Durban & Natal North and South Coast - Spring - Part 2

This scribbling is a complete turnaround from my last blog about Spring in the Cape! The weather took a sharp turn, with Sunday turning into a day of heavy rain and strong winds that kept us indoors. But then, Tuesday arrived like a dream, with clear skies and a gentle breeze, perfect for our morning walk.

We picked up the pace and distance, and to our delight, we spotted a pod of whales just a few meters off the rocks. The female’s enchanting clicks, pulses, and whistles added a magical soundtrack to the scene.

At Stanford’s Cove, a few young families were setting up their umbrellas and beach chairs. Children were digging moats around their castles using new buckets and spades, and the scent of suntan lotion wafted in the air.

Yellow Daisies, jolly Sewe Jaartjies with lemony yellow yokes, were all out celebrating the sunshine, and yellow-scaled lizards were basking on warm lichen-covered rocks in the morning sun. The vibrant colours of the flowers and the agile movements of the lizards gave us an extra spring in our step. We were all beetling in the sunshine.

A gloriously yellow day, we agreed as the sun set magnificently over the Gansbaai harbour. Bright tangerine.

From the distant horizon, we observed a fishing trawler making its way towards the harbour on a serene, flat sea. Not a single whisper of wind disturbed the tranquillity. If it weren’t for the gentle hum of the diesel engine, one could easily mistake the boat for being anchored, rising and falling gently with the mild swell.

We vowed to be on the harbour wall the following evening for perfect shots and to see the whales feeding next to the wall, as it was rumoured they were doing. The bearded man in the fresh fish shop told me that morning. Alas, the following evening at the same time, in the same place, the scene was completely different.

Butch and I ferreted our summer pyjamas out of zip-lock bags stashed away behind our winter woollens, and I opened the sliding doors for relief from the sudden intense heat. I assured Butch that no one would abduct us during the night. He would order a fan or two from Takealot the next morning! He said, drifting off to sleep.

At five o’clock on Wednesday morning, the wind came up, and I heard Butch get up, sighing, to close the sliding doors and draw back the billowing curtains.

Since then, we’ve been enduring howling winds, relentless sheets of rain, and temperatures that could rival the Arctic. As I write this, bundled up in bed with my laptop perched on my knees, I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. The Cape doctor has brought back winter, and my hay fever has returned with a vengeance.

 

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Two days ago, Butch suggested I not walk the cliff path for fear of snakes emerging from hibernation; today, I can’t imagine walking the cliff path for fear of being swept to sea.

It is for this very reason that thousands of people from the Cape used to flock to Durban’s North and South Coast during the July and September school holidays.

Friends owned time shares on Durban’s beachfront and cottages in Margate, Umhlanga Rocks, and Umngazi.

Since we didn’t have children at school, these holidays were not on our horizon. While my children and I toasted braai broodjies and roasted marshmallows over the coals in our fireplace during the July holidays, I told them this was fun too. They certainly disagreed and used to remind me of Lita and Marett’s holidays in Durban. We could only dream.

But we did it a few years later, when we were eligible, and did a road trip to Margate, where we stayed in an uncle’s quaint wooden cabin with pretty red gingham curtains a few hundred meters from the beach. The holiday certainly didn’t pan out the way I had envisioned. C’est la vie.

Later, a decade or so later in the 90s, most people we knew searched for new horizons and trekked to Namibia and Botswana with their Venterjies (camping trailers) hooked behind their Toyota double cabs. Camping became the in-thing, and Maret’s parents couldn’t give their time shares away.

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Butch and I were heading into Durban, our friends, ex-Durbanites, who labelled it “dangerous, unclean, run-over by undesirables, rundown and not the sort of place you want to find yourselves in.” We decided to ease ourselves into post-apocalyptic Durban and spend a few days in Amanzimtoti at the Protea Hotel’s Karridene Beach Campground.

We were the only campers on site. The hotel, when we made our booking, seemed quite busy, with many businesspeople in suits and ladies in high heels enjoying lunch from the Buffet. Probably conference goers, we reckoned.

On our walks along the beachfront, we did see a few families decked out in flip-flops, beach wraps, and hotel towels.

Our days were quiet; we walked along the water’s edge and, once or twice, ventured into town to the shopping centre to stock up on groceries.

The lasting impression I have of our stay at the Karridene was the friendly young man Butch met at the exit gate on his way to the village: it was Lesley, the Marketing Manager at the Hotel. Noticing Butch with an envelope gripped in his hand, busy chatting to the security official, he invited Butch to hop in. He was going to town too, he said and would drop him wherever he needed to go.

The two guys chatted up a storm, Butch said, and soon he was alighting the vehicle right there where he needed to be. No problem, Lesley said, he’d pick Butch up on his return and drop him off on our doorstep a few hours later.

Unfortunately, I did not meet Lesley, but Butch’s tales and our later communications with Lesley allow me to say, “I know you!”

Butch said he was a delightful young man, a smart cookie, and the world is his oyster! Lesley has since been promoted, and as I recall, not at the Karridene any longer. He is a faithful reader of my scribblings and often has the nicest things to say, adding that he has been inspired to travel, which he now does with his young family. I know Butch looks forward to listening to his voice messages.

Thank you, Lesley, for your generosity to an absolute stranger. That one character trait lifts you among us mere mortals. I hope we’ll meet Lesley when he travels down to our Mooie Ou Kaap one day. We have a few special places we’d like to show them.

Long beach walks were what the Doctor ordered, and they were the perfect way to explore this part of the world.

Once we’d acclimatised, we headed north to Durban.

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Durban

A good restaurant, good food, or the Gourmet Dinner Week Special was exactly what sealed our decision to pack up and head up to Durban. We made a reservation at the Durban Country Club’s Grimaldi’s Restaurant for lunch.

On our golfing holiday to Natal forty years ago, my friend Marthie and I, both pregnant, with four small mischievous boys in tow, were not permitted to enter the Bar where our husbands were having drinks with their golfing opponents. No entry for ladies. We had to keep the squad happy outside. Now it seems preposterous.

Much has changed over the years, and I couldn’t find anything familiar about the place.

Our luncheon on the veranda was indeed very pleasant. We had prawns, fried fish and a delectable Tiramisu for dessert.

After taking a stroll around the rooms, we left the Country Club to search for our friends’ schools, Northlands Girls’ High School and Butch’s old school, Northlands Boys’ High School, which he attended before moving to Stellenbosch, where he matriculated at Paul Roos Gymnasium and later graduated from the University of Stellenbosch.

We found the signpost to Northlands Girls’ High and Butch’s school, which has since changed its name. We didn’t find Jos’ home, but did find the house the Robertsons lived in for a while.

Everything seemed and looked quite unfamiliar; the trees were towering, the house seemed smaller, and the garden was not as groomed as he remembered. The Vibercrete wall and electric fence are new and a sign of the times. 

Earlier, our route to the Country Club took us through the centre of Durban along the beach road. We spotted some landmarks, iconic buildings we remember, hotels we recall staying in, many moons ago, for a Lions Convention. Butch could point out the stage where his sisters enrolled him in a Baby competition and the fairground.

Many buildings had been renovated and spruced up; the streets were quiet and clean, the gardens were manicured, and the palm trees were still in place. I am happy to report that we thought Durban was in fine spirits.

Butch did remind me that some naysayers might say that our African travels had clouded our judgment.

While driving past Virgin Active, I happened to snap a picture of the Honey Badger in a reflection!

We were heading up the north coast to Ballito for a few days. Everyone says that’s where we must be.

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Natal North Coast - Ballito

We went to the Dolphin Beach Campsite. This time I can honestly say the campsite is only a stone’s throw from the beach! It is. This lovely campsite invites visitors to stay, not for a day or two but for a month or more, which some campers do in the off-season.

Each campsite is situated under large indigenous subtropical trees. We parked the Honey Badger on beautifully clipped green lawns surrounded by lush garden borders composed of all the plants I remembered from my childhood. Crotons, delicious monsters, hibiscus, palm trees, ferns, strelitzias, bamboo, and masses of hens and chickens. My Mom would’ve loved it here. I can imagine her pockets bulging with cuttings she’d nick and plant in washed baked beans in tomato sauce tins.

The owner is a delightful, friendly, and happy chap who does everything to ensure campers have a perfect stay. And there’s a special treat: twice a day, guests are invited to gather in the restaurant/clubhouse at elevenses and again in the afternoon at 16h00 for tea and scones with fresh whipped cream. Now, for that, they get 10/10 from me. I didn’t go every afternoon, but if you’d been there fairly regularly yourself, we would’ve met!

Ballito is a perfect holiday destination. Beautiful beaches, long boardwalks, many informal stalls selling beachwear, umbrellas, straw hats, fishing nets, beach balls, bats and the obligatory buckets and spades.

There are many ice cream stalls, coffee shops, and restaurants. To accommodate all the visitors during the year, there are a gazillion apartments, one after the other, stacked up along the coast, eventually, I’m sure, joining the next resort or village or beach, and only separated by a river.

We didn’t explore the town itself but stayed close to the beach, where we watched the activities. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw a middle-aged duo setting up their umbrella, chairs, and towels on a freezing, overcast day.

I could imagine the conversation taking place. “No one drives a thousand miles to the beach and then stays in the flat. To the beach we’ll go, well, it is where we want to be, not so dear?” I could hear the disgruntled husband ask his hardworking wife, who was setting up their beach paraphernalia, to try to be as invisible and quiet as possible. This was surely all her doing.

Sitting by the fire that evening, watching my beloved light up, I announced that there was no way I was going to travel this far and for so many years without visiting the Oyster Box, especially since we were passing it on our way to Umhlanga.

We have visited some of the iconic hotels in other cities we’d been to, such as The Polana in Maputo, and on many occasions, the Mount Nelson in Cape Town. Butch obliged.

The veranda overlooking the swimming pool, the lighthouse and the ocean was where we found ourselves at elevenses for tea and scones. “This was becoming a habit,” my hips were probably protesting as I ladled huge dollops of cream onto my scone before adding a good dose of Strawberry jam. I didn’t give a hoot. There was enough time to remedy all the extra kilograms later.

I loved the ambience; all around us, I could hear different languages, ladies dressed in beautiful linens and cheerful florals, and men in chinos, shorts, and golf shirts.

The red and white candy stripes were perfectly contrasted against the blue sky and the sea, a theme that is repeated throughout this area.

My FOMO got the better of me, and I did a quick recce of the area. Black and white tiles, a carefully constructed miniature sailing ship in full sail in a windowsill, ceiling fans turned languidly, and cushioned cane furniture for guests to sit. A cool, subtropical, plantation feel.

In the passage leading to the cloakrooms, a gallery of all the famous patrons who’ve been guests. I dragged Butch nearer for a picture. I see Prince Harry putting his ear to Butch’s noggin. Bill Gates was above me, and Eben Etzebeth was here too. My favourite would be Rick Stein and Idris Alba (was he here during the shooting of the movie Mandela: A Long Walk to Freedom?)

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Margate – Cousin Ros

We needed to get back to the South coast to Margate to see Butch’s Cousin Ros.

Our best option for a campsite was the Oasis Caravan Park and Chalets. The advantage of being walkers and fairly fit is that once we’ve parked the truck, we can walk anywhere we need to go. I'm sure campsites are swallowed up by reservations years in advance as many campers faithfully return annually.

The weather was good and all signs pointed to the beach, which was hardly a kilometre from our campsite.

En route from the beach one afternoon, we walked through the small village, where we stopped at the local butcher.

I believe one should always get to know the local butcher, and we did. A very knowledgeable man who impressed us with his offer to taste his sausage, droëwors, and biltong before we decided to make a purchase. He listened intently to Butch, who described the thickness of the steak he was interested in, and assured us his beef was all matured as we like it. We groaned as we went up the hill with our purchases.

The caravan Park was interesting. Recently taken over by new management, the camp offered attractive specials for long-time campers, pensioners, and semi-permanent campers as well.

All the campsites are well-proportioned and situated under beautiful, shady trees and gardens. Although the campsite was reasonably busy, we never felt enclosed or restricted.

The facilities were excellent, well-kept, clean, spacious and artfully decorated.

A fairy garden is always an attraction for little girls, and I’m sure my granddaughters would’ve loved to spend time exploring all the grottos, treehouses, caves hidden amongst the shrubs, toadstools, ferns and secret hiding places of elves and fairies.

Our forays to the beach were super, and we even took the plunge and wrangled ourselves back into our bathers, enjoying the fun and games around us, dipping into our novels and simply enjoying where we found ourselves. Sometimes it’s good to take it all in and not do a thing of importance, which we did after we had done our customary explorations into the area, of course.

Our campsite was situated less than a kilometre from a river dividing Margate north and south. We were in the north. Beautiful white sandy beaches stretched all the way along the river’s embankment. Perfect for families with small children, this spot allows them to play along the quiet waters of the river as it flows gently into the sea.

Families with grown-up children could have the best of both worlds, where the magnificent, sheer rocky cliffs provided welcome shade and protection from the elements. At the same time, the teenagers surfed and bodyboarded, making full use of the tides and waves washing onshore.

The river cascades over a group of rocks upstream, which is an added attraction for this rather special beach in lush vegetation and far from the maddening crowd, across on the south side of built-up Margate’s CBD, apartments and housing estates.

On foot and with Google Maps showing the way, we walked to Ros'.

With Butch’s cousin Ros, we explored the area by car; it was a treat being chauffeured around. This is her playground, and soon I was pretty lost as she zipped along all the shortcuts to her favourite Dutch Waffle house in Ramsgate.

This is what they say on their website: “Where good food and great memories are made!

Originally established in 1957 as the Teahouse of the Blue Lagoon, we became what is now known as The Waffle House in 1991. This was based on the success of the original Waffle House, which began in 1978 in Norwich, England.

Our speciality . . .

Light crispy Belgian Style Waffles, freshly baked to order.”

I salivate as I write this. Waffles with all their calories, sweetness and oozing deliciousness are the food group I’ve denied myself for years.

That rule was about to be broken as I perused the menu. Savoury waffles, breakfast waffles, sweet waffles; they were all there. The choices were mind-boggling, but I settled on my favourite option whenever I’m in doubt. Apples. In any form whatsoever is always a good choice for me.

Pure indulgence.

Our visit there was not about food, of course, but to catch up on decades of separation and distance from Ros.

The cousins nattered and chatted, laughed, cried, whooped, and chortled as they relived past events and childhood Christmases, birthdays, and holidays spent together.

There were marriages, births, deaths, divorces, and second chances to relate, regurgitate and ponder. The good times, the sad times and the terrible times were also discussed.

Our waffles cooled down, and the cappuccino’s foam lost its mojo. We reordered a second cup, but the stories had no end.

Ros insisted we peruse the deli and walk the boardwalk, amidst the lush beauty of subtropical vegetation, overlooking the serene Ramsgate Lagoon.

Later, we stopped again and again until at last she’d shown us all her favourite haunts.

Thanks to the often-dismissed and reviled Social Media, which we all so flippantly dismiss as abhorrent, it has been possible for Butch and Ros to stay connected and keep their ties over the years and distances. This visit was made possible through their commitment to remain linked. Sometimes we should think twice before being so facetious regarding people’s preferred way of communicating.

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These words, Fish Shop, LM Prawns, Fish & Chips, are like a red flag to a bull when it comes to us, and the charge was on. After a few hours on the beach, we decided to roll up our towels and venture up to the unassuming little restaurant on the corner with a deck facing the main road to see what was cooking for an early supper.

The owners were on duty, and on the stove was a delicious prawn curry with all the trimmings, we were told. Yes, they did live in Mozambique, where they met, this lovely Indian lady and her Durban boy, she said.

We arrived early and were able to pick the best seat on the deck. Our meal was scrumptious. Exactly as one would expect huge, plump’ glassy LM Prawns to be. The curry was fragrant, spicy and complemented the prawns perfectly—the perfect end to a perfect few days in Margate.

We only explored a smattering of the Natal coast. Still, I can say that the Natal North and South Coast, with its pristine beaches, lush vegetation, diverse marine life, and good subtropical climate, is a paradise for families with children, nature lovers and adventure seekers.

 

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A cloudy day is the perfect excuse to pick up sticks and head south. Our journey had to continue, and this was as good a day as any to get started.

The drive to Port Shepstone brought back memories of my brother’s time there, now almost thirty years ago, where he spent his long-lost, care-free, hippy days living in a forest in a cabin with his miniature pig, a cat and a dog. I’m sure he’d be shocked to see how the south coast has developed. I even wondered if he’d recognise any of the places I was photographing?

The rolling hills, covered in lush green grasses, cane fields dotted with small trees, and villages with a few brick and mortar rondavels and homes, so different yet the same, might trigger his memories of those unencumbered, youthful years. We thought they’d never end.

I didn't realise how big the district was until I returned to my photographs and noticed the geo-tagging.

 

Next came Harding, where the landscape suddenly turned a shade of yellow and lime, breaking the monotony of the rolling green hills and forests of indigenous trees and commercial plantations of pine and eucalyptus.

The traditional method of setting fire to grasses in the dry season must be a considerable concern to the Department of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries, who own the trees planted on Trust land, we surmised as we drove past large tracts of blackened, burnt earth, which also contributes to the land erosion we noticed along the way.

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Kokstad

The small town of Kokstad, in the Harry Gwala District Municipality, is situated on the border between KwaZulu-Natal and the Eastern Cape, nestled in the heart of East Griqualand.

Kokstad rests in the shadow of Mount Currie on the outer slopes of the Drakensberg and was, until recently, best known for its cheese until Oprah Winfrey placed the town on the map, amidst much fanfare, when her charitable foundation, Oprah’s Angel Network, founded a school for Kokstad’s Shayamoya township.

Kokstad, situated in a predominantly mountainous area, is surrounded by stock farms.

This wild and beautiful part of the country was settled by the Griqua - a hardy group of frontiersmen who, after clashing with Boers and the British in the interior, turned east and settled in what was known as ‘No Man’s Land’ - in the 1860s. Their leader, Adam Kok, was responsible for establishing the town of Kokstad.

The town’s namesake was to die an unfortunate death after falling off a cart, only a few years after the town’s establishment. Still, a monument, right next to the police station, commemorates his importance.

The area is renowned for its numerous rivers and dams, offering ample opportunities for trout fishing. There are no fewer than three reserves, Mount Currie, Wilfred Bauer, with lovely picnic spots, and the Mountain Lake Nature Reserve, a small reserve peppered with cattle tracks and little paths that provide wonderful walks, as well as over 220 species of birds for bird lovers. Crystal Dam, a spring water dam, provides boating and angling opportunities. 

 

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You might’ve guessed it, we were on our way to Lesotho, where distance is measured in time. This would be a first for both of us, and another stamp in our passports and a flag on the Honey Badger awaited.

Yesterday I vowed to get out and walk, come hell or high water. I am delighted to say I did. I spotted two tortoises, one of which had only recently hatched, and was so tiny that I felt compelled to save it from the boot of a hiker. I lifted it carefully and placed it in the fynbos.

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Something for the soul

When the weather’s squally, my heart takes on a sombre, moody tone, and I remember that while we were walking on the beautiful beaches in Natal, this poem came to mind when I watched an old lady, her colourful sari swirling in the water around her nutty brown feet, fill an empty Brandy bottle with water. She held the bottle in her gnarled hands with the neck slightly up to release the air trapped, and painstakingly, as the wave pushed gently to the shore, she filled her bottle.

(I do not have it memorised; I read it one morning, and it fit the mood.) The salt of the sea has healing powers; maybe that’s why all humans are drawn to the sea, even those who never have the privilege to experience it. To them, a canned-fruit jar filled with ocean water, brought home by a friend, is good enough.

When the heart