FAWLTY FLOWERS
The Postberg section of the West Coast National Park is only open in August/September, when the annual Cape Floral Kingdom Dance commences upon nature’s stage. Visitors come from far and wide to witness an astonishing phenomenon. As the spring rains begin, the wildflowers soak up the liquid with a thirsty welcome and open their faces towards the sun. The colours are magnificent, from the tiny, bright red clusters of the pelargonium, to the low, tufted Buck Bay vygies, with shades of white, pink, orange and yellow glowing amidst the arid sandveld.
Cape daisies form white, billowy snowdrifts across the landscape, as if the Arctic has decided to invade, and the heliophila melds its blueness with that of the Cape sky.
Accommodation is plentiful but, at this time of year, generally booked up well in advance.
We stayed at a comfortable but odd guesthouse run by a less aggressive version of Mr & Mrs Fawlty. They were charming, albeit exhausting.
Every morning, there were questions about breakfast: from them, on what we would like, and from us, on what we might receive.
One egg became two, bacon was omitted, cinnamon pancakes came with a frown and scrambled eggs were served with a flourish of raspberry coulis for decoration.
We had to make our toast and fetch condiments ourselves. Butter was regularly requested.
Our host would join us every morning, pull up a chair and regale us with stories, in between rushing off into the kitchen to confuse the orders while singing excerpts from arias. It was with relief that we would commence our day in the serenity of nature.
We spent our evenings edging around pillars to our room so as not to be seen; and we kept a low profile until it was time to venture out for dinner.
Back in the room, we’d leave the light off for fear of a knock on the door followed by a query about our day; and we’d leave the car headlights off until the last minute, as we reversed at breakneck speed.
The town of Paternoster greeted the flower wanderers with its faux Greek look, the houses whitewashed and shimmering with the glare. The beach was empty and the sand sparkled with what looked like millions of cut diamonds. Driftwood and seaweed created artistry against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean.
The outlying wine farms beckoned with their cheese pairings and chocolate matching. Merlots were sipped while crisp, dark chocolates were nibbled politely, and the temptation to cram was resisted.
Olive farms were visited where artisan breads were dipped in a variety of oils — pepper, lemon scented, bruised herbs and chilli. A microbrewery offered a selection of craft beers, the fruity Long Claw giving rise to speculation and the Blood Serpent to nervous apprehension.
Nature’s barista folded the cirrus clouds into the lilac sunset, the sky a painting of brilliant streaks of colour swirling with gentle hues.
As the sun dipped, the flowers closed their petals like a ballerina’s arms framing bowed heads, accepting the inevitability of the night closing in.
And as the night swiftly began her turn in the cycle of the day, the wind rose, casting a chill from the sea, and our guesthouse beckoned our skulking return.
Fawlty Flowers.