Time and tide…

CHRIS BENNETT reflects on the death of two people who contributed in very different ways to his life.

I WAS glad to return home from an exceptionally happy two weeks in Cape Town recently; but straight away I visited my pal Ingrid Andrews at the High Rock Pub and Grill in Palm Beach. Ingrid’s husband, Keith, the jovial and popular publican had died suddenly of a heart attack during my absence.

During their fairly short tenure of this pleasant watering hole the Andrews’s have affected some serious changes, and I suspect that Keith had more in mind; these may yet come to pass.

Between the bar and the huge swimming pool was a sort of yard, used by patrons on a hot day to sit outside and enjoy their beer. Keith reshaped and rebuilt (which itself involved a fair amount of demolition) the area and created a quiet beer garden, done, unusually for this day and age, with considerable taste.

For a publican to be able to impress his character on the stage on which he and his supporters perform is one of the signs of a mature understanding of the entertainment and hospitality business, possibly the life blood of the South Coast. In our persistent obsession with money, and especially profit, we tend to lose sight of the more profound rewards that await those who put the customer and his peace of mind first.

I have always admired the pub industry and its offspring the licensed restaurant. My mother’s brother (well, one of them; she had three) was involved in the running of hotels in the flat but enchanting fen country of Norfolk in England. My school holidays were always spent watching the comings and goings of the business, and gazing at that enormous sky while birding and fishing with my grandfather. I still do rather a lot of gazing.

Today on the South Coast the hotel is largely a thing of the past, replaced by the highly successful (in some cases) bed and breakfast industry. It is always pleasing to be involved in bringing some respite and maybe even happiness to those who travel a long way to enjoy the delights of this beautiful region. Well nearly always.

Another death which saddened me lately was that of the last of my four twentieth century literary heroes (in fact one was a heroine). The Hellenophile and outstanding travel writer Sir Patrick Leigh-Fermor died last week at his home in Greece. He was 96.

It is curiously interesting, to me, that the four writers, with whom I somehow identify and whose writing I find most inspirational, were all the products of an inquiring mind. Only one of them, Norman Douglas, had a serious tertiary education; the others, Lawrence Durrell, Elizabeth David and Paddy Leigh-Fermor were largely the product of travel and reflection, those two inseparable qualities that reveal to us our own make-up - if we are lucky.

Their lives spanned the years from the end of the nineteenth century to today. For me they are the stars of English travel writing of the twentieth century last century, which seems so appropriate to the nature of this wonderful corner of Africa. They all lived much of their lives away from Britain.

PLF’s books are still in print and are likely to be so for some time to come, as are those of Mr Durrell and Mrs David. The three worked together during WWII in Cairo. Norman Douglas, who died in 1953 in Capri (he was a neighbour and close friend of Gracie Fields), has fallen from fashion these days, but his Old Calabria is worth a read.