Open Writing

They tramped the seas from 1900 to 1977, leaving Cape Town every Wednesday punctually at eleven, these lavender-hulled vessels of the Union-Castle Mail Steamship Company. Sailing between Southampton and Cape Town in almost unbroken procession, they became part of the South African way of life and provided a living link between Britain and its former colonial possession. As far as I am aware, they were the only regular bi-weekly mail ship service plying north to south, anywhere in the world.

A favourite holiday was to sail round the coast from Durban to Cape Town, first stop East London. While the ship loaded oranges from the Sundays River and wool bales from the Eastern Province passengers visited shore excursions or went shopping. Then on to Port Elizabeth for a day or so - more shopping or a day trip to Addo Elephant Park - while more wool, apples or oranges were loaded. On arrival at Mossel Bay, the ship hove-to in deeper water, while lighters or barges ferried cargo back and forth. Passengers spent time at the stern, watching the sharks feeding from the ship’s garbage or playing deck games, while others enjoyed the pleasure of lazing in deck-chairs alongside the pool. Busy stewards deftly served cold cider and sandwiches; passengers who preferred a more substantial meal went down to lunch in the decorated dining room.

Reaching Cape Town, the three to four day stopover allowed for plenty of sightseeing for those unfamiliar with the city. Then, on Wednesday morning, punctually at eleven, hooters would blow, paper streamers arch from ship to shore as Mums and Dads called last goodbyes and the gangplank was removed. Sometimes a uniformed band would play, or a Scottish piper in full regalia skirl a lament as he marched up and down. Then, the tugs would nuzzle the bows, manoeuvring the ship from the shore as it delicately turned in the basin and headed towards the open sea.

Turning back towards the land, the last enduring sight was always that of Table Mountain crowned with its white cloth. Or, were one sailing home from the north, the first sight was the rosy-tinted flanks of the mountain in the early dawn glow, with the twinkling lights of the Atlantic seaboard suburbs shining like diamonds along the base, and the high loops of De Waal Drive skirting the University.

Then, out into the ocean, as flying fish surfed the waves and schools of dolphins played tag, keeping pace with the leisurely tramp, tramp, tramp of the powerful engines carving their way through the ocean. Comfortable accommodation, an air-conditioned library, numerous cocktail bars, several restaurants, a beautiful swimming bath, dancing under the stars – who could ask for a more perfect way of beginning a European holiday, or returning home to visit the folks?

Golden days spent at sea sunning and swimming. New friends, leisure pastimes, card and deck games. Horseracing, fancy hat parades, the Captain’s cocktail party. Musical entertainments staged by the hardworking and talented crew and the absurd ‘Crossing the Line’ ceremony. Here King Neptune and the Queen Amphitrite, the Royal Baby, the Royal Barbers and Constables were played by the ugliest and brawniest of the below-deck crew. They were garbed in bright yellow fright-wigs and crowns and brandished tridents and enormous cut-throat razors and batons. The Royal Baby sported a bonnet, a large dummy and an enormous droopy napkin. Posing asinine questions to novice travellers, anybody who had not crossed the equator before was fair game. Irrespective of the answer, the novice was ‘shaved’ with the huge wooden cut-throat razor; or chased round the pool by the Constables and then made to walk the plank before being unceremoniously tipped into the pool.

Before the enormous increase in the cost of oil, the journey took thirteen days and calls were made at Las Palmas or Madeira to take on passengers. Arriving in the roadstead, a brisk trade began between the bumboats selling beautifully embroidered table linen, bright shawls and trinkets, basketwork and novelties. Knowledgeable travellers looked forward to these excellent bargains and business was brisk. Money and goods passed from bumboat to ship in a roped basket. In later years, electronic goods and leather jackets were much in demand from the myriad of shops on the main street, which always stayed open, no matter how late the hour. Occasionally, the ship stayed long enough to allow the visitor a quick coach trip, but as the roads are narrow and precipitous and access difficult not much of the beautiful scenery and famously luxuriant vegetation could be seen. A better idea would be to come back later for a proper holiday and spend time walking the network of paths alongside the irrigation channels to enjoy the views and see the islands properly.

A day and a night trudging through the Bay of Biscay famed for it’s appalling weather, then speed is reduced and the needle is delicately threaded as we negotiate the shallow English Channel, the busiest waterway in the world. At last, we enter the Southampton Roads, and gently, carefully, navigate the crowded anchorage until we tie up alongside the Ocean Terminal where the Boat Train waits.

Grey skies, grey quays, grey harbour-side buildings. Colourless and grim, the spirits fall at this first glimpse of England. Can it really be as bad as it appears? But after the bustle and rush of boarding the boat train, the passengers settle down for the journey to London, and the sun breaks through the clouds. Then the soft greens, blues and greys of the English countryside appear. A flash of a gaily-painted gypsy caravan in a field, a split-second glimpse of a brilliant cock pheasant high stepping along a hedgerow and all the doubts vanish, to be replaced by the thought, “Yes! I like it; this is for me.”