PORT OF ME
André Rose returns to the place where part of his heart lives on
I FIRST visited Port Nolloth or “Die Port”, as it is known, for work in 2001. By the time I left, it had stolen part of my heart. When I tearfully arrived in 2001, a colleague smiled and said, “You only cry twice in the Port: when you arrive and when you leave.”
Since then, I have returned; each time to ground my humanity and to check up on the piece of my heart and soul I left behind. This third visit was for similar reasons.
I left Springbok on the N7 and at Steinkopf turned onto the R382. It is 140km and almost two hours of travel along endless farmland that hugs the road and silently stares at the blue African sky. After Steinkopf, you hit a mountain pass that compels you to stop at its summit. The vast stretches of plains are overwhelmingly impressive when the Namaqualand daisies bloom. Eventually and without warning you come over a rise and spot the blue ocean and then your hopes rise and fall as you dip and will not see the ocean again until you are almost in the town.
I arrived just after 10am without having booked accommodation. I enquired at the local hotel and a few B&Bs along the beachfront before deciding on The Beach House. This is a fantastic old house imported from Denmark in the 1900s and assembled in the Port. It is owned and rented out by a Dutch couple, who have turned the house into a must-stay location. The elegant combination of nostalgic yesteryear and modern interior transforms it into a perfect seaside abode. The bath in the main en suite overlooks the Atlantic; the suck-you-in couches are the perfect place to get lost in a book; and the deckchairs on the stoep perfectly complement an ice-cold dry white. I settled into the house and headed for a walk along the wooden promenade.
That evening, I rustled up a sandwich and lost myself in the house’s magnificent library. The warmth of the place nourishes your soul. The smell of the ocean and the tolling buoys soon lulled me to sleep.
Nothing prepares you for the complete chaos that Saturday morning holds at the local supermarket. The tiny store bursts at the seams with locals trying to squeeze in their frenzied weekend shopping. I abandoned the shopping attempt and hoped Sunday would be more relaxed, settling for snacks and drinks from the garage instead.
I headed for the Vespetti Restaurant, which overlooks the ocean. The chilled white wine was perfectly paired with the spectacular setting sun. The soft slivers of liquid gold caught the beads of precipitation on the wine glasses. The bubbly waitress sported her entertaining regional accent and rattled off specials and recommendations. My pizza arrived warm and delicious. Perfectly crafted. The sun dipped over the horizon, leaving behind a clear studded milky way and the intermittent reflections of the lighthouse off the flat, black sea. After dinner, I ventured onto the beach to listen to the silence.
Sunday morning, I woke at dawn. Before the churchgoers filtered into the white-andblue Catholic church; before the seagulls started squabbling for the meagre pickings; and before the sun turned the orange and yellow hues to bright blue; I meandered the stretch of beach for as far as I could. The cold ocean nipped at my sand-encrusted feet. The seagulls scuttled ahead of me. The bottle green kelp lay strewn across my path; freshly washed from the Atlantic. Empty mussel shells and corrugated rocks offered obstacles to my dawn excursion. My heartbeat aligned with the soothing rhythm of the lapping waves. In blissful contentment, I went to Nemo’s for breakfast.
I braved the supermarket to garner supplies for the braai that afternoon. The frenzy of the previous day was markedly absent. Provisions in hand, I returned to the Beach House to prepare the afternoon meal. The stoep braai, the lazy Sunday afternoon and the crisp wine wound down the day to a perfect end.
Just before lunch, I ventured into the Port Museum. This museum is a must-see — not because of its hand-written, sometimes school-project-like charts or the mainly uninteresting diving paraphernalia or the equally dull souvenirs. Its charm is hidden in its curator. His dirty bare feet and unkempt hair mask a distinguished storyteller and historian. His animated indulgence of each chart and artefact brings to life the fascinating story of the town.
Monday morning was met with reluctance. I bade the Port goodbye, satisfied that the parts of my heart and soul still captured there were well entrusted. Share your travel experiences with us in
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