Autumn festival…

CHRIS BENNETT looks back on a fine season.

A HAT tip this week to Wozani, and another to the town officers of Margate for the excellent Easter/Bikefest events.

I drove around the promenade in Margate fairly early one morning recently.

After dropping a friend at the Port Shepstone Hospital, hence the early morning, I had coffee, excellent coffee at M&B.

Strollers were promenading in the bright sunshine and the refurbished fishing pier, once again bringing much joy to the fishermen, was doing great stuff. All arms of the pier had fishermen angling their optimism into the magnificent swell. The Margate Pier is surely one of the finest on the coast, maybe even in the country.

I was somewhat taken aback when I read in last week’s Herald that there had been 20 000 motorbikes in town for the recent fishing and biking festivals. I find it hard to visualise so many, but from what I saw on the road and in the car parks over the holiday, bikers from all around the country seem to have adopted the KwaZulu-Natal South Coast as their own.

One local watering hole in Port Edward, a town of which I wrote last week, is called The Web - of intrigue maybe? The owners took part enthusiastically in the fishing competition with a stall near the boat club. This meant that there was little occasion for thirst, given the bar at the ski boat club and the always popular Bobbies’ restaurant. Visitors commented on the friendliness of South Coasters. I replied that that is one of the reasons we live here.

I have seldom seen a pub as interesting as The Web. It has a pleasant presence in its affable and friendly hosts, Denis and Rhone, both of whom are noted bookworms. The pub boasts a modest but interesting little collection of volumes, something rare these days anywhere, let alone in a pub!

During a conversation recently with bikers from the other side of the barrier of spears, they told me this was their first visit to the coast, or at least this part of it.

I pointed out that the South Coast, as we who live here know only too well, rejoices in the nickname of the Slow Coast.

The slowness is perhaps something of an illusion, but one of the reasons most of us can afford to indulge in such trivialities as the speed limit is that we don’t have any need to rush. Motorbikes always rush, of course. They have deadlines to meet, and occasionally they meet those lines dead.

I also pointed out that there were two things that newcomers to the Coast have to accustom themselves to: the pace of life and the lack of money.

It has always struck me that people in a hurry, whether they are motor bikers or taxi drivers, delivery drivers or bus drivers, are usually in a hurry because they are in pursuit of money. What else could it be? Hence my conclusion that the slowness is as illusory as the money.

I have a habit of obeying the speed limit; I realise that the limit is not arbitrary but is imposed in the interests of safety. In other words the design of the road means that travel will be safe at speeds up to and including the limit.

When I can I drive at about 90kmh, which is why I take the old road to Shelly Beach or Port Shepstone. My life is now dictated by less urgent needs, and the speed on the old road is dictated largely by topography.

I know I can’t win the argument, but I can’t lose it either.

CB

Sea Horses ahoy!

CHRIS BENNETT was in the thick of it in Port Edward.

A PRETTY place, Port Edward. Notwithstanding an apparently blissful unawareness of town planning (which may be a blessing) this little seaside resort has a lot of charm.

The town was established in the early 1920s, or thereabouts. It was founded on a farm called Banner Rest, owned by a certain Ken Pringle, who may have been a descendant of the 1820 settlers. The name is retained in the lovely retirement village of Banners Rest, presumably as the residents have more than one banner.

Following a visit to the area by the Prince of Wales, Prince Edward, the heir to King George V, possibly in 1924, Pringle renamed the town Port Edward. It is one of the few towns named after this man, who reigned for one year from January to December 1936. He abdicated in order to marry the woman he loved, Mrs Wallis W Simpson, an American. He was succeeded by his brother Bertie, who reigned as George VI, and whose great-grandson was married in a not altogether unnoticed ceremony in London’s Westminster Abbey last week.

Last weekend also saw the annual ski-boat fishing competition at Port Edward, with competitors from all over the country, and for the occasion Port Edward was en fête.

Cars and bakkies from all over the republic crowded into the little town, towing all manner of ski-boats; large, larger and largest.

Festooned with astonishing and brilliantly shining paraphernalia, these magnificent vessels were equipped with outboard motors that looked as though they would propel an ocean liner. Some carried two, brooding on the sterns of the spotless, gleaming craft like beached whales.

The boats taking part in this seriously important and widely popular event were launched at slipways all along the South Coast, from Shelly Beach to Port Edward.

Activities started around sunrise on Saturday and lasted for two days. Hundreds of cars, bakkies and motor bikes crowded into the little area next to the National Sea Rescue Institute’s boathouse overlooking Silver Beach. The motor bikes, part of a now established national rally, were astonishing in their glitz, power and growling formidable presence.

By ten o’clock the place had become a carnival. Stalls selling everything from food to mementos and back to food (and then more food) had sprung up along the road that runs past the police camp to the NSRI building.

The local watering hole, The Web (of intrigue?) had a stall there, making thirst unlikely, taking into account that there were also the bar at the club and the always popular Bobbies' restaurant.

I have seldom seen a pub as interesting as the Web, in the heart of Port Edward. It has a pleasant presence, and is attended by its affable and friendly hosts, Dennis and Rhona, both of whom are noted bookworms. The pub boasts a modest and interesting little collection of volumes, something rare these days, to say the least.

An enterprising pancake seller had hired the services of a young lad as a barker, who called his wares with the enthusiasm of a New York paper boy. But not for too long though.

A Port Edwardian of note, Wendy Waddacor, who manned an Aladdin’s cave of a stall, confessed to having been a fisher since the age of four, a year or so ago, said that a fisher, once hooked, would fish for ever.

Somewhere around lunchtime the boats started to return to the bay, beaching themselves between enormous sparkling, tumbling white-horse-maned surfing waves.

The final fishing, and the ceremony of rewarding the winner, was on Sunday. The main prize was a magnificent new ski-boat worth around R300 000.

Once again the willing, if sometimes frustrated (people tend to be thick), team of John Doveton has pulled off a fine achievement, aided and abetted by bright blue skies, shining seas, golden sands and lots of fun for visitors.

Well done Port Edward!

CB

5/5/11

Easter seascape…

CHRIS BENNETT reflects on the beautiful autumn holidays.

VISITORS to this stunning coast, of which there are currently many, must marvel at the ruggedness of the shoreline, especially those areas where the dunes abut the black volcanic boulders, the product of millions of years of pounding, thunderous seas, and eternal battle between rock and water which seems to be destined for an infinite stalemate.

Perhaps one of the aspects of the sea that most appeals to me is its sound: the rocks on the sea's edge below my cottage glisten in the sun with an insular arrogance; seemingly uncountable centuries have failed to dim their brutish, sullen presence.

Grinds, bumps, crashes and bangs affright the air, tearing the quiet asunder; I hear all manner of things in this magnificent jumble: buses crashing, houses falling, the noise sometimes defies belief. Sometimes, in my cottage, I can hear the pulse of the lower register of the sound, booming like an old memory. It must be thrilling to those new to it. The sound of the sea is my companion, my muse.

The past two weeks have been particularly stentorian. However, in contrast to the rocky shore and shining beaches we have some less pleasant sights, of which one is particularly awful, largely because it is amid beautiful surroundings. .

The drive from the Southbroom robot into Ramsgate (turn inland at the robot), a drive that is pleasing and pretty along the old main road, crosses the Bizana River, a boulder-strewn stream that becomes the majestic lagoon at the golden spit of beach in Southbroom.

As you cross the modern bridge you will see, on the left, the old steel lattice girder bridge, used now for pipes; an interesting relic of quieter days of horse drawn traffic and spindly motor cars.

The river bend at this junction is pastoral and quiet, but it is marred by an eyesore of a building on the right that seems to have been out of commission for ever. It is tatty, ugly and crumbling, and it spoils what otherwise would be a lovely place and, indeed, would make probably make a very pleasant park.

All it would take is a coat of paint while someone, somewhere, decides what on earth to do with it. It is an affront, especially to visitors who must think that South Coasters don’t care. But they do. Don’t they?

A little further on is the eccentric Pistols Bar, with its endearing menagerie of domesticated animals. The donkey and the pig are also entertaining, or at least they were when I last visited, which is admittedly a while ago. On the verandah of this pub you can sit with a cold beer and admire the idyllic beauty of the Bizana river, a good way to spend some time with friends.

This Easter weekend saw the arrival of the two wheeled hordes, welcome visitors who enliven our rather staid little world with much bravado, devilish speed and noise, noise, noise.

Many visitors will enjoy an extended break this year, which is very nice but I can’t help wondering who is running the show.

I plan to go to the Cape soon and managed to book a flight in mid-May which avoided all holidays. My calculations produced some interesting figures. If you add together the days of the months of April and July they come to 61. Forty of those days are school holidays, public holidays or both.

I wonder how much this costs the country.

CB

Pebbles in the rain…

CHRIS BENNETT reflects on words and music.

I HAVE been savouring the sound, the sight, and the smell of the rain.

From my Morris chair in front of the French windows the raindrops, fat as grapes, clatter and rattle on the quivering banana leaves; they splash into the birdbath, huge drops, slow and lazy, as if a thunderstorm is on their minds. They sound like pebbles; come to that they look a bit like them.

Most of my life I have thought of Natal, as it was formerly called, as a province with a climate not unlike that of New Zealand, only warmer. I remember when I was young a visitor from England stayed with us at my parents’ home in Auckland; he commented to Dad on the richness and greenness of New Zealand.

Dad countered with, “Well it would be rich and green; the sun shines 365 days of the years and it rains 365 days of the year”.

Here we have a little more variety, although the cane and banana farmers are probably not all that pleased with the quantity.

Picking a dry and sunny day I recently browsed in Ronnie’s delightful bookshop in Umtententwini, where I came across a copy of one of my favourite books, Lawrence Durrell’s Prospero’s Cell.

It was an early Penguin edition in fair condition. I was tempted to buy it but hesitated because I already have a copy. The temptation arose because the book on the shelf had belonged to Edgar Cree, the musician and conductor, who retired to Durban and in his last few years broadcast a pretty programme called From My Window: the Sea. His crisp and elegant signature on the title page of this edition of Durrell’s memorable book denoted his ownership. Dr Cree was an SABC colleague with a most likeable nature; for a non-musician like me anyway.

That moment in Ronnie’s opened a floodgate of memories and a slight whiff of nostalgia, memories of the Johannesburg City Hall, and M1, the great broadcasting concert hall* in the studio block of the Auckland Park complex; not quite a longing for the past, which afflicts all of us at times and in various ways, but more a remembered journey, a happy and long one.

Although I didn’t know it at the time I would not have been displeased with the destination of that journey: retirement on the wonderful South Coast, arguably the most agreeable corner of Africa.

The rain, mean and scarce though it has become in recent years (I keep a journal) was nevertheless very welcome, and pleasantly cooling after a few sticky wickets, or maybe I mean weeks.

* Studio M1 housed a platform big enough for a full symphony orchestra; a concert pipe organ, as big as some in European cathedrals, with two consoles, one under the pipes in the traditional position and another in the auditorium; the hall had raked seating and held (and this is a guess) two or three hundred people. The recording desk was built by Rupert Neeve of England. It was the rehearsal room of the National Symphony Orchestra, highly rate around the world. Edgar Cree was its conductor. Sadly this facility has been mothballed, or so I am told.

CB

22/4/11

Exchange and Mart…

CHRIS BENNETT has been checking the progress of the lower South Coast.

I AM most grateful to a kind reader in Munster who, in response to my observation about the lack of knowledge of our continent among young black people, sent me a fine, large laminated map of Africa, showing the political divisions that comprise the continent’s countries.

As someone once said, more or less, you can’t do much about where you are going if you have no idea of where you have come from.

I gather that the map is now displayed on a wall of a classroom in the high school at Nzimakwe, near Munster. I also heard that the teachers were as fascinated as the pupils to learn where Libya, Egypt and Tunisia are; but maybe that was wishful thinking.

I have always been fascinated by history; it was one of the few subjects at which I did tolerably well at school. The others were English and geography.

Much of history, of course, is trivial; but much is not. On the trivial side an interesting article caught my eye in the London Telegraph this week.

In the City of London, the small area (one square mile) from which the great metropolis of today grew, and which is today the heart of the world’s biggest financial exchange, there is a number of very old alleys, or small, narrow passageways, in which you will find financial offices and, occasionally, wine bars.

The wine bars of today are the successors to the coffee houses of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This point was made in the Telegraph article:

“Change Alley was once home to a number of fashionable coffee houses, including Jonathan's and Garraway's, both of which are commemorated by plaques. Speculators often met at a coffee house to buy and sell - so many, in fact, that it was eventually suggested that Jonathan's should be re-named the Stock Exchange. And so it was.”

For me it is gems of this kind that are the sparkle of history. Who on earth would have asked from whence came the term stock exchange?

Also this week the economics commentator Mike Schussler, interviewed on etv, made a number of considered observations (he had clearly stated that he was not a specialist in education) about the lack of technical training in this country. His implication was that it has now reached problem status. Not, you will note, issue status.

He claimed that the teachers of maths and science in Zambia were of a higher calibre than those in South Africa. That should get a few educators (another buzz word; the word teachers had no issues) on the South Coast sitting up and taking notice. It should; whether it shall is another matter.

There seems to be a bit of a flutter in the dovecote in this part of the world, the lower South Coast.

I gather from the more informed of my moles that work has started, albeit quietly, on the conversion of the R61 into the N2, a not inconsiderable task.

Much has been made of this project in recent years’ editions of this newspaper. My colleague Judi Davis has worked assiduously to keep readers informed of whatever progress may appear to be taking place.

Now, I gather, the work has started. Disruption is inevitable; but then so is progress. Perhaps we should not get too worked up about something which, for whatever reason, is also inevitable.

CB

15/4/11

The great human memory…

CHRIS BENNETT has been looking at libraries

I VISITED the Southbroom library for the first time and was delighted with what I found.

Housed in a charming building, probably around fifty years old, maybe more, the library has two main sections.

A small side room holds the non-fiction books, a very useful idea. The main part of the collection is neatly catalogued in alphabetical order and has a good variety of books.

The library is now privately run by volunteers, and during my hour or so in this delightful and tranquil place there was a steady stream of people returning books and looking for others; very much a living library.

The people of Southbroom are lucky; libraries all over the world are closing.

Writing in the Telegraph in London last week the columnist Ed West had this to say:

“Even attempts by some libraries to lure in kids, the poor and other officially favoured demographics by filling their shelves with DVDs have made little difference. The roots of educational and cultural poverty at the bottom of society go far deeper than that”.

Food for thought. The saving of the Southbroom library from closure was a bold effort and the institution is much appreciated by the village’s residents.

However, it has to said that the role of the small reference library is fast loosing ground to the internet, especially in the form of the globally popular Google search engine and the online encyclopedia Wikipedia. The rise of the smartphone is making access easier all the time.

Some interesting statistics show that even those extraordinary resources have not led to further reading. A recent survey of a well-known UK university’s history students revealed that 66 percent did not know who was on the English throne at the time of the Armada, and 69 percent did not know the location of the Boer war.

This trend towards a lack of interest in history seems to be another world-wide phenomenon.

And what will happen to all the books? Their biggest drawback is probably the amount of space and the controlled conditions in which they are kept.

Will the time come when all the world’s books are on computer, virtual places like the remarkable Gutenberg Project? I suspect no one knows, but I don’t think so.

I fear the world’s history is in danger of disappearing.

There will, I hope, always be places like the Bodleian in Oxford, and the Wren in Lincoln.

The Bodleian Library is the main research library of the University of Oxford, one of the oldest in Europe, and in Britain second in size only to the British Library. The Bodleian operates principally as a reference library and, in general, documents may not be removed from the reading rooms.

Another great name from the past is that of one Michael Honywood, who bequeathed his 5,000 books, including one of only 250 manuscript versions of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, to the Dean and Chapter of Lincoln Cathedral; these are still in the building built to house them in Lincoln. It is one of only two of Sir Christopher Wren’s surviving libraries. Michael Honywood was made Dean of Lincoln at the restoration of the monarchy in 1660.

Closer to home we have the libraries of the major universities of South Africa and the Brenthurst Library in Johannesburg, all housing priceless collections of well preserved chronicles of our county’s past.

If you have a local library, support it.

Reseach: Wikipedia and the Telegraph UK.

CB

1/4/11