Getaways mean different things to different people. If a road trip includes farmstall stops, visits to small town junk shops, bracing beach or forest walks and sunset shandies then I’m in.
My husband and I both endured leg surgeries followed by tiresome recoveries last year and once we’d cast our crutches and compression stockings aside, decided that a leisurely break would restore our equilibrium.
Due to the heat that takes hinterland towns hostage in midsummer, he could barely conceal his relief when our sights shifted to the cooler Weskus and the prospect of packing his surfboard.
But the whole idea of popping out of Cape Town for a quick trip up the West Coast is a misnomer if you live in the Deep South (which includes Fish Hoek, Noordhoek, Muizenberg, Kommetjie and Simon’s Town).
It takes about an hour of teeth-gnashing traffic simply to reach the city limits on the best of days.
On the Monday in question, the students at UCT upped the stakes with a protest that stalled traffic on the M3 expressway.
Encountering a hopeless gridlock on Wynberg Hill we reluctantly bailed left for the much longer route through Hout Bay and Camps Bay.
It had been a while since we drove these posh suburbs on an early Monday morning.
The sight of intersections clogged with desperate job seekers is sobering when your biggest concern is whether the B&B will have aircon or a ceiling fan.
The City of Cape Town has the lowest unemployment rate of all SA metros and in 2022 it contributed R287bn to the national economy.
But the “optics”, as they say, remain disturbing.
I have mixed feelings about the Weskus. During our courting days I’d been lured into several supposedly romantic weekends that involved a small sand-clogged tent and the prospects of being blown into the freezing Atlantic by a gale-force southeaster.
On one trip to Titties Bay, we’d spent the entire weekend in a sandblasted panel van with the only ablution prospects a quick dip in the 10°C sea.
My future husband seemed like a hot prospect at that stage, but he insisted on presenting me with crayfish and perlemoen like some form of heroic forager.
He was deeply disappointed when I declined and broke into a sweat when he remembered that the cooler box held little else but Black Label and Old Brown Sherry.
Now, with the need for a bit more comfort and less inclined to forage for our supper, we’d settled on Jacobsbaai and the promisingly named hotel Daai Plekkie in die Weskus.
A few decades previously I’d turfed my husband out of his cousin’s home in Langebaan when he became fractious about “nothing to do”.
He’d resorted to diving and surfing at Jacobsbaai and spotted the resort on the rocky point from the vantage of a chilly kelp bed.
Jacobsbaai has a nicely balanced level of gentrification. There is not much in the way of tourism and just a few shops, but there is a distinctly bougie feel with nicely developed coastal walks and a series of protected bays should you feel the need for a dip and a bout of hypothermia.
The Plekkie, however, owned by local celebrity comic and restaurateur Rikus de Beer, really ticked the boxes.
Our beautifully designed room was on the seaward side of the rugged point with just a few paces to the high-water mark.
On one side are the placid waters of the main bay where local bakkies set out daily to harvest kelp.
On the other, a more exposed beach with crashing surf, though not particularly rideable according to my slightly deflated husband.
A roomy shower, soft white towels, crisp high-thread bed linen, a massive TV and a sun-drenched patio instantly satisfied our comfort needs. Nothing opulent, just great basics.
The restaurant has an especially authentic feel about it — partly sports bar/comfortable family affair but with some special touches.
I cringed slightly as my sceptical husband interrogated a manager about the claim that they have no freezer because they only serve fresh fish.
After a stunning grilled calamari served with a Malaysian sauce and fresh grilled hake, he was forced to literally eat his words.
The priced-in breakfasts were also great value and the bacon and jalapeno omelette served with thick slices of plaas brood could keep you going for a week, never mind the day.
As the wind edged towards the 30-knot mark, we fled to Paternoster, 25 minutes up the coast, for the day.
The town claims to be the oldest South African fishing village and the home of Redro Fish Paste.
I was once treated to a beer at the famous Paternoster Hotel “men’s bar” with its delicate perfume of bokkoms (fish biltong).
The iconic hotel survives and its ever-optimistic array of bench tables still dominates the main street.
Modern Paternoster has replicated the original whitewashed fishermen’s cottages in its new seafront developments and somewhere along the line acquired a Greek aesthetic.
Somehow the kreef still come ashore despite industrial scale harvesting that goes back to 1902.
The “skelm” market for rock lobster is an open secret with locals on every street corner waving bags and making crawly hand signals.
The village seems to have successfully straddled the old and the new with a waterfront development sitting comfortably alongside a functional harbour.
Before hitting the road on what promised to be a scorcher, my husband insisted on a last body surf at the frigid Jacobsbaai beach.
Suitably refreshed for the drive, he then griped about the absence of an outside shower to wash off the salt.
I pointed out some resort workers cleaning braai equipment with an industrial high-pressure washer.
Before I could explain this was a joke, he’d presented himself for a high-pressure wash and after some hesitation, the cackling workers obliged. They were still in stitches as we drove away.
On our return journey via Saldanha we sought and found the kind of junk shop that got me on the road in the first place.
“Iets vir Iets” is cluttered and dusty and contains the kind of tacky treasures that get my heart racing.
My normally apathetic husband succumbed to the charms of a 1950s Aga-like cooker but sadly found that I’d already filled every available space in the car.
You can’t have enough three-legged occasional tables or hilariously kitsch poodle ornaments, is all I’m saying.
Our last evening on the road was miraculously windless and we were treated by my husband’s generous cousin to dinner at the historic Farmhouse Hotel on the shores of the Langebaan Lagoon.
The French-influenced supper was hosted by the ever-thoughtful LaRetha.
My husband insisted that the small shells containing the canapes were siffies (small Venus ear abalone) well known in the Eastern Cape.
LaRetha patiently explained they were simply small perlemoen purchased from the abalone farm in nearby St Helena Bay. Fortunately, his grilled elf arrived and shut him up for the rest of the meal.
The last leg of our return included a detour to a farm on the outskirts of Malmesbury to explore the possibility of an adoption from a Border Collie rescue facility.
As the temperature edged over 36°C, the excited dogs dashed around while we wilted and could barely summon a coherent thought.
The decision to make the westerly dash to Melkbos for a last frigid dip and a soft serve cooled us down, inside and out.
Weekender
