Piers' peers…

CHRIS BENNETT considers a line with hooks and sinkers.

A COUPLE of weeks ago, as I strolled along the promenade at the Strand in Somerset West, I stopped to admire the pier.

It is a completely different design from our rather elegant and shabby pier at Margate. The one in the Strand is long and straight. A couple of fishermen were casting their lines from the sea wall and I asked why the pier was closed. Apparently it had become dangerous. To whom, I asked. To children. I thought here we go again.

Children have no business being on a pier, unless there is a carnival at the end of it, in which case they can hang on to parental hands.

You will have noticed that in this depressing age of litigation-mania it is not possible to enter any premises whatsoever safe in the knowledge that if some prat drops a lavatory on your head from a dizzy height it will be your fault. If the garage man prangs your precious Bentley it is your fault, and so the litany drags on, interminable in its gloom.

My guess is that the pier at the Strand is about the same age, maybe even older, than the decaying molars of our once fine structure.

What I cannot understand is why these things have been allowed to happen. Not so long ago some of our councillors (it had to be more than one because everything is done by committee) assured the good people of Margate, and come to that the bad, that the pier would be rebuilt.

Not before the 2010 World Cup it won’t; and that is what we should have been aiming at five years ago.

The pier’s purpose seems to have been forgotten somewhere along the line. It was one of the great attractions, as piers usually are. There are those of us who can sit on the beach, and then there are those of us who enjoy the paraphernalia and patience that make a good fisherman. They could no sooner sit on the beach than, say, read a book.

Added to this many of the fishermen of Margate come from inland, especially during the quiet season. They fish for different reasons; some for sport, some for gain and some to feed their families.

That our council has not been able to grasp these simple facts is perhaps understandable; what is not so easy to see is why the work has not been done. Maybe the problem at the Strand is the same. Nobody knows how to build a pier any more. The operating memory has gone. Nobody has been trained.

Looking on the bright side of things, the council has been quite diligent of late in keeping most things in order. The verges are well kept, and, with some exceptions, the roads are good.

Talking of roads, I hear that the turnoff to Munster on the Ezinqoleni to Port Edward road, which was recently tarred, will have to be done again.

Now I wonder why?

Whale Runner…

CHRIS BENNETT has been watching the progress of a friend in New Zealand, former South Coaster, Larry Routledge.

EARLY one morning, after our return from three weeks of Cape beaches, vineyards and all the mundane things that go to make a fine holiday, I looked out from the stoep to see a humpback breaching.

Now there is little unusual about that in this part of the world, I’ll grant you. Except that I had just finished reading my friend Larry’s blog. Larry Routledge is a South African in New Zealand, with strong South Coast connections. He is the eldest son of Tegwyn Christie of Palm Beach.

Larry is one of those handy people who can make anything. The bigger, the better. He is working with a non-profit organisation whose aim in life is to put the Japanese whaling industry on a par with the dodo.

Larry’s blog can be seen at http://larryroutledge.blogtown.co.nz/2009/09/13/the-beginning/ .

Photos of one of the boats involved are shown, along with the story so far. The whole exercise will consist of three ships and a jetski. I can’t imagine what the jetski is for.

The crew will be operating in the deep blue bitterly cold waters of the Antarctic, a far cry from the lovely summer warmth Palm Beach.

For those of us who see whales almost everyday the idea of an activity so archaic as whaling is a bit difficult to swallow. The usual excuse put forward by the Japanese, and, I presume, the Icelanders, is research. But do we need to hunt and kill these immense mammals to learn more about them?

They communicate with each other through their exquisite whalesong, among other means. They play and frolic with their young of the coast of Margate and all the villages of this enchanted coast; and they do this year in and year out, as they migrate to and from their breeding grounds a little further to the north.

Young people like Larry Routledge, who is in frequent touch with friends on the coast through email, has made some interesting comments. Here is one of them:

“So the lads at the boatyard have been working flat out to finish the base coat and the first sections of the top coat were applied late on Friday. The finish will be matt black. There’s been an awful lot of work done on the hull and four more layers of Kevlar have been added for protection against the ice we’re likely to encounter down there. Final planning on the jetski ramp has been completed and the pieces are being made up. The prop shafts have been overhauled and were delivered on Thursday. These will be put in early next week once the painting has been completed. The rudder bits are on site too and will be put in after the shafts.

The jetski itself is getting the same matt black finish as the Earthrace and I have been doing that this week. That involves a whole lot of sanding and elbow grease but the result is looking promising. It gets its final coat on Monday and assembly on Tuesday.”

As far as I can make out the matt black is to help in deterring radar detection – stealth technology. A sort of Starfish Wars.

I wish them well and will occasionally add a note to the column about their progress. They will soon be in the news on a TV near you.

Heart and hearth...

CHRIS BENNETT returns from a month in the Fairest cape…

COMING home always seems to be the best part of a journey; to me, and I think to the majority of us.

I miss the ones that matter most: the Widow Christie and the bewitching Samantha; Leon, the diviner and his wife Karin, dog, fish and plant whisperer. There is nowhere quite like home.

Seeing so much of the coastline and the splendid ocean around Africa’s spectacular east and south coast made me very aware of how fortunate we are to live in this particular corner of the world. The weather is, usually, comfortable and the green valleys of banana and sugar reassuring, in that someone, somewhere is growing food. The dry scrubland of the Eastern Cape has its own beauty, but it is still dry scrubland.

Driving on the N2 from the Cape to Natal revealed some interesting road behaviour. By and large, all the drivers were courteous and considerate, which tended to increase my despair for our lot here on the South Coast.

The motorway from King William’s Town to East London is huge and wide; the planned N2 route from Southbroom to Mthatha, which is what the boffins have in mind as far as I can make out, makes even less sense when you see so little use of the route. Bypassing Mthatha would be a step in the right direction and cost a lot less. However, as we all seem to surmise, there are all sorts of wheels within wheels on this project.

Having travelled from the glorious vineyards of the Cape, the leafy lanes and avenues of the delicious Stellenbosch and up along the five hundred kilometres of the coast, with its magnificent barrier of rock all along the way, the Langkloof, there seems to be no great threat to mother earth. I can’t help wondering if the threat is not more to the human race than the planet. Everywhere things grow and thrive, except in the shanty towns sprawling across the land, with seemingly neither hope nor future.

The drive down to the Cape, via Kokstad, Matatiele, Elliot, Queenstown, Cradock and Graaf Reinet; Prince Alfred’s Pass, Knysna and the Wilderness, and finally the wonderful Sir Lowry’s Pass down into Somerset West, was pure pleasure. It may take a little longer and be a little further, but it is very beautiful – to my eyes anyway.

Coming home via the forlorn Grahamstown, nearing its last legs, King William’s Town, much changed since William IV expired and was followed on the throne by his niece, Victoria, and sleepy Gonubie, was a matter of travel rather than touring.

The sight of the rolling hills of sugar cane brought a bit of a lump to my throat as I neared Esinqoleni to turn right and take the peaceful little back road to Port Edward.

All was well at home, excepting that for the first time in forty-something years there was no wagging tail to greet us.

But that is another story.

Down the road a bit…

CHRIS BENNETT has been taking a look at the Karoo and the Cape.

A FEW days spent down in the Cape have been a tonic. My travelling companion was keen to see the Cape again, especially in the spring. The Karoo between the glorious Graaf Reinet and the forlorn dorp Uniondale was a rhapsody of colour.

I am colour-blind; however, my companion is not and he pointed out much which I would otherwise have missed.

It is a funny thing, colour-blindness. Very few women are affected by it but nearly ten percent of the male Caucasian population has to put up with it.

I have always been surprised at how ignorant people are about how we see things. Don’t they ever talk to their optometrists? I seldom see green at all. I see red, yellow and blue. Add the yellow and the blue and I shall see whichever is the predominant colour in the mix. If the mix is a perfect balance I shall be confused; not a difficult thing. Similarly purple is either red or blue.

But what about traffic lights, say the unschooled. Well, in the first place they are stacked and in the second place they are three perfectly distinguishable bright colours: Dark red, light red and blue. Which I am sure you find very funny, although I would prefer it if you didn’t.

The dazzling spring sunlight in the awe inspiring Prince Alfred’s Pass between Uniondale and Knysna is one of the wonders of our land. The road seems to be narrower than the equally breathtaking Swartberg pass, and the 18 kilometre drive wends its way through gorges of what look like the product of some mad giant confectioner, great twisted ropes of rock, loops and whorls that play tricks on the mind.

The drive takes the best part of three hours.

My first visit to Knysna in about fifteen years was rewarded with a look around the beautiful waterfront centre they have built. It echoes the timber clad past of this pretty town, and is refreshingly free of canyons of concrete. We stayed in Robin and Dawn Whales’s lovely place, high on the hill overlooking the tranquil lagoon. One other couple were guests there, whose car also had an NPS number plate. They had recently moved from Soutbroom to Port Alfred. A small world.

Council’s seem to have a thing about fixing broken piers. A walk down the road from our flat on the beach at The Strand in False Bay took us to the long and inviting fishing pier. It was closed; permanently.

The notice attached said it had become a danger to the public. I thought of our lovely pier at Margate. What became of all the engineers and architects.

Or maybe I should be asking what became of all the money?

Spring rolls on…

Preparing for a drive around the country, CHRIS BENNETT was confronted with charm and courtesy on the South Coast.

THE first green, for which the Italians have the beautiful word ‘primavera’, and for which we use ‘spring’, is the most sparkling of all the splendid seasonal carpets that unroll across South Africa during the year.

Admittedly, on the South Coast this year we experienced a quick reversion to winter, with rain and low temperatures to dampen our spring enthusiasm.

I was delighted to find an outbreak of kindness and helpfulness in a number of businesses as I prepared to set off on a long and winding journey around the country to help a friend see the country he loves and will soon have to leave.

Padkos was a bit of a problem. I like to take things like liver patties, which are good eaten cold by the side of the road, along with coffee from the flask. My friend was not up to making the patties and I didn’t know where to begin.

However, the day was saved by the OK Grocers in Port Edward, which has, unsurprisingly, won the regional franchise of the year award this year. Those of you who have know the shop for some time will appreciate the work the Llewellyn family has put into it. The butcher made scotch eggs for us as padkos. They were quite brilliant and full of the joys of spring when eaten on a cold early morning in the middle of the Karoo.

On another occasion I was searching for two litre bottles of a ‘lite’ cool drink from the world’s biggest manufacturer. I gather deliveries in this part of the world have gone rather awry. But once again a local shop manageress, this time at the Spar in Manaba, took some plain Coke to her neighbour, a bottle store, and swopped it on my behalf. Service above and beyond the call of duty, I think.

The third experience was buying new tyres for the car. The man who has been in charge of my car’s well-being since I bought it more than three years ago, the excellent Sadah Govender, sent me over to the tyre shop of one Ahmed, a man of no mean mystique, who could talk the hind wheel off a Golf.

He sold me new tyres, gave me useful advice and offered his blessing on my long journey. Again, unsolicited, welcome and as fresh as spring, his thoughts were generous and kind. Spring was in the air.

My friend and colleague, Dave Holt-Biddle, came for a light lunch; he and Sue were bearers of tour guides and maps – more than enough, and again a kindness as fresh as the feathery tips of the native tree that the weavers turn into a sort of avian condominium block at this bright and cheerful time of the year.

So off we went on a Saturday morning bound for the deplorable Kokstad, the pretty Matatiele and the little town of Elliot, which appeared to be celebrating spring with the world’s most extravagant litter festival. Ah well…

Stocks and snares...

Driving along the roads of the South Coast is becoming a misery, writes CHRIS BENNETT.

YOU know, I am really sick and tired of it. I did not devise the speed limits on our roads, although I seem to have little trouble understanding the nature of the road surface, its route and width and why the speed limit imposed was chosen. It is not, to use that silly expression, rocket science.

But living near Munster and driving regularly to Margate, Port Edward or, God forbid, the depressing Port Shepstone, I am constantly obliged to break the law or drive dangerously.

Taxi drivers; what breed of vipers spawned these loathsome creatures beats me. I was overtaken a couple of days ago (I was traveling well above the 80km/h limit), by some crazed hooligan driving one of these new larger than life death traps which the government, in its exquisite insanity, seems to have thought might save lives. Well they won't. There will be just as many accidents, only with a much more efficient death rate. Lots of lovely mothers and pregnant schoolgirls.

This particular vehicle (with an Eastern Cape registration) overtook me, downhill, at the approach to the San Lameer Country Club. The irony may have escaped the driver's attention. Needless to say there was a sleek Mercedes (a bit like Chris Bangle's awful BMWs, but a little less crass) heading for an eternal meeting with this amazing, overladen (my impression) 'taxi'.

I slowed down and looked for an escape route. The 'taxi' missed the headlight-flashing Merc by about a metre.

What is it with all these stupifyingly mindless people who must travel as fast as the laws of physics will allow? So they get there 45 seconds earlier than expected. So?

The apologists tell me that it is all the fault of the taxi owners, who impose too heavy a demand on their drivers. Balls. (For tennis, of course. This is, after all a family newspaper).

Boris Johnson has the answer.

He, the Mayor of London, recently wrote in the Telegraph that the first thing the next British prime minister should do is to get rid of the fleet of ministerial cars. I hope you are reading this Mme Mayor. They serve, the cars that is, no recognisable purpose, beyond the bolstering of the occupant’s sense of self-importance.

Much the same can be said about those drivers who cannot contain themselves with in the speed limits set by our, presumably, well-informed legislators.

I am not very much in favour of the death penalty because it carries so little humiliation. Can't we bring back the stocks?

The very idea of the national education minister, one Blade Nzimanze, being provided with a R1,1 million car (another Bangle kitschstuk) is a neat comment on the political party of which he is not only a member but a leader, or Comrade in Chief. What is wrong with the bus?

Those who know about these things will no doubt explain that it is the poor man’s insecurity that causes this sort of thing.

Anyone for tennis?

PS: Chris Bangle is an Englishman who lives in California and designs motorcars for the Bavarian Motor Works.

Whistle stop…

A recent outing to the shops brought CHRIS BENNETT rich rewards.

A SENSE of humour is a precious thing; and, as the Germans tell me, no laughing matter.

I am a regular, if not all that frequent, visitor to and customer of that most excellent refuge for troubled souls, ranging from schoolchildren to the elderly, from the desperate to be informed to the desperately over-informed - the bookshop in the Hibiscus Mall, a certain Ramsgate Stationers.

Of course the obvious place to find some humour, the laughter in other men’s eyes, is a bookshop. Not only humour, but wit. A lovely word that. Wit, related quite closely to the Afrikaans word ‘weet’, is fast becoming rather archaic.

This is not altogether surprising, considering that the faculty of wit is diminishing about as quickly as the ability to marshal thoughts and then write them down.

Given that these days most of the big bookshops, Exclusive Books and others of that ilk, are sausage machine repositories, I would place the Potts’ family’s extraordinary business in Margate in the top five in this country, notwithstanding their lack of an antiquarian section, something I can well understand.

It was Shakespeare who admonished pretension with the phrase "Better a witty fool than a foolish wit".

Wit is usually quite poignant and almost always intellectually delightful. Books on wit abound in all good bookshops, but wit does not abound in all good meetings of men, and more’s the pity.

The thin yet permeable membrane that separates wit from humour, while allowing them to embrace, is an elusive thing. On my most recent call at RS I was waiting to pay at the counter, occupied by the enchantingly disparate group of intelligent women who serve there and who suffer fools with a compassionate sigh, when my eye was drawn to a small, undecorated cardboard box, a little box that had been cut out from a bigger.

It contained a fine example of a policeman’s whistle; it also contained a cautionary tale: Please do not blow!

My eyes watered with sheer delight! Not only was this humour and wit in love, it was pure, joyful stimulation for the tired and fragile mind that was mine at that moment. It was so funny, to me, that I could not possibly have said anything to anyone - until now.

It occurs to me that the younger among you, in fact most of you, will be singularly unacquainted with the policeman’s whistle, so here is Wiki on the subject:

In England since the Metropolitan Police inception in 1829, officers have been issued with the "Metropolitan" whistle. Prior to this, police used hand rattles, with whistles only being used as musical instruments or toys. Both rattles and whistles were used to call for back-up in areas where neighbourhood beats overlapped, and following their success in London, the whistle was adopted by most counties in England.

J Stevens and Son and J Dixon and Sons (Dock Green?) made police whistles from around the 1840s; T Yates made Beaufort whistles for the Liverpool Police in the 1870s. The 1880s and 1890s saw police whistles made by W Dowler and Son, Hudsons, Barralls, and several other worthies.

Today, of course, all over the world, policemen all have walkie/talkies. And I don’t mean chicken feet and heads.

For the rest of the day I whistled a happy tune.