The Napier Family

This account of a more recent journey to Hermanus was written by Nancy Okes (born Napier) and tells of a trip from Cape Town to Hermanus almost exactly 100 years ago, in 1922. The writer contributed a chapter to the book “Hermanus Stories III” by S J du Toit, published in 2007. The book can be bought at The Book Cottage in Station Square, Hermanus, and I recommend it to anyone interested in Hermanus history.

My father had a 1922 Buick Tourer, top speed 25 miles per hour. She was a long fawn affair with a canvas hood and could seat at least eight passengers. A running board, rubber-paved, ran along each side of the car, and onto these on each side, were fixed two spare wheels with a gallon can behind each, one for petrol and one for water. Behind the front seat was a picnic hamper.

Father was intensely proud of his car and called her The Thoroughbred as he was keen on horse racing, but my mother, who did not hold with betting, named her Bonny Jess. Behind the back seat (which could be angled forward) was a cavern for storing some mica shields, which one press-studded onto the wooden frame and side-struts of the roof if it rained. These hermetically sealed the interior of the vehicle to the discomfort of the occupants, and were soon abandoned. Their place was taken by karosses under which we snuggled in case of inclement weather. For the hazardous and dusty journey to Hermanus from Cape Town, my father wore a grey linen motor coat, and my mother would don a motoring veil over her hat.

It took at least three and a half hours to Hermanus. Our route lay along Darling Street, District Six on our right, past the early morning market, Salt River and Bellville where there was a Greek shop where we could top up with bananas, chewing gum and sugar sticks.

The main road at Somerset West seemed to us like a perfumed rose garden. Great houses in magnificent gardens stood well back from the road, and their roses came down to the pavements. Ahead lay Sir Lowry’s Pass, a dirt road, narrow and steep. Bonny Jess started off like a racehorse, but sadly her pace became slower and even slower as she gasped and lurched uphill. But she made it, only boiling when she limped onto the great gravel circle at the summit where she was allowed to recover her cool, her bonnet open to catch any breeze. We children ran amongst the proteas and other fynbos which crowned the top of the pass.

The road now ran downhill, into the hamlet of Grabouw where a few shops lined the main road. At the far end we were brought to a halt by the brown Palmiet River, wide and slow-moving. There was no bridge. My brother removed his sandals and got out. It was his task to act as our guide. If the water rose to his armpits, Bonny Jess could not get through. In low gear, we followed his white legs. My mother protested. My father growled, “Lad did not drown last year, no reason why he should drown this year.” The water rose to his waist. Then he was out, waving us on, and Bonny Jess followed.

Houwhoek Pass was then a narrow dirt road down in the bowels of the earth, hugging the railway line. Great rocks rose on each side, dwarfing us all. There were sharp bends where the sun never shone, reducing us to silence. Then we were out, trundling back into sunlight; black and white cows dotted green pastures, and there were small silos with thatched pointed roofs. And on to the coloured township (now Mount Pleasant). Already we could smell the sea and the thatch and fish. The main road of Hermanus held a few houses, and then we were round the corner where there was the Victoria Hotel, with its pub door open to the pavement, and we parked in the village square, cobbled and uncluttered. There were a few thatched cottages opening onto it, and chickens, dogs and children ran around. My father repaired to the hotel while my mother bought mebos (dried apricot fruit roll) and koeksisters (a kind of plaited dough deep-fried in oil, then dipped in syrup) from Ouma Sienie van der Merwe, who resided in one of the cottages. We ran down to the harbour where fishermen were mending their nets or unloading their harvest, while their womenfolk worked nearby at long cement tables, cutting up fish. All had one greeting for us “En hoe gaan dinge in die Kaap?” (“And how are things at the Cape?”)

The klaxon call from Bonny Jess sent us hurtling uphill, and then we were off through the sleepy, thatched village. Over the Mossel River and past the only house in those parts, a great thatched affair with pillars, in a tree’d garden (it is still there). A mile or two further on, we splashed through a stream, and then we were at the Riviera Hotel. It lay along the shore, looking out to Walker Bay – a long red-roofed sanctuary backed by a grassy “werf” (yard). On the left was the holy-of-holies, the bowling green, and beyond it lay a row of twelve garages. Bonny Jess knowing her place, stopped before No. 12, and we, knowing ours, hosed her down with a hose which was kept handy for the purpose. Then we went to pay our respects to our host and hostess. The first time I was conscious of Mrs Luyt was in about 1924. She came down the stairs to greet us. The light from the tall window on the half landing illuminated her hair and her figure, as she stood smiling down at us. She seemed embowered in flowers and light. Even my irreverent siblings stood motionless, their mouths agape.