Of course, sleep never seems to last long on a plane before one gets hyper-uncomfortable. Thereās a whole lot of squirming and a little bit of shut-eye playing on repeat until breakfast is served some two hours before landing.
Itās a continental breakfast, quite ļ¬tting since weāre now ļ¬ying over France. Iām tracking our progress on the moving map, you know ā just to make sure the pilotās on course and holding altitude and all that! I start lifting the shutter and sneaking peaks out of my window, matching the lights below with our current location. Itās not long before I identify the lights of Paris, beautiful even in the darkness from 40 000 feet. We begin our descent.
Clearing Immigration and Making Connections
Iām a little concerned I may not have left enough time to catch my bus from Heathrow into London so, on disembarkation, I power-walk through Terminal 2 (the Queenās Terminal, Iāll have you know!). Itās a long walk but welcome after 11 hours airborne, strapped to a seat.
Iām astonished to ļ¬nd that, for UK and EU passport holders, thereās barely an immigration ofļ¬cial in sight but, instead, a row of self-service booths. Trying to look inconspicuous, I shufļ¬e slowly towards a free booth, buying time to carefully take in all the instructions: step onto the yellow footprints on the ļ¬oor, remove your glasses, put down your bags, place the photo page of your passport on the scanner, look at the camera, remove your passportā¦
The gates swing open! I make a mental note to thank my amazing mother for her wisdom and presence of mind in obtaining British citizenship for me all those years ago. Not only does it make entry into the UK a breeze, without any queues, but it also made leaving South Africa smoother ā no questions about visas and how long Iād be staying and where Iād be staying and what other places Iād be visiting ā what a pleasure!
Having collected my luggage (which, thankfully, arrived ā something I never take for granted), I make my way to the Central Bus Station. I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror of a lift. With almost 22kgs on my back and a day pack of 7Ā½kgs clipped onto my front, a thought occurs, āI hope my Eiger-climbing uncle doesnāt disown me when he sees this lot!ā Iām quite sure heās perfected the art of travelling light. I console myself with the fact that I carry gifts as well as electronic equipment, including a mobile scanner and a netbook, none of which a climber would require!
I make it to the bus station with enough time to grab a much-needed cappuccino and a strawberries and cream mufļ¬n before boarding the National Express bus bound for London.
Connections of Another Kind
Itās a ļ¬ne, crisp day here and bright enough for sunglasses. Out on the M4, trees cloaked in gold, studded with jewel-like ļ¬ecks of red, are a reminder that it is indeed autumn here, though.
We stop at a trafļ¬c light and, out of the window on my right, I see a gorgeous old entrance covered in window boxes and baskets brimming with ļ¬owers. Itās a beautiful, postcard-British pub. I reach for my camera and then notice the buildingās name: The Bolton. I scramble to get my camera out of its pouch as my neighbour, sitting next to the window, sees the scene and tries to snap it with his cell phone. We both miss it.
āAre you a Bolton, then?ā he asks. āNo, but some of my Dadās family were,ā I respond, āWhat about you?ā āNo, but the friend Iām meeting up with in a bit is.ā We start chatting after that and I discover heās from Swindon, coming into London for a surprise birthday get-together at The Shard and then ICEBAR LONDON with some of his college mates, whom he hasnāt seen in years. I also discover he spent his honeymoon in South Africa. He, in turn, discovers a bit of my journey and the reason for it and, when I mention Orkney, shows me his wedding band made there. It certainly looks Orcadian: silver, with Norse-like runes engraved around it. āItās supposed to read, āHope, Love and Happinessā,ā he says, and then, after a brief pause, āArenāt these random connections just great? They make the world seem smaller, donāt they?ā We talk about family and family history and he resolves to dig into his fatherās family tree. āIāve often thought I should look into it,ā he muses and, with that, the bus pulls into London Victoria Coach Station and we go our separate ways.
Hastings-Bound
While it is perhaps better known as the site of that (in)famous battle way back in 1066, Hastings is also the birthplace of one of my paternal great grandmothers, Kate Isabella Bolton.
Great Grandmother Kate Isabella Bolton
Her parents were married there, too, and itās where Iām headed ļ¬rst. A brisk march has me collecting my ticket in London Victoria Station and on the platform within a few minutes. I tuck into my magical strawberries and cream mufļ¬n while waiting for the train to depart and soon weāre out of the suburbs and cutting our way through quintessentially English countryside: pastures dotted with sheep and lined with post and rail fences or neat hedges or stone walls, steeplechase courses, and crops spread out like intricately stitched quilts.
Around lunchtime, I ļ¬nd myself at Hastings Station. Another short walk delivers me to Apollo Guest House. After a shower and a little reorganisation of my day pack for strolling the streets, Iām out the door again, meandering down the road in search of Robertson Streetā¦
ā¦the journey my heart has longed for. Yes, yes, my heart does indeed long for many, but this one involves precious family I havenāt seen in years and family Iāve never met. It was, I think, born from a single photograph I ordered from The War Graves Photographic Project website a couple of years ago, a headstone in a tiny cemetery on Skye, erected to the memory of my great grandfather who died of wounds sustained in Palestine in the First World War, his brother who was lost in France during that same conļ¬ict, another of their siblings and their parents, John and Marion Macdonald.
Looking at that photograph, my heart was hooked (not that it needed much encouragement). āI want to go back again. I want to be there. I want to walk where they walked. I want to live and cherish their memory.ā The journey then grew through connection with my uncle (my motherās brother) and their cousin (in law), both of whom hold family documents and photographs they want organised somehow. This dovetailed perfectly with my genealogy, um, addiction, which then yielded more and more crumbs along the family history trail. These I added to a bucket list which formed the basis of my itinerary for this trip. Itās amazing, though, how quickly four weeks can ļ¬ll up, especially when oneās trying to get from the coast in the south of England to the west coast of Scotland to islands in the north and then Edinburgh on the east coast! Some items have had to stay on the bucket list for now but that simply means thereās scope and reason for another trip š
Pride Goes Before a Fall
I managed to get home from work almost on schedule. I successfully disconnected my carās battery and then managed, after a couple of attempts, to manually lock the driverās door. I checked it again before squeezing the last few items into my now rather bulky travel pack. I e-mailed off details required for my car hire in Skye. I showered and got ready. I washed the dishes lying in the sink. I unplugged all appliances and switched off the geyser. I locked and checked the doors and windows. I was sorted. Yay me! The buzzer rang ā my lift had arrived.
I wrangled my travel pack onto my back, grabbed my hand luggage, took a last look around, locked up and made my way downstairs. Paranoia made me check my car doors. Front doorā¦ locked. Back doorā¦ swung open! I was horriļ¬ed. I tried a few options. None worked. Now dripping with sweat, I concluded I would have to reconnect the battery and try ļ¬gure out how to get the back doors locked. I worried about how long it would take to ļ¬gure out, particularly with my fear of ļ¬ddling with car batteries (which comes from reading the manual ā itās a bit like reading the package insert for medication). I knew I would get dirty again and didnāt have time to clean up. I was holding my lift up. I worried about being late for check in. I decided to leave it. It was inside my complex. And if someone wants to get in, theyāre going to get in whether the doors are locked or not, right?
A Little African Adventure for the Road
Iāve always had slight concerns around the safety of tuk tuks in the aggression and speed of Jozi trafļ¬c and the questionable roadworthiness of many of the vehicles on our roads but, I ļ¬gured, what better time to try it than at the start of my holiday? My very courteous driver hopped out of his seat to help load my luggage and very graciously took a photo of me in the tuk tuk:
In the tuk tuk and ready to roll
At the Gautrain station, he once again leapt out to carry my luggage across the road (closed to trafļ¬c for EcoMobility month) and help get it on my back. So there you have it: no mess, no fuss, super-fun and I lived to tell the tale š
Sandton from the tuk tuk passenger seat
A fellow passenger on the Gautrain, perhaps prompted by the Springbok shirt I was wearing, asked whether I knew what the Rugby World Cup result was of the South Africa-USA game. āOh my,ā he said when I told him of the whitewash. Turns out heās a Columbian, studying at Wits, and also on his way to the airport, ļ¬ying out to a friendās wedding in Georgia (the country). I love these serendipitous little encounters, learning about others and their life journeys.
The Departure Lounge
Safely checked-in, and through security and passport control, I ordered a serious cappuccino to calm my nerves while I poured out my car door woes to my mother over the phone. Without missing a beat, she said she and my father would drive down and sort it out, āso you donāt have to worry about it.ā Itās no trivial matter, either, since itās at least a two-hour drive for them, one way. Well, that was me ļ¬nished! How come I have such awesome parents? I said a teary goodbye with a prayer of gratitude for the great grace and blessing that are mine in my father and mother.
Just sitting in the departure lounge reminded me how much I love this, the immense privilege of travel. People rushed to and fro while others seemed bored, waiting for their ļ¬ight to depart. Out of Africa had their Christmas displays up, a riot of colour and beadwork, while the strains of a live marimba band ļ¬lled the walkways with lively African beats.
Out of Africa’s Christmas Display
Destinations echoed out over the PA system, fuelling the wanderlust that rages within. āThis is a ļ¬rst boarding call for Turkish Airlines ļ¬ight XYZ to Istanbul.ā Istanbul! A myriad of magical memories ļ¬ooded back. āWe have unļ¬nished business,ā I thought. āOne day, I want to walk your streets againā¦ā Two girls, possibly in their twenties, sat down next to me, glued to their phones. A second boarding call for that Turkish Airlines ļ¬ight to Istanbul wafted over to us a few minutes later. One of the girls, without removing her eyes or ļ¬ngers from her phone, said to the other, āWanna go to Istanbul?ā āNah,ā said the second, and both carried on their interactions in their virtual worlds, as if nothing had happened, as if they hadnāt just closed the door on an incredible city. I tried to recover from the shock by meandering over to the boarding gate for my ļ¬ight!
So long, South Africa; Hello, Holiday and History!
It wasnāt long before we boarded and were airborne. The exhilaration of take-off is one of those sensations I donāt think Iāll ever tire of. Itās obviously physically powerful but it also holds a sense of expectation, of something new or different, of change. The glitter of city lights spilled out below us on the velvety-black canvas of night, as I contemplated what the next four weeks may hold for meā¦
Dinner was a peppery, though quite yummy, dish of grilled chicken strips, accompanied by bowtie pasta, roasted butternut sticks and creamy mushroom sauce. It was served with a salad, a pretzel-like roll, crackers and salmon cream cheese, passionfruit orange cake and a chocolate.
Full, satisļ¬ed and ļ¬nally able to relax after a number of late nights of preparation, I was asleep within minutes, as Africa ļ¬oated by below us.
āThere are a few entries on NAAIRS ā you may already have seen them, thoughā¦ā This is often my response to other genealogy-obsessed individuals online who, like me, are desperately seeking information on their family members in South Africa. At least four times in the last couple of months, Iāve received a private message from the person shortly thereafter saying they havenāt seen them and asking for assistance on how to see what Iām seeing. Itās as a result of these interactions that I realised a basic intro to NAAIRS could be of value and so here we are š
Firstly, though, a disclaimer: I am self-taught and so the guidelines I provide are based purely on my experiences and research and bits Iāve gathered along the way. Iām quite sure there are better ways to do much of what I try to explain here, so please feel free to provide me with feedback ā Iād love to hear from you.
What?
NAAIRS stands for āNational Automated Archival Information Retrieval Systemā and is basically an index to records held in the various archives around the country.Ā Obviously, not all records are indexed so you may not always ļ¬nd what youāre looking for on NAAIRS, even though the record may be in one of the archives.
Then, as it is only an index, NAAIRS will not provide you with the record itself ā only a reference.Ā However, once you have that reference, you can go to the relevant archive yourself and request the documents, you can ask someone to go on your behalf (which may or may not involve a fee) or you may be able to request a copy from the archives.
Where?
So, to the searching: open your web browser and navigate to http://www.national.archives.gov.za/naairs_content.htm ā this will open up the NAAIRS content page which will list a number of links, many of which you may want to look at, since theyāre quite useful and will also help you identify the archive and document type of records you may ļ¬nd. For now, though, click on the āSearchā link.
How?
A list of databases will be displayed ā I generally choose āRSAā, since that covers all archives but you can always limit your focus, and the number of results returned, by selecting one of the other databases. Just be aware that the family youāre looking for may not always have been where you expect them to have been!
Next, a search form will be displayed.Ā Only enter one search term per text box. I usually enter the ļ¬rst name in the ļ¬rst search box and the surname in the second. Itās also important to note the following when entering names as search terms:
Remember that given names will likely be used in legal documents. For instance, if your ancestor was known as āArchieā, try searching for āArchibaldā.
Indexing errors do occur, so itās worth trying variants of the terms youāre searching for, or reducing the number of terms youāre searching for at the same time.
You can add middle names as search terms if you know them but be aware that they may not all have been indexed and so the person youāre looking for may be excluded from the search results.
Once youāve entered your search terms, check the operators ā for a basic search on a forename and surname, āAndā will usually sufļ¬ce.Ā Now click the āSearchā button.
The query results will be displayed and youāll be able to see how many records exist in the archives for your search criteria.Ā Click on the āResults Summaryā link to view the list of records.Ā Now you need to start sifting through the information. If you click on one of the links on the lines in the list of results, the āResult Detailsā will be displayed. The DEPOT tells you which archive repository the document is housed in. This is the point at which you may want to refer back to the links on the NAAIRS content page:
Regarding the sources, death notices (and hence, estate ļ¬les, which should contain a death notice) are generally the most useful in the South African context since they should provide details of the deceased, including their parents and their children and so, with a sprinkle of fairy dust and a prayer for obsessive-compulsive ancestors ļ¬lling in the death notice, you may be rewarded with three generations on a single document! Bear in mind, though, that not everyone has an estate at the time of their deaths, in which case there may not be an estate ļ¬le for them.
You usually need the SOURCE, VOLUME, REFERENCE and sometimes the TYPE and SYSTEM to retrieve the document from the archives. Sometimes, however, youāll also need a part of the DESCRIPTION, e.g. EX PARTE APPLICATION, ILLIQUID CASE, etc. Itās best to record all the Result Details for records which show promise in a research diary or similar document to keep them handy.
And now?
Now you just need to get hold of the records that interest you somehow! If you are unable to make the journey to the archive where the records are held yourself, consider asking the online forums or pages of which you are a member whether anyone is scheduled to visit the archive and could look it up for you. Alternatively, for a small fee, the eGGSA may be able to assist, as long as the record is not in the Cape Town Archives Repository (KAB) ā see http://www.eggsa.org/sales/help_archive_docs.htm. For records in the Cape Town Archives Repository (KAB), you could e-mail them directly ā see their Client Services page.
I hope this has been of some use and has provided some direction. Please leave a comment if you have any other questions in this regard and Iāll do my best to answer them. I would also love any feedback you may have.
A year ago to the day, while visiting my parents for Christmas, Iām sitting in my motherās study. Iām fixated on her laptop monitor, trying to make sense of and keep up with the military jargon flying back and forth on the Great War Forum in response to a question Iād asked about my great grandfather, Lachlan Macdonald, who lost his life in that horrific conflict.
My mother, sitting beside me, is intently studying old family photographs with her mini magnifying glass, looking every bit the family historian. Out of the easy, companionable silence, she suddenly exclaims, āThatās where you get your chin from!ā I look across at her, not computing. āHuh?ā She looks up, taps a photograph with her magnifying glass and says again, āThatās where you get your chin from!ā
The photograph in which my mother found my chin! Great Grandmother, Christina Cameron, is the woman seated on the right of the picture. Her brother and my great grand uncle, Murdo Cameron, is the man seated on the left of the picture.
Itās strange, you know, that I never questioned where it came from, that dent. I remember it causing one of a number of insecurities when I was younger but it never occurred to me that it may be an āheirloomā, especially since it was missing in both my parents. Now it represents a family fingerprint, a part of my inheritance, a connection with my Cameron past, with my great grandmother, character that she was. In the same photograph, itās clear that my great grand uncle, Murdo Cameron, carried the same mark. My grandmother carried it, to a slightly lesser degree. My uncle carries it.
Great Grandmother
Great Grand Uncle
Grandmother
Mother
Me
So what about you? Where do you get your chin from? Or your toes? What about your mouth, your eyes, your ears? What are your family fingerprints? Did they skip a generation or two?
In celebration of family and the ties that bind us together
The office. Wednesday afternoon. 16:34. The winter sun is sinking low. My phone muttered something about a new message. I reached lazily for it, most of my attention still on my monitor. āHi Rowena ā weāre going to be in Istanbul for 2 days… Wanted to know what you might recommend as MUST see.ā Instantly, I was leaving Johannesburg on a night flight bound for Turkey. The memories of that evening, almost four years ago, and the anticipation of a bucket list item (mostly C.S. Lewisā fault, but thatās another story!) about to be fulfilled, came flooding back.
That holiday was pre-ongracerow.com days, but despite the lack of written evidence at the time, I will still wax lyrical about its awesomeness, given the opportunity! On the back of that Wednesday afternoon message, I thought it a fitting time to float what, from my very limited experience back in 2010, would be my top 10 to dos for first time visitors to Istanbul who perhaps only have a day or two to spend there.
I should warn you that Iām an incurable romantic with wanderlust, so it may be prudent to take any gushing recommendations I may make with a pinch of salt! I have, however, attempted to provide my reasons for suggesting each of the things on my list: if they resonate with you, do the thing; if they donāt, drop it.
So, here they are, in descending order:
1. Cruise the Bosphorus
Do. It. No excuses. No regrets. Really. If you have time for nothing else, carve out the three-ish hours for this. Istanbul straddles the Bosphorus which connects the Sea of Marmara (Afrikaans readers may well correctly guess the meaning of the name: āSea of Marbleā) with the Black Sea and forms the dividing line between Europe and Asia.
Mosques & Minarets from the Bosphorus
Why? Personally, I donāt think thereās a better way to soak up as much of this incredible city in the same amount of time. From the water, youāll get to see towers, bridges, a multitude of different mosques with their minarets punctuating the skyline, museums, universities, neighbourhoods of the rich and poor, palaces, homes, fortresses, apartments and people. Youāll catch glimpses of present, everyday life in this place steeped in ancient history. Youāll have the extraordinary ability to observe both the European and Asian sides of the city at the same time. Youāll enjoy the experience of being on a waterway of huge historic and strategic significance, [hopefully] with the sun on your skin and the wind in your hair! And youāll be provided with LOADS of awesome photo opps, too š
Galata Tower from the Bosphorus
ĆıraÄan Palace from the Bosphorus
Part of Galatasaray University from the Bosphorus
AtatĆ¼rk’s Yacht on the Bosphorus
The Bosphorus Bridge
A boat moored on the Bosphorus
Rigel Restaurant from the Bosphorus
The Asian Side of the Bosphorus
Rumeli Fortress from the Bosphorus
Living Spaces from the Bosphorus
Turkish Navy Frigate on the Bosphorus
Old Character-Filled Home & Boat on the Bosphorus
2. Eat and drink like a local
Ditch the cereal and dive into bread, cheeses, olives and cucumber for breakfast. Enjoy a little cup (or few!) of A-MAZING Turkish coffee. Buy simit (a sesame-covered ring of bread) from a street vendor. Drink a steaming glass of sweet Ƨay (Turkish tea). Savour real lokum (Turkish Delight). You donāt like Turkish Delight? I think you should see someone about that. Seriously, make the appointment ā Iāll give you a moment… Treat yourself to a cone of enthralling dondurma (Turkish ice cream) from one of the equally enthralling ice cream sellers. Try ayran (a yogurt drink with salt added). Dine on a doner kebab. Raise a toast to Turkey with ice cold rakı a.k.a. ālionās milkā (a cloudy-coloured, alcoholic drink flavoured with aniseed). Why? To me, part of the allure of travel is the opportunity to immerse oneself in a different culture, a different lifestyle. Granted, this is challenging when you have only a couple of hours or days to spare, but sampling the local food and drink is perhaps one of the easiest ways to do so because it can be combined with other activities and can often be experienced on the go. An added benefit is the interaction with the local vendors themselves.
Street Vendor Selling Simit, Water and Ayran (used with permission by Carol Dowdle)
Ayran
Kebab Being Prepared
Rakı
3. [Window] shop the Grand Bazaar
This covered market is anything but subtle: expect huge, crowded, colourful and loud. If itās not really your thing, at least go to see it and then move on, or just use it as an opportunity to grab some lunch. If you are totally into retail therapy, be prepared to kiss a couple of hours or more goodbye! There is definitely loads of touristy stuff to navigate, and it wonāt be as reasonable as other places in Turkey, but it probably has the widest selection and is particularly useful if you need to grab a couple of mementos or stock up on lokum and halva before heading home. Leather goods, carpets and jewellery abound but be sure to check their authenticity. Expect to barter for the best deals. Entering into a negotiation for a carpet or leather item may even earn you a complimentary glass of apple Ƨay! Why? I realise that shopping isnāt everyoneās cup of (Turkish) coffee, but recommend a visit to the Grand Bazaar simply for its ability to assault the senses and its history, which dates back to the mid-1400s. So why does it make the number three position on my list? Because of its experiential value and the exposure it provides to the people, a culture and a way of doing business. As already alluded to, it may also simply be a way of sampling some local fare while absorbing a little more of the sights and sounds of the city.
Shower Caps on My Feet (To Protect the Palace Floors)
A Gable of DolmabahƧe Palace from the Bosphorus
A Guard at an Entrance to DolmabahƧe Palace from the Bosphorus
5. See the city at night
Consider going out on the town in the evening ā the city is super-stunning and has an awesome atmosphere at night. Think about dining at a restaurant on Ortakoy, Istanbulās vibey, trendy, artisty district on the banks of the Bosphorus, or wandering Sultanahmet… Why? Nighttime transforms a city and reveals facets one doesnāt always notice during the day. Gain a different perspective. Get to know Istanbul in her evening dress. Walk her streets. People watch. Eat. Besides, who can resist the twinkle of lights under a canopy of velvety darkness?
6. Get your awe on at the Hagia Sophia
Commissioned by Justinian way back in the middle of the first millennia A.D. this architectural marvel was initially a church and later a mosque. Today sheās a museum pregnant with history. She still carries within her frescoes of remarkable beauty. Her walls whisper stories collected over the centuries. Itās worth either doing research beforehand or enlisting someone who can explain her history and buildings. Then stay a while. Pray a while. Let the Divine Wisdom to whom the building was originally dedicated speak to your spirit. Why? The Hagia Sophia is a superb example of Byzantine architecture. She oozes history (I know I go on about this; to be truthful, I loathed history at school, but am mesmerised by it now!). Some extraordinary artwork adorns her walls and deserves to be seen. She lends herself to reflection and story.
Pillars, Arches & Ceiling of the Hagia Sophia
A Doorway in the Hagia Sophia
Balcony & Ceiling Detail of the Hagia Sophia
Artwork on Ceiling above a Window in the Hagia Sophia
Church of Hagia Eirene in the First Courtyard of Topkapı Palace
Approaching the Gate of Salutation at Topkapı Palace
Ceiling & Lantern in Enderƻn Library at Topkapı Palace
Pebble Mosaics Around a Courtyard at Topkapı Palace
8. Experience the blues at Sultan Ahmet Mosque
The majestic Sultan Ahmet (Blue) Mosque derives its tourist name from the myriad of predominantly blue tiles that cover much of its interior. Why? From an architectural perspective, the Sultan Ahmet Mosque is a building of great beauty. Inside, it is breathtaking and the detail on the Iznik tiles is astounding. As with so many buildings in Istanbul, history abounds, both of the mosque itself and the young Sultan Ahmet I who initiated its construction.
Pillars & Arch on the outside of the Sultan Ahmet Mosque
Detail on the Arches and Domes inside the Sultan Ahmet Mosque
Looking Up into one of the Domes inside the Sultan Ahmet Mosque
Detail on a Pillar, Arches and Domes inside the Sultan Ahmet Mosque
9. Go underground in the Basilica Cistern
The Basilica Cistern was developed in the Byzantine era to provide the city with water, particularly when it was under siege. It includes 336 columns, which, along with their capitals were apparently salvaged from temples. Perhaps most significantly, the bases for 2 of the columns feature Medusa heads unceremoniously planted in the water, one upside down and the other sideways!
10. Rebuild the hippodrome
If memory serves me correctly, if youāre standing with your back to the Hagia Sophia, facing the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, just to the right of the mosque is the old hippodrome. Consider grabbing yourself some dondurma from a nearby vendor and then wandering around it. There’s not much left there now, except for the obelisks, Serpentine Column and Constantine Column, and the considerably younger German Fountain, but picture it in its heyday, able to hold 100,000 people trying to make themselves heard above the pounding hooves of chariot races and the cries of rival factionsā¦
Egyptian Obelisk in the Hippodrome
Why? Itās in Sultanahmet with the Hagia Sophia, Topkapi Palace, the Sultan Ahmet (Blue) Mosque and the Basilica Cistern, and doesnāt cost a thing, so why not pay it some attention? I know itās perhaps not visually impressive any longer but the history of the hippodrome, as well as that of the various columns which remain, is almost the stuff of legend. For some reason, if it were reconstructed in a movie, weād likely be fascinated by it. But this is real. It was here. And youāre standing in it. Not many have that privilege. So rebuild it yourself. Revisit it. And treasure the moment.
I have purposefully omitted detailed descriptions from this list. Discovering them for yourself is part of the joy of the journey, and not the intention of this particular piece.
I am well aware that we all experience things differently and so would love to hear your views. What do you agree with? What do you disagree with? What would your list include?
Coffee and rusks again heralded the start to the morning. After showering and packing, we enjoyed a quick breakfast of fruit and yoghurt before dropping our keys in the Henri House postbox and heading for another ā the oldest in South Africa…
On the corner of Worcester and Somerset
We found it on the corner of Worcester and Somerset Streets, where it has valiantly stood since about 1860. Here we mailed the postcards we wrote yesterday evening, some of which were to ourselves (this idea came from some clever person on the Interwebs who sends postcards to themselves from the places that they visit ā a wonderful way to document oneās travels)! Some websites claim that mail posted here gets a special frank but we can confirm that this is sadly no longer the case ā our postcards were, in fact, franked in Port Elizabeth. We took a last look around: the beautiful building alongside us and St Andrewās College Memorial Chapel diagonally across from us rose proudly against a now grey and increasingly gloomy sky as we piled back into the Pajero bound for King Williamās Town and the next leg of our Eastern Cape adventure…
The Oldest Postbox in South Africa
Posting Postcards at the Oldest Postbox in South Africa
Detail of the Oldest Postbox in South Africa
The Top of St Andrew’s College Memorial Chapel against a Grey Sky
Another Beautiful Building against a Grey Sky
Next stop KWT
It was a pleasant journey, winding through the Great Fish River Pass, roadworks and rolling hills, and away from the bad weather that appeared to be pulling into Grahamstown! We made good time to KWT and stopped at the Buffalo River 1 Stop just outside the town for a comfort break and a brief discussion about what to do next, since it was still too early to check in to our new āhomeā. Fortunately, my fabulous father (who doesnāt do procrastination!) decided we should try to find Macleantown, some 50 kilometres east-ish of King. Why? Well, thatās a bit of a story!
Basically, a particularly fruitful Google search late last year resulted in a true treasure of a find: āStamboom van Pieter Becker: Bekker Families van SAā by Johan Pottas and Annatjie Tiran ā a family register available for download from the website of The Genealogical Society of South Africa. It contains what is to date the only documented mention Iāve come across of what I think may be my great-grandmother Nelson. The reference is to an Auguste Wilhelmine BECKER who married a George NELSON and it seems highly unlikely that there would be many Augustina Wilhelmina Beckers (or variants thereof) marrying George Nelsons around the ārightā time. However, it is certainly not sufficient evidence to conclude that the reference is indeed to my great-grandparents so further research is definitely required.
My one-day visit to the Western Cape Archives at the beginning of the year yielded the death notice cited in āStamboom van Pieter Becker: Bekker Families van SAā for Julius August Wilhelm Becker and, as one of his ten children, it indeed listed an Auguste Wilhelmine as being married to a George Nelson. If my great-great-grandfather Becker was indeed Julius, that would also explain where my grandfather, Arthur Archibald Julius Nelson, got one of his names from! Still, this is not enough. What I really need is a death notice for Auguste Wilhelmine/Augustina Wilhelmina which ought to list her parents, her spouse and her children. That would (hopefully!) link my grandfather with my great-grandparents and confirm my Becker great-great-grandparents…
But what does all this have to do with Macleantown? This: that I had stumbled across some civil death records for Becker family members that happened to be listed as siblings to Auguste Wilhelmine on the death notice for Julius August Wilhelm Becker, i.e. possible great-grandaunts and -uncles. These documents listed the intended place of burial as Macleantown. Photos of gravestones in the Macleantown cemetery on the eGGSA website confirmed that there were suspected Becker relatives buried there and so (with no small amount of trepidation after our Aliwal North cemetery experience) we decided to visit the graves for ourselves.
On the Way to KWT
Heading for Macleantown
On the Road to Macleantown
The Sign to Smiling Valley
Grave-hunting
And so we drove through King and then through Bisho, eventually heading south-east-ish on the N6. It was a pleasant drive through a pleasant, largely unpopulated landscape on what had turned into a rather warm day, despite the clouds still trying to maintain some sort of a presence. We passed a turning signposted āSmiling Valleyā, which did make me smile, sounding as though it could have come out of a childrenās book! Shortly thereafter and rather abruptly, we came upon Macleantown and I issued the instruction, āTurn left! Turn left!ā thinking that access to the cemetery must surely be from within the ātownā itself. Almost immediately, we were faced with an intersection of dirt roads and Madame GPS bleating that Iād made the incorrect decision and we needed to turn around. We obeyed and then turned left back onto the N6. Barely had we done so when she informed us we needed to turn left again. We slowed down. Seriously? A tall, thick hedge lined the N6 on that side. Ah, there: a gap in said hedge! We turned into it and found ourselves looking at a rusty farm gate, beyond which a couple of Nguni cows looked up from their serious business of grazing to eye us lazily. Then we saw it: just beyond them, surrounded by another fence and another gate, was the cemetery!
I opened the gate and the Pajero splashed through a large puddle of muddy water on the other side, pulling to a stop in front of the second gate separating the grazing from the graves. It was a small cemetery, but the wild grass was neatly cut and wild flowers nodded in the gentle breeze. We spilled through the second gate and almost immediately found a Becker grave. However, lichen growth had rendered it virtually illegible. It was then that I discovered another of my enterprising motherās skills: grave-cleaning! With a bottle of water we had in the car and a roll of paper towel, it wasnāt long before we were able to read it: E.M.A Becker. I didnāt recognise the initials and so we continued our search.
The Entrance to Macleantown Cemetery
My Dad Looking for Relatives Laid to Rest
Wild Flowers Adorning the Graves
An Old Bench in the Shade of an Oak Tree and the Shadow of a Cross
The Grave of Christian Meyer in the Foreground, Possibly with the Grave of Friederika Alongside
We spent almost two hours there, photographing Becker- and Meyer/Meier-related graves, transcribing some of those which had become difficult to read and getting quite sunburnt, before heading back towards King Williamās Town.
A Discovery Lunch Sandwich
Our beeline for what was by now a very late lunch was briefly swung off course as we ādiscoveredā a quaint and quirky corrugated iron church just off the R63 begging to be photographed!
Richard Birt Congregational Church
It was around half an hour later when we pulled back into the Buffalo River 1 Stop and were seated in the Wimpy. After lunch and a much-needed, mandatory mega coffee, we set off into King again. One of the more sentimental items on my wish list for this holiday had been to attend a service in the churches that my Nelson grandparents had been baptised in, and Grandad Arthur was baptised in the Church of the Holy Trinity, King Williamās Town. It was also the church he was confirmed in several years later. We decided to hunt it down, check out service times and assess the parking situation. It didnāt take long to find: a left turn into Alexandra Road and there, a few blocks further, its neo-Gothic, bluestone form rose up ahead of us, surrounded by trees.
We circled it, noting down the details, before asking Madame GPS to take us to the intersection of Queens Road and Raglan Street and Glencoe Guest House which would be our base for the next few days. She refused though, categorically stating that she knew nothing of this Raglan Street, and an argument ensued. When it became clear that she wasnāt going to budge, I switched her off and reverted to the trusty paper copy of the map Iād printed before leaving home ā take that, Maggie!
Glencoe and a gentle evening
We found Glencoe shortly thereafter and met our super-gracious hostess, Giselle, who showed us to our garden rooms and very generously agreed to serve us breakfast earlier than her standard Sunday breakfast time so that we could make it to the 08:00 service at Holy Trinity. Incidentally, the story of Giselle and her husband Bertus, as well as that of the guest house, is a beautiful one ā check it out by clicking the āAbout Usā link on their website.
Having unpacked, showered and freshened up a bit, we migrated onto the little wooden deck outside our rooms as the sun started to drop lazily toward the Amatola Mountains in the distance. We reviewed the copies of the death notices and other documents Iād ordered from the Western Cape Archives while there in January and then looked up the location of the King Williamās Town main cemetery and the library. We then perused our photos of the day and enjoyed some pleasant reminiscing and reflection of our finds, while nibbling on crackers and rosa tomatoes ā a light snack for dinner after our exceedingly late lunch!
And, finally, another hunt yields fruit!
Later, once the parents had retired to bed, I continued paging through image after image of civil death records, looking for Grandaunt Linda. Quite suddenly, I stopped and just stared at my laptop screen, for a few moments forgetting to breath. I couldnāt believe my eyes! It took a couple of
minutes of reviewing the document to register, but there it was: the civil death record for Linda Wilhelmina Nelson, aged nine, signed by my great- grandfather, George Albert Nelson. It also recorded their place of residence at the time: 76 Cambridge Road, King Williamās Town! I did a quick calculation ā it had taken the examination of 4,346 images to find this record of my young grandauntās death and, interestingly, it likely disproves the oral tradition about the cause of her death, but thatās a story for another time…
Deep in thought, I shut down my laptop and curled up in bed after another blessed day filled with discoveries of family past and precious times spent with family present.
The day started much the same as yesterday: coffee and rusks at 07:00, followed by a shower and a light breakfast before heading back to the Cory Library. However, this we only did at about 09:10, having deduced that it may provide us with the best chance of nabbing a parking. After two circuits of the tiny parking lot, we succeeded in claiming a spot directly opposite the entrance.
The Cory Library (don’t miss the succulents growing on the roof!)
āThe Odour of Sanctityā
Todayās searches were centred on burial and confirmation records. We came up empty-handed from the burial records, although some entries provided fascinating insights into individuals who had passed on. Generally, the information recorded seems to be very basic, limited to the personās name and age along with the date and place of burial. However, a rector of St Paulās in Aliwal North during the early 1950s seemed to make a habit of recording something of the character of the deceased. He penned some beautiful, moving and vivid tributes, such as this one for a Jessie Allardice Morton: āA good and very devout soul, who died in the odour of sanctity…ā
Perhaps there is a sense in which confirmation (in those denominations which practise it) represents the personal decision of an individual to cultivate that fragrance through faith in Christ. It was, therefore, a great joy to discover confirmation entries for each of the Nelson grand siblings in the records for the parish of King Williamās Town!
Part-time Tourists
We wrapped up our research at the Cory shortly afterwards ā a good deal earlier than yesterday. However, instead of heading straight back to Henri House, we ventured on up Lucas Avenue to the 1820 Settlers National Monument and meandered around the monuments outside, some of which are beautiful pieces of art. We were intrigued, too, by the circle of astronomical stones. The entrance to them was marked by two large standing stones, each with a plaque fixed to them. Fittingly, the opening verses from Psalm 19 were engraved on the right-hand plaque, while the left-hand one described what the stones mark: in addition to the points of the compass, they also indicate sunrise and sunset at the spring and autumn equinoxes, sunset at the summer and winter solstices, the appearance of the Pleiades at dawn in June as well as the appearance of Canopus in mid-May before dawn.
“Settler Family” by Ivan Mitford
Sculpture by Bruce Arnot, dedicated to the memory of Rowland and Leta Hill
Fort Selwyn
Scottish Thistle on the Monument to the Achievement of the 1820 Settlers
English Rose on the Monument to the Achievement of the 1820 Settlers
Irish Shamrock on the Monument to the Achievement of the 1820 Settlers
Welsh Leek on the Monument to the Achievement of the 1820 Settlers
Astronomical Stones – Entrance
Astronomical Stones
For a while, we just stood looking over Grahamstown spread out below us before returning to the car and heading back down the hill to hunt for Peppergrove Mall, an optometrist, postcards and stamps.
Grahamstown Panorama
Madame GPS guided us effortlessly to Peppergrove Mall although, with our āmallā conditioning of the vast, dazzling, multi-storey kind, we werenāt complete convinced at first. But, sure enough, there was a Pick n Pay tucked away in one of the single-storey face brick shops around the square parking lot. We managed to stock up on supplies for lunches and dinners and then found an optometrist just across the road who ended up being able to fix my Dadās glasses.
Postcards proved to be surprisingly difficult to find, but we eventually tracked down a few of questionable quality in Postnet on the High Street. The next stop was the post office to buy stamps. Now you must understand that it has been ages since I last bought stamps, so this was a rather novel experience ā an indication of the changes wrought in my own life by the digital age! I was fascinated by the work on the stamps themselves: brightly-coloured taxi hand signs by Susan Woolf. Somehow, just looking at them made me tear up just a little and caused my heart swell with pride. This captivating country of ours, with all her flaws, yet loaded with unique symbolism, culture, creativity and story does that to me ā often.
The Close of the Day
We returned to Henri House for lunch, and dined royally on my Dadās legendary Bacon & Mushroom Quiche, salads, cheese and biscuits, before enjoying an afternoon nap. My mother and I then wrote postcards while my father continued reading his book. A storm put paid to our plans for an evening braai, but our lunch menu stepped ably up to the plate again. Afterwards, we reviewed the photographs of our research over the last couple of days on the television, trying to piece together a little more of this immense puzzle.
I then reached out to the Eastern Cape genealogical community on RootsWeb for any information on the Toise River burial ground, before turning my attention to civil death records again, where I spent the rest of the evening still desperately searching for a trace of Grand Aunt Linda…
Coffee and rusks at 07:00 provided enough fuel to get showered and presentable before a light breakfast of fruit and yoghurt, provided in our unit.
My father taking time out from his driving duties (appropriate reading material, given our travels)!
It was around 09:00 when we headed to the car and I coaxed Madame GPS into leading us to the Cory Library at Rhodes University, on the corner of Somerset Street and Lucas Avenue. She seemed to be having a slow start to the day, too, staying sullenly silent until the last moment, when she would suddenly become very annoyed and insist that we turn one way or the other. She led us to our destination, though: the Eden Grove building in which the library is housed on the ground floor. Unfortunately, she could do nothing to improve the parking situation, so I turned her off while we drove up and down Lucas Avenue and then sat and waited outside the library in the hope that someone would leave and we could pounce upon their parking. Our patience was rewarded at about 09:20 when a bunch of students, a good number of them barefoot, began to spill out the doors.
A Hard Dayās Work!
We parked and, armed with camera, laptop, notebooks and HB pencils, marched into the silence of the Cory Library. I had read about the genealogical research process at the Cory on their website and knew that we each had to register for a Readerās Ticket, which we duly did at the reception desk. The very helpful young lady on duty then introduced us to the various resources available, but I already had a list prepared of Anglican Church registers for King Williamās Town and Burgersdorp that I desperately wanted to get my hands on. She duly produced them and we started the arduous but fascinating process of searching them for glimpses of ancestors on my fatherās side.
My mother hard at work.
In their stained, often fragile pages and ink script, we found ourselves transported back to the late 1840s. Somewhat surprisingly, in 1899, we found an entry for a marriage of one of the suspected Becker great grand siblings (Great Grandmaās sister). The Beckers were German, so Iād thought that marriages, particularly of the women, would likely have taken place in the brideās church, probably a Lutheran or Baptist one, but clearly this was not always the case. Despite being buoyed by this discovery, we could find no trace of the marriage of Great Granddad George and Great Grandma Augustina Wilhelmina Nelson, or not in the Church of the Holy Trinity, King Williamās Town, anyway.
However, in the 1920s, we found records of marriage and banns of marriage for some of the Nelson grand siblings, though not all of them. Besides the obvious details such as names, dates and places, these help to paint a picture of the movement and dispersion of the family, and can provide tantalising new leads.
My father and I recording some of our finds. I think my father was unanimously voted “researcher of the day”, coming away with the most finds. Used with permission by Shona Nelson.
Apart from that, though, the Nelsons remained stubbornly elusive. We scoured the index cards for early newspapers in the Eastern Cape, the Manuscript Catalogue and the Picture Catalog. We found surname matches and related surnames, but none that appeared to be connected to our tree. We noted them anyway and, just before 15:00, decided that we should call it a day.
An Unexpected Visitor & Bedtime Blackout
A little before 21:00, while my mother was reading and I was still wading through Cape civil deaths, Thomas Oā Malley invited himself in. There was no asking, no waiting for an invitation, none of that. He is, you see, the cat of Henri House. His ginger and white form lazily padded around our doorframe and into the living area without any hesitation at all. Only when he was inside did he stop to look us up and down. He attempted to continue his inspection of our unit by meandering toward the second bedroom where my father was already sleeping. We didnāt think this would end well for either of them, but it took a good few minutes of intense negotiation to convince Mr Oā Malley, who eventually turned on his heel, nose in the air, and stalked sulkily out.
Shortly thereafter, we suddenly found ourselves plunged into darkness. Through the door and windows, we could only just see the surrounding houses as vague silhouettes against the silky night sky and concluded that a general power failure must be to blame. It seemed like an opportune time to call it a night after a full, blessed day of working side by side with one another, immersed in family and history…
Shrouded
To his credit, dear Mr Wessels shows no signs of accepting defeat just yet. I realise that the exercise book he has with him lists the graves in each plot by row number, so I suggest he look up some of the names we are seeing on the graves to check whether we are indeed in the correct place. Mmm ā it seems as though we are in row 10. We move back one row and work our way slowly back up it, checking the names on the graves with those in his book. Now we seem to have passed the place where Aunt Minnieās grave ought to be. We look around, surveying bits of broken headstones. Behind me, I notice a strip of white under a rampant daisy of sorts. Itās the edge of a grave, and a cactus stands guard at the foot of it. There is no sign of a headstone, just the flourishing mass of a creeping bush with shiny green leaves. I turn and look at it. Swallowing my fear of snakes, I start to push it back. Mr Wessels goes around to the other side of the grave and does the same. And there, underneath that leafy shroud, we discover Aunt Minnieās headstone, just as my Mum joins us. For a moment, we just stand there, almost in disbelief. Then we thank Mr Wessels for taking time out from his busy day to help us. Reverently, sympathetically, he observes, āSy was nog jonk, net ses-en-twintig,ā then bids us farewell. In a few seconds, heās gone, although we hear him chatting briefly to my Dad whoās waiting in the car.
My mother and I clear a little more of the vegetation away from the grave. Three simple blocks of white stone (marble?) are stacked on top of one another, each a little smaller than the one below. The top one seems to have had concrete roughly squished around it, presumably to keep it in place. While the job is not well done, I am grateful to the person who sought to preserve Aunt Minnieās name on her grave. It is evident, too, that something is missing from the top block ā ornamentation of some sort which has long since broken off. I never met Great Great Aunt Minnie. A few months ago, I didnāt even know I had a Great Great Aunt Minnie. Yet, standing there, Iām surprised by the emotions Iām feeling. There is a yearning to tend the grave of this lady I know so little about. There is sadness at the loss of a young life, young wife and young mother. Yet there is also a sense of joy and peace that we persevered in finding her resting place, that while she may be gone, she is indeed now not forgotten. Pensive, we return to the car, and then find our way back onto the N6, bound for Grahamstown.
After Discovering Aunt Minnie’s Grave. Used with permission by Shona Nelson.
Aunt Minnie’s Grave was Shrouded in This Crazy Green Creeper
Minnie Florence Wesson – Gone, but Not Forgotten
A Jamestown Jewel
Itās a beautifully clear day and the scenery is stunning ā mostly farmland. Iām again reading out snippets about the tiny towns on the route as we approach them. Less than an hour outside of Aliwal North, we drive through Jamestown, and then realise weāre about to pass the church Iāve just read about: the Kidwell Memorial Church. My mother and I squeak at the sight, and my father obligingly pulls over. Itās a small, attractive, stone structure, with something resembling a mini-steeple on top of it, which looks as though it may have melted and now leans to one side. The cleaning staff outside donāt have a key, but bush telegraph works a treat, and a few minutes later, somebody appears with one. It doesnāt, however, seem to help much, because it still sounds as though they have to break in to gain access! The petite foyer is illuminated by sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows. Sandwiched between the back wall of the sanctuary and the last wooden pew is an old organ ā strong, silent and battle-scarred. More stained glass windows, each set of them different, line the side walls, and to the left and right of the pulpit, above the windows, are little sections of ornate pressed ceilings. It is a place full of character, a place of peace, but itās suddenly becoming a little less peaceful, as a couple of curious locals have arrived on the scene, doubtless hearing about the ātouristsā in town!
Lovely Landscape
Old Jamestown Building
Jamestown Public Library
Kidwell Memorial Church
Kidwell Memorial Church – Foyer Window
Kidwell Memorial Church Organ. Used with permission by Shona Nelson.
Kidwell Memorial Church – I Stand at the Door and Knock
Kidwell Memorial Church – I am the Light of the World
Kidwell Memorial Church – More Windows and Pressed Ceiling
On the Road Again
Shortly after leaving Jamestown, we see a sign to Burgersdorp. Weāre going to spend the last part of our holiday there, where Granny Iris was born, hence the relevance. A little while later, we see another sign, and then another, at which point my father and I exclaim almost simultaneously, āAll roads lead to Burgersdorp!ā
The landscape is still breathtaking, though itās now starting to morph from farmland into mountain ranges, a reminder that we really do live in a country of incredible diversity and beauty. In Queenstown, boards advertising the Dew Drop Inn and the appropriately-named Number Two Piggeries remind us that there is no shortage of wit here, either! We decide to leave the N6 and take the R67 from Queenstown to Grahamstown. Whittlesea and Seymour make cameo appearances along this route, and itās somewhere between Seymour and Fort Beaufort that we stop at a lay-by for a quick lunch of pies and cherry tomatoes and to stretch our legs.
Eastern Cape Windmill & Sheep
It’s a Beautiful Day
“Shadow” Mountains
Queenstown Clock Tower
Grassland & Mountains
Savannah
Waterdown Dam (with apologies for the telephone wires – photographing through the car windows while travelling at speed proved to be quite a challenge!)
Trees & Mountain Passes Drawing Close
From the Heights
Henri House
Just after 15:00, we see Grahamstown unrolling before us. Astonishingly, it looks as though weāre driving on the edge of a municipal rubbish dump rather than a hip, arty cultural hub. Rubbish is strewn about the streets and banked up against the curb, and Iām wondering what Iām about to subject my long-suffering parents to. Fortunately, by the time we make our way onto Hill Street, past the Cathedral, things become much more pleasant, and I relax a little.
Madame GPS expertly guides us to Henri House where we will spend the next three nights. I ring the gate bell and Chiara appears, a toddler on her hip and a little boy attached to her leg. We make our introductions and she disappears briefly. When she returns, the boy has detached himself and is tentatively walking toward me with the keys for our unit, delightfully explaining where we need to go and what we need to do. I double-check some of the instructions with Chiara, and then return to the car.
We unpack and get ourselves settled in, which includes checking the DStv channels for my father (āThereās rugby on tomorrow, you know!ā). We discover that we can only get SABC, so my mother and I meander out into the garden to ācall for helpā. As weāre about to walk around to the front of the main house, the side gate opens and a gentleman pulls in on a scooter. He clearly sees weāre looking a little unsure and asks if he can help. His name is Andrew, and heās just returned from work (teaching at a local school), but seems to be co-owner/manager of Henri House, so we relate our woeful tale and are amazed when he gets straight off his scooter and immediately comes to investigate. After fiddling with the remote, decoder and TV for a few minutes, he discerns that the problem will take a little longer to fix and says he will look into it tomorrow for us.
We do, though, discover that the TV has a USB port, so I download the photos weāve taken over the last two days onto my laptop and then copy them onto a flash drive. We spend a wonderful evening reviewing our journey down in pictures, and put a brief plan of action together for the next couple of days. After a light supper, we decide to call it an early night. The time to curl up in bed and read before falling asleep is a holiday luxury I crave, so I take full advantage and am soon immersed in my book, in other places, in another time, until sleep eventually takes over and I drift off into dreams…
I haul myself out of bed at 06:00 and, eyes still heavy with sleep, weave about the passage toward the bathroom (which, for me, is not en suite) for that arduous (but very necessary) daily ritual of showering and hair-washing. Convilleās plumbing, fittings and fixtures (right down to those funky bell doodads next to the main bed to summon ladies’ maids, Ć la Downton Abbey!) may be in need of some maintenance, but the whole place has a cosy yet intriguing feel about it, as though its rooms are begging to be explored.Ā To me, aĀ night here could be described as a quintessential stay at grandmaās: wooden floors, high brass beds, interesting antique furniture, piles of books, patterned wallpaper, and old paintings and photographs lining the walls.
Conville Guest House View Through Pane in French Door
Conville Guest House Wardrobe
Conville Guest House Brass Bed & Bell Doodad. Used with permission by Shona Nelson.
Conville Guest House Bedroom Fireplace
Conville Guest House Stained Glass in Passage Window
Conville Guest House Dining Room Lights
There is, however, plenty of hot water on tap, and it is only after a thorough drenching and a cup of coffee that I feel capable of walking without the support of a wall or window sill.
History over Breakfast
Breakfast is at the long table in the rather grand dining room, with another guest couple who are passing through on their way to Sandstone Estates, Fouriesburg and then onto the Kruger National Park.
āIs that Scottish?ā asks the lady, on hearing my motherās accent. I smile and incline my head toward my mother, āYes, that is Scottish, and that,ā now indicating my father, āis South African!ā Over yoghurt, cereal and fruit juice, we learn that the original owner of Conville was Scottish. Linda, our amiable hostess, and her husband Anthony, now own and run the farm, but it was Anthonyās grandfather who started it all and built the house for his young bride. Anthony appears, right on cue, and, while we tuck into our fried eggs, bacon, tomato and toast, he recounts some of Convilleās history, including his grandfatherās engineering background, involvement in an irrigation scheme on the Orange River and interactions with Sir Herbert Baker. It was Grandfather Gerrandās early childhood in a Scottish castle together with the architectural skill of Herbert Baker which resulted in the design of this magnificent home, the construction of which was completed in 1908.
Conville Guest House. Used with permission by Shona Nelson.
Conville Guest House Right Gable
Conville Guest House Front Entrance
Conville Guest House Chimney
Conville Guest House Side Gable
Front of Conville Guest House from the Side
Linda asks what weāre doing in the area, and we explain that weāre hunting for relatives. Dead ones. We recount yesterdayās traumatic experience of searching for Aunt Minnieās grave in the old cemetery, and Linda nods sympathetically. āWeāre constantly fighting with the municipality about it,ā she says. āBut you should speak to Madeleine at the Aliwal Museumā¦ā We need to track down Mr Wessels before we leave and still get to Grahamstown today, but have a day trip planned to Aliwal North from Burgersdorp later in our itinerary. Linda helpfully takes down details of the family weāre looking for to pass onto Madeleine before our return. Then she leaves the room briefly and returns flicking through a copy of Driehonderd Jaar Nasiebou ā Stamouers Van Die Afrikanervolk by Dr D.F. du T. Malherbe . āThere are no Wessons,ā she says, handing the book to me. Iām almost twitching with anticipation as I quickly search for other surnames in our tree: Becker, Bolton, Meyer, Nelson ā all have entries, but I donāt recognise any of the other details. I make notes regardless. Perhaps theyāll come in handy somedayā¦
It only takes us a few minutes to pack our overnight bags back into the car, and then weāre bidding our gracious host and hostess farewell and heading back into town.
A Human Whirlwind
We pull up outside Community Services, just as an official-looking gentleman strides out of the office. Iām not about to let history repeat itself, so I launch myself out of the car and accost him: āExcuse me, Sir. Are you Mr Wessels?ā To his credit, if he was surprised by my āattackā, he didnāt show it. A thick Afrikaans accent responds, āNo, Iām Blackie Swart. Are you looking for Uri ? Can I help?ā I explain that weāre looking for the grave of a relative, and he says, āAh, no ā you will need to speak to Uri, then,ā and leads us back into the office building. āWhere is Uri?ā Mr Swart asks the man who is behind the bars of reception today. āHeās in a meeting,ā comes the response. My shoulders start to droop with disappointment already, but we explain that we will be back in town the following week. Mr Swart recommends we make an appointment to see Mr Wessels then, and also suggests we speak to Madeleine Joubert at the museum. We confirm that we already have her in our sights. Iām exchanging details with Mr Receptionist when he suddenly says, āJust hold on. Just hold on. I think the meetingās finished,ā and disappears down a passage to my right. A few seconds later, he pops his head around the corner at the end of the passage and beckons to me. We thank Mr Swart for his help and quickly follow Mr Receptionist, who leads us to a tiny office, indicating that the occupant is Mr Wessels.
Mr Wessels, who is having a very loud, demonstrative exchange with a colleague, ushers us in with a āKom in! Kom in!ā before flinging a pile of papers into an in-tray, still muttering as his co-worker leaves the room. āSit,ā he says and I sit, as someone thoughtfully brings in a chair for my mother. Once again, we explain ourselves and, to my surprise, Mr Wessels picks up a note on his desk with the details we had given the receptionist yesterday. āO, ja ā hierdie een,ā and he jumps up, dashes to a steel cabinet which seems to be bursting at the seams, flings open the door, burrows around and emerges with a printout which he triumphantly drops on the corner of his desk and furiously starts paging through. āWessonā¦ Wessonā¦ Wessonā¦ Hierās sy!ā It is an alphabetical list of graves in the old cemetery and, sure enough, there is Aunt Minnieās name. Mr Wessels scribbles the grave number on a piece of paper: 419009. Apparently, this means plot 4, row 19 and grave 9. He grabs his keys and says heāll show us the grave. In the same breath, he puts his keys down again and spins round to rummage in the embankments of paper that have built up around his desk, mumbling something about āmy ander boekā. Then he finds it and holds it aloft ā an A4 exercise book. Snatching up his keys once more, he heads out the office at breakneck speed. The whole meeting has probably taken less than five minutes. Outside, we discover that my father has vanished, doubtless to buy a newspaper. We phone him to let him know that Mr Wessels is going to show us the grave, when Mr Wessels gets a phonecall. Apparently, someone has been digging somewhere and unearthed what appear to be human bones which apparently makes it Mr Wesselsā problem. Completely unphased, heās not to be thrown off his current mission, but is clearly in a massive hurry, so we decide that I will drive to the cemetery with him while my mother waits for my Dad to return.
Mr Wessels is talking non-stop as his bakkie bounces obediently over and through the potholes which he barely seems to notice. As he careers around the left hand bend toward the graves, I say a quick prayer of gratitude for my seatbelt, without which I may have been flung straight out the driversā side window. He pulls to a stop at the same dejected-looking stone pillars we had seen the day before. Itās almost as if they themselves are somehow ashamed of the state of this that they are presiding over. Mr Wessels is out of the vehicle almost before Iāve managed to undo that seatbelt. He marches down the overgrown pathway in his boots, still talking ceaselessly, as I trot gingerly behind in my billowing skirt and flip-flops, camera swinging from my arm. He comes to an abrupt halt opposite a round, black sign with a large number 1 painted on it in white and points out a similar sign across the pathway with a large number 3 on it, before confirming with me in an easy English-Afrikaans mix that weāre looking for plot 4. I reply in the affirmative, and he continues talking at high speed (as much to himself as to me), deducing that plot 4 must be off to our left. And then he shoots off again, exercise book now open, ploughing through the knee-high grass, while I try to keep up and avoid broken beer bottles at the same time. Heās counting now, the row numbers in the plot, which, curiously, start at 9. How he manages to make any sense of the seemingly haphazard arrangement of overgrown graves, Iāll never know, but then I hear him say āneentienā and see him bolt off into the undergrowth on the right. Heās counting again, this time from 1. He squeezes between a large grave and a bright green shrub, before clambering over the corner of another grave and finally pausing to ask me who weāre looking for again. I remind him of the surname and he starts reading the graves: āThomas?ā āNee,ā I say, and he steps into the next row, muttering that perhaps it is one of the several broken graves in the vicinity, or one of those whose headstone has fallen, facedown into the dirt. I start losing hope ā again. What are the chances that Great Great Aunt Minnieās grave is still intact in all this mess?
