THE WILD, WILD WEST COAST
“Hope you aren’t here to play golf,” he laughed. My husband looked at me askance; his golf clubs were stashed in the boot of the car. “You do know that the hotel has closed?” inquired our host. It was my turn to look bewildered as images of sipping an ice-cold G & T by the pool rapidly drained away.
“No hotel?” I replied, with a tinge of heartbreak in my voice.
“Nope, it went under last year,” he replied. Panic and dread washed over my husband’s face. “And the golf course?” he ventured. “Ja, that’s still open; you should have no problem getting a game,” was the response. Relief! All was well, for my husband at least.
Our apartment impressed us with clean lines, comfy furniture, a rim pool and an uninterrupted view of the ocean. As I unpacked our supplies (good local wine and cheeses, plus ingredients for the allimportant G & T) my husband suggested we visit the golf clubhouse.
“I should book a game for tomorrow,” he said. So off we set, through the screaming wind and sand that exfoliated the skin clean off our faces, to the local clubhouse where we were greeted by signs stating “NO ENTRY” in firm capital letters.
We wandered around the grounds until we stumbled across two men behind a makeshift bar that was empty of paying customers. My husband explained he had come to book a game of golf. The two men looked both baffled and amused. We were all yelling at each other in an effort to be heard above the shrieking wind and it was clear they thought we had lost our marbles entirely.
“It’s a bit quiet at this time of year,” said one in what was clearly an understatement. Undeterred, my husband booked and paid for his game of golf and we set off to explore the once-grand hotel, now standing abandoned like a landlocked Marie Celeste.
Signs of its previous incarnation were still evident in its elegant chandeliers and notices that directed us towards a non-existent spa. But there was no sign of life.
Discouraged and a tad downhearted, we set off in search of some lunch. As we drove through deserted towns, past shuttered restaurants and closed shops, it was clear that fate has not been entirely kind to parts of our beloved west coast. Once sustained by fishing and now scuppered by an ailing industry and the withdrawal of fishing rights, some villages resembled nothing more than forsaken ghost towns.
Tiny Paternoster still thrives with its eclectic mix of whitewashed houses, quaint shops and astonishingly excellent restaurants. As we devoured our delicious lunch of sea bass and purchased freshly baked olive bread from the local patisserie, the village was a beacon of light amongst forlorn hamlets and townships that clearly bear the blemishes of a scarred economy.
The next day, my husband enjoyed a solitary game of golf, wielding his clubs like weapons against a demonic wind and storms of sand. He returned looking like he had slain a dragon and survived.
We still love the west coast. It has a unique, austere beauty that seduces with its starkness. But next time we will visit in September when, hopefully, the area will be blessed by soft rain, squalls of wind will be tamed and wild flowers will be blooming. That is surely something to look forward to. — © Georgina Hatch
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