A night in historical Tulbagh

Posted on 7 March 2011

Nestled away in the north-eastern corner at the back of the greater Western Cape‘s magnificent valley of wines, lies the picturesque yet productive little town of Tulbagh. A running joke with the locals, and one they’re not shy of repeating, is to remind you that effectively there exists only one way in and back out again. But, as a portion of the lyric from a famous song by The Eagles reads, you could choose like so many of its inhabitants have chosen to over the years and, ‘never, never leave.’

Unashamedly, and despite its geographical proximity (Tulbagh finds itself between a horseshoe arrangement of the Obiqua, Winterhoek and Witzenberg Mountains), the secrets kept within Tulbagh’s inner perimeter are bound to charm you into wanting more. This was how I felt when I plotted my course for the fertile valley recently. Nevertheless, despite all my imaginative preplanning, I was at a small loss with a case of writers block.

To furrow a better perspective on things for you, I subsequently decided to treat myself to a Justin Fox type of adventure seeing as I couldn’t come up with anything of decent original content and value to cover. I wanted to really embrace myself in my surroundings, if you will. That is probably what Mr Fox would do if he had drawn a temporary blank. Besides, I had only a little over 24 hours and I couldn’t remember having ever gone to Tulbagh before, although I had certainly skirted its borders on the occasional probe into deep, faraway wine territory. The reason for the Justin Fox styled experience you enquire? Well, I asked myself what was yet to be written about this little town; what was there to write about that hadn’t already been covered in magazines and newspaper features? The answer was simple and inevitable: most matters of interest had already been well represented in a number of creative ways.

Candidly I glanced over at my camera, and it was around about then, while I had been contemplating my next move in the searing 40 degree 10am heat, that I knew what it was that I should do. I wasn’t yet in the actual town but I had stopped outside it to face the Winterhoek Mountain on the R46 between Wolseley and Tulbagh. It’s a stretch of road that eerily snakes its way in amongst the piercing chiming of cicada beetles and intermittent deathly silent stretches of open road. The sky was a whispery pastel of high level cloud painted onto a canvass of that dark blue colour you see in glossy coffee table books. Of course the grass was a long, dry and waving wheat-brown. A good photograph with the polarizer attached to the wide-angle lens.

That’s when the flash went off, not literally but figuratively: act like a tourist very serious about documenting the experience. Don’t come off as a journalist.

The above-mentioned photograph captured, it was in to town to fill up some memory cards that I went.

Of course there have been many photographs taken of this, one of South Africa’s oldest towns. Tulbagh boasts some of the most scenic and historically important architecture we have to offer including some of the oldest churches in the country. Many old houses have also been lovingly restored to their original character, post late nineteen sixties earthquake, and the architecture depicts another time in our country. The challenge was to find ways to creatively portray another aspect of the town. Immerse myself I said. Look for the other parts of Tulbagh’s personality. After all, I had few words and I needed the saying of a picture telling a thousand words to come true relatively soon.

One memory card full and on about lunchtime, just before I made my way to Things I Love on Van Der Stel street for the homemade venison pie (which I washed down with an organic raw chocolate milkshake with honey), I was attempting to take a portrait shot of another one of the locals – Pavo cristatus – or peacock. I was in the open gardens at Paddagang Restaurant and tentatively making my approach when two little old ladies appeared. Fearing the worst I backed off and nervously uttered something about the peacock not being friendly. This was met with rapturous giggles which I then learned were because the ladies were hoping I was going to calm the colourful local and persuade him into a money-shot to be taken home and shown off. None of us got the shot.

After a few more hours of trekking around town, late afternoon had begun to descend and I needed to do a bit of memory card downloading. The heat had made it strenuous, yet it had also been an enlightening day at the same time. I was pleased to learn that everybody I spoke to saw the value in maintaining the not-so-off-the-beaten-track places like Tulbagh so that people like me could come and enjoy them, even on a weekday towards the end of the main tourist season. It’s reassuring that it isn’t just a show for the tourist.

I stayed a short drive out of town in the direction of Drostdyhof, at the self-catering cottages aptly named Villa Tarentaal. They are owned and run by Graham and Brandi Hunter and are situated on a beautiful piece of land that has been in the hands of the Hunter’s for years. After welcoming me and settling me into Blue Crane cottage, I spend the next hour relaxing and chatting with them and their baby daughter on their veranda overlooking the pool and the mountains. Graham was born in South Africa and spent 20 years in America before meeting Brandi, herself an American, although he admits to having found a new home and soft spot in South Africa. Graham’s father cultivates his own olives on the property and offered a warm smile and handshake upon passing through on his way to ferry his staff around.

When the Hunters retire for the evening I’m left to my own accord and a chance to absorb the day. I light the fire from the wood that was already in the outside braai and begging to be lit. Cut up some vegetables, and grabbed the lamb. Time for the one-man potjie show. Now I can’t really say if it’s something that Justin Fox would do, but it did afford me the chance to just relax and get some more photographs. And it wasn’t as if I was keeping the restaurant open or anyone waiting so it didn’t matter what time dinner was served.

I’m up early the next morning and potter around my two bed roomed cottage to the lounge. As I drink my coffee I glance through the guest book because I’m always intrigued by what destinations people have descended from. The common undertone emerging from the messages, other than the many different places people are from, is the unique package that seems to be at the core of what Graham does at Villa Tarentaal – service. I query him on this when he brings me my breakfast on the veranda because we as South Africans don’t seem to as a core, hold the highest of expectations when it comes to this funny seven letter word. Graham nods and says “Well, that’s why I cook your breakfast, just the way you ask me to.






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