South African Country Life – September 2019

Two Hotels,

One Inn and

the Ghost of

Widow Hartley

OBIE OBERHOLZER ponders on the slow

demise of the great village hotel, and sets out

to ¿nd those that still keep their spirits Àying

I

ts the year of 1966, its springtime

in South Africa and widespread rains

have fallen over the countryside. The

mealie fields in the Free State stand

tall and, in the apartheid cabinet of

Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd, some refer

to the majority of the population as %natives

and %bantu.

I am in the Air Force Gymnasium, in

a ceremonial guard-of-honour unit for the

State President, Mr CR Swart, a tall, thin man

(with a top hat) nicknamed %Blackie. So there

we have the ceremonial head of government

called Blackie ruling over the masses who were

often referred to as %die Swart Gevaar (Black

Danger).

Thinking back now, it seems so hideously

weird. With a veneer of liberalism, three of

my rebellious friends and I go AWOL and

undertake a quick protest weekend trip down

to Durbs by the sea. But matters soon unravel

as we start a pub crawl in all the towns on the

road to the coast. After Nottingham Road Hotel

we wobble our way towards the Berg and end

up in the hamlet of Himeville, in the old bar

of the Himeville Arms.

All of this driving and crawling happens

to the music of one single tape of The Beatles

album Revolver. My goodness, roll over

Beethoven, these were the hard days and nights

on a country roadtrip. Back then the country

hotel was the hub of each town’s socialising,

its heart and soul, and the meeting venue of

a variety of clubs and societies across the land

from east to west, from Messina in the north

to Malmesbury in the south.

Some hotels were dressed proudly British

colonial, others gabled Cape-Dutch-like, others

corrugated-iron roofed with long balconies

adorned with white pillars and wood-fluted

swing doors into the bar, a place for men only,

with joyful laughter and dirty jokes.

Above the entrance, a sign boldly displayed

would read matter-of-factly, %Whites Only.

Inside, the wooden bar counter often curved

around a central drinks galley, where whisky,

cane and brandy bottles were mounted and

poised, tot ready.

Back then Id hear the sharp clink of ice

cubes falling into a glass, the soft plop of

TOP: The descending twilight and a street lamp hold

hands to blend thoughts of today with memories of

pioneer times at The Pig and Whistle Inn. FAR LEFT:

The taillights of a farmer’s bakkie streak the misty light

of morning in front of the Himeville Arms. LEFT: The

stillness of evening cloaks evening reflections and

the warmth of a guest’s room.

041 September 2019