tourism Association was born.

It was 1997. With a disparate group of businesses and hospitality institutions we set out on a journey of promotion which still continues; in fact the Riebeek Valley has become the tourism focus of the Swartland.

Its roots were, however, embedded in the creation of a nature group with a focus of creating hiking trails on Kasteelberg, but I think it was ultimately too large a scheme for the small group, despite me driving to meetings with CapeNature in Tulbagh and Porterville to elicit their support. Their response was a lack of capital, despite a section at the summit of Kasteelberg being under their auspices.

Tourism facilities grew, from a nascent presence in the museum, to fully-fledged offices next to the library and overlooking the square. I sat on various committees over the years, and the progress may be seen in the development of the logo, and also the brochures I prepared for tourism under the guise of Purple People Marketing.

A website too was established, after driving up to Citrusdal where I met a designer named Johann, who

took on the project, and subsequently moved to the Riebeek Valley.

Another vehicle for promoting the area was the Riebeek Valley Handbook THE RIEBEEK VALLEY MUSEUM The museum, originally De Oude Kerk Museum, was established in the first church in Riebeek Kasteel, after the property was donated to the community by Piet (Spiere) du Toit of Kloovenburg. Daan was the initial curator, and also performed as tourism information officer before the body was formed.

The Riebeek Valley Museum, then and now.

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S O M E O F T H E P E R S O N A L I T I E S T H AT C O N T

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T R I B U T E D T O T H E R I E B E E K VA L L E Y S T O RY

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Today the Valley is connected to the world via internet, modern adaptions for power have appeared, and most services are available. Country villages are able to sustain lifestyles unimaginable a couple of decades ago.

CHANGES The continued quiet, country bliss could not be expected to continue forever.

When I first bought the estate agent told me this: in the previous year one burglary had been reported, and it transpired that a guy had broken into the dominee’s house and helped himself to the contents of the fridge, and alcohol cabinet. He was not difficult to arrest.

That of course is no longer the situation. With the huge influx of new residents came along with it crime.

At the outset it was reported that amongst other signs, was that of, shall we say, ‘gangsters’ appearing from other places, bringing drugs with them. Today I should imagine that the scourge is so endemic it would be difficult to say whether it is still the modus operandi.

There is a different lifestyle too; it is no longer possible to walk the streets and acknowledge who is resident or visitor, or indeed a combination.

Supermarkets are open long hours, any number of liquor outlets (there was only the Royal in the 90s), retail outlets, the bank only opened for a few hours once a week, as did the vet, who visited from Moorreesburg.

With a few exceptions much of daily needs are catered for within a short distance.

Whether these facilities can contribute to sustaining the aspect that the Valley consists of quaint dorpies is another question. An editor of a well-known magazine described Riebeek Kasteel as ‘suburbia in the country’.

It has perhaps evolved to be so.

a life in the castle