We took a slow drive — not that slow — down from the far northern reaches of the Cape, from Vanrhynsdorp, through Clanwilliam and Piketberg, and on to that long road that drops off the escarpment towards Lamberts Bay.
On the sound system, it wasn’t the usual West Coast fare. We had Rickie Lee Jones — Woody and Dutch on the Slow Train to Peking, not the more familiar Easy Money. Then some power rock — Don’t Tell Me by Peebleman. Later, the magnificent blues revival of The Waterboys — The Nearest Thing to Hip, a triumph of an album, as the rock professor once described it.
That kind of music sustains a drive like this. Rock and roll and blues from all over the world. Though it has very little to do with the hot, dry country you’re moving through — the West Coast pushing 29 degrees inland before easing as you near the sea.
We turned off somewhere near “Watergat”, let Google Maps take over, and found ourselves drifting through Leipoldtville and on to Elands Bay.
Elands Bay still has that rough-and-ready, slightly weathered holiday feel. But even here, change is creeping in.
Then comes Dwarskersbos — and this is where it hits you. Development, neat and uniform. Rows of small, tidy houses, same roofs, same palette, marching inland from the coast. Thirty years ago, homes here clung to the shoreline. Now they stretch back in layers — three, four rows deep — most without a glimpse of the sea.
You wonder what draws people to this kind of living. Is it the pull of community? Or simply investment logic — the idea that this stretch of coast has become valuable, and must be filled?
It’s not for everyone. But clearly, it works for some.
From there it was on to Velddrif — still a bit rough around the edges, still itself — with flashes of comfort tucked in among the working-town feel. We passed Port Owen, that marina development that once had real ambition behind it, though like many such ventures, its origins are tied to companies that didn’t quite last the distance.
One small disappointment: no bokkoms for sale. The dried harder or mullet that usually hang in bunches along the roadside. Perhaps the wrong time of year.
But this coastline, especially around Saldanha Bay and Langebaan, remains striking. Cooler air, wide water, and yesterday — kite surfers everywhere, stitching lines across the lagoon.
It’s also, increasingly, built up. Hardly surprising. It’s barely an hour from Cape Town — traffic permitting — and that proximity changes everything.
One small moment stayed with me. Near the turnoff, we ran into a group we’d seen earlier up north. Their car carried a “Save the Fish” sign. An NGO of sorts. They were talking to road workers at the junction — three figures in the heat, almost like mirages. Desert extras out of Mad Max. One woman handed me a brochure. I’ll read it when I get the chance.
That, too, is part of this coast.
Some of it still feels untouched. Some of it is already overdone. And in between are these in-between places — where you can imagine a life, or realise very quickly that you couldn’t.
