It has been said that a little over one hundred years ago, a warm-hearted Frenchman pitched his tent under a willow tree at the exact spot where Pont de Val is found today…
CHAPTER ONE
It was 1899, and almost thirty years had passed since Frédéric Laurentin had disembarked in Cape Town towards the end of 1871. He could clearly remember how Table Mountain had loomed majestically behind him, while opportunistic seagulls rode the salty breeze above his head. Like many adventurers of his time, this carefree French farm boy had travelled south to make his fortune as a prospector. His plan had been to earn enough money to return to his beloved Provénce, buy a piece of land in the hills and make wine, just as he and his father had done, before the phylloxera plague had ruined their prized vineyards and left them bankrupt. He longed to return to life on the farm, especially the long, warm evenings together with family and friends around the dinner table. Wholesome food, earthy wines and good company permeated every one of his childhood memories and he had been determined to bring these memories back to life once he owned his own patch of Provençal soil.
“Thousands of fortune-hunters had already staked their claims and there was little room for stragglers. Frédéric soon found himself amongst the scavengers…”
Upon arrival in South Africa, he had first headed to New Rush, later known as Kimberley, but soon learned that if his dreams were to become a reality, he would have to put aside his easy-going, magnanimous, countryside ways and join the rush. He would have to become as opportunistic as those Cape Town seagulls, or as unscrupulous as the vultures and hyenas he had heard so much about, fighting and scrabbling for every morsel that had not already been snatched up by his avaricious fellow prospectors. He had arrived late on the diamond fields. Thousands of fortune-hunters had already staked their claims and there was little room for stragglers. Frédéric soon found himself amongst the scavengers on the periphery, wheeling and dealing to make ends meet.
It was only two years later, on the back of a transport wagon, somewhere between Kimberley and Pilgrim’s Rest, that it dawned on him that the rush had caught him. His upbringing had taught him to make time for people, to be generous, to help and to make things festive for those around him. Mealtimes had been an integral part of this Provençal way of life. Frédéric knew that he had lost some of these cherished values, slaving, as he had done, from dawn until dusk for these two years. Now he felt tired and lonely. Arriving in Pilgrim’s Rest, he decided that he would start afresh. He opened a small shanty kitchen where weary wanderers like himself could escape from the rush and enjoy warm hospitality and pleasant company together with wholesome food and fine wine.
“Soothing strings and the good-hearted chatter of Boer, Uitlander and African would be heard drifting into the starlit sky long after the weary town had gone to sleep. Amorous couples also found, within its walls, a place where chivalry, romance and savoir vivre flourished…”
His little French kitchen travelled with the rush from Pilgrim’s Rest to Barberton and then on to the bustling, dusty streets of Johannesburg, where Frédéric Laurentin’s establishment became known for gathering the most unlikely mélange of guests. Soothing strings and the good-hearted chatter of African, Boer and Uitlander would be heard drifting into the starlit sky long after the weary town had gone to sleep. Amorous couples also found, within its walls, a place where chivalry, romance and savoir vivre flourished, while practitioners of vice and drunkenness preferred the ‘cigar-shops’ downtown. Frédéric’s regulars were hard-working people, but also celebrators of life and love, savouring his food, fine wine and each other’s company. They would leave in high spirits, revived and ready to face the days ahead.
As the 1890’s progressed, powerful forces were manoeuvring to take control of the Transvaal’s precious resources and, as the clouds of war gathered, the little restaurant became an island of goodwill in a sea of ever-growing hostility and mistrust. However, Frédéric Laurentin had realized that it was time to leave Johannesburg. Having savoured the bitter taste of war as a young man, he had no desire to experience it again. He would head to Cape Town via Bloemfontein – tables, chairs and stove amongst the few belongings that he strapped to his wagon. He had heard many good things about a picturesque little town called Franschhoek, nestled in a peaceful valley, just north of Stellenbosch. Perhaps it would be the perfect place to settle and open the doors of his little kitchen once again. Besides, he had long since given up the idea of making his fortune and returning to France.
Now he waded through the muddy, knee-deep water at Lindeques Drift, his oxen snorting and bellowing behind him as they dragged the heavy wagon over the shallow crossing into the Orange Free State. He was heading southwards, away from the City of Gold – away from the rush.
“Through the throng, he noticed a pale-looking gentleman sitting on an ant hill a stone’s throw from the river. Sketch book and pencil in hand, he gazed into the distance, seemingly oblivious to all the movement around him.”
Steely-eyed young men with scruffy beards crossed northwards, impatiently driving unwilling teams of oxen forward. Some looked puzzled as he cheerfully greeted them. Who was this amiable old gentleman with ready smile and easy gait who was so calmly moving against the flow? It seemed that he knew something that they were yet to find out.
Reaching the opposite bank, he unhitched his wagon, allowing his team of oxen to drink and graze a while. The town of Parys, where he hoped to spend the night, was still a number of hours distant. The well-worn track was busier than usual, with many other Uitlanders, like himself, making the long trek southwards. Through the throng, he noticed a pale-looking gentleman sitting on an ant hill a stone’s throw from the river. Sketch book and pencil in hand, he gazed into the distance, seemingly oblivious to all the movement around him. Intrigued, Frédéric made his way over to greet the pensive stranger. The fellow, it turned out, was a British surveyor, part of a team that had recently arrived from London with instructions to map out the farms, roads, river crossings and bridges of the Orange Free State and Transvaal Republics. Pointing to a plume of smoke a few kilometers upriver, he explained that they had set up camp just below Lindeques Falls, next to a little stream that was fed by a freshwater spring. Frédéric was soon invited to sojourn for the night, which he graciously accepted. After pitching his tent below a weeping willow, he joined his hosts around the fire, offering them wine and food that he had brought along for the long journey southwards. Just as in Johannesburg, the sounds of good-hearted chatter were soon drifting over the glimmering water into the evening sky, as the golden sunset was replaced by a warm red glow on the horizon.
The wine soon thawed any remaining reserve that existed amongst the little group of Englishmen and before long it was revealed that they were actually surveying the area in preparation for war and, in addition, they had been commissioned by a Johannesburg corporation who was considering the damming of the Vaal River at Lindeque’s Falls. The dam, they said, would not only supply Johannesburg with water, but also provide the first road link over the Vaal River into the Transvaal, furthering British plans to have a road from Cape Town to Cairo via Johannesburg. The war would be a short one, they reckoned, and work on the dam was set to start in earnest as soon as hostilities had ended.
“As the Londoner’s compatriots raucously applauded their friend’s splendid advice, Frédéric’s thoughts started to wander. Questions raced through his mind as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.”
As the evening progressed and the laughter became more boisterous, Frédéric entertained his hosts with stories of his boyhood adventures in the hills and vales of southern France. As the childhood memories became more vivid, he stood up and began to gesticulate wildly as he demonstrated how he and his friends would often cycle from Nîmes to a tiny town called Collias on the banks of the Gardon River. Once there, he explained, they would put their money together to buy a few freshly baked loaves of bread, butter, a bag of local Colliasse olives and two bottles of wine at a tiny bakery known as Les Pains du Gard. Just as Frédéric was describing how he and his friends would “borrow” a small boat and row downriver through the arches of the magnificent Pont du Gard for a relaxing picnic on the river bank, the pale-looking Londoner loudly interrupted, proclaiming that he had just had a remarkable idea. Since the war would no doubt interrupt Frédéric’s trip down to the Cape, why not open his little French kitchen right next to the Lindeque’s Falls? He was out of harm’s way here and the war would soon be over, allowing work on the dam to start. Once the dam-bridge was completed, he would be well positioned and surely attract many an adventurer and weary passerby. As the Londoner’s compatriots raucously applauded their friend’s splendid advice, Frédéric’s thoughts started to wander. Questions raced through his mind as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Awoken early the next morning by the cry of a fish eagle, he rose and made his way down to the water’s edge. The first rays of sun had just begun to pierce the fine curtain of mist that hung low over the river. Taking in the tranquil surroundings, he suddenly became aware that there was something about the river, the light and the distant hills that reminded him of home. As he followed the river bank up to the falls, he began to ponder his next steps. If ever there was a good place to make a new start, it was here. While waiting out the war he could work the little patch of land next to the spring. He could even try his hand at growing some grapes. The terroir held some promise, so there would be no harm in trying. A restaurant next to the new bridge? The idea was beginning to intrigue him. He had had his heart set on Franschhoek, but something deep within him was warming to the possibility that the banks of this peaceful, willow-lined stretch of river could become his long sought-after home away from home. Frédéric Laurentin was happy.
History does not tell us what became of this amiable Frenchman. Some say that the British, finding the old man tending to his little vineyard, mistook him for a Boer and deported him. By all accounts, he does not seem to have survived the bitter war that broke out shortly after he had made himself at home on the banks of the Vaal River.
Nevertheless, the spirit of Monsieur Frédéric Laurentin lives on right here at Pont de Val! His story has inspired us to create a space where celebrators of life and love can take time out, away from the rush, to savour good food, fine wine and each other’s company in a tranquil French countryside environment. With soothing tunes, good-hearted chatter and infectious laughter filling the air on balmy evenings, over glasses of Pont de Val La Grande Évasion, we can well imagine that a certain warm-hearted Frenchman from Provénce would be very pleased.
CHAPTER TWO
Twenty-eight years on African soil had changed Frédéric. All those years before, in 1871, as he bid farewell to family and friends at the beautiful port of Nice, he had believed himself as he made his impassioned promises of a swift return. Indeed, for the first few years he had felt like a visitor as he moved about from one town to the next, always dreaming of the day he would return home to his family and to the sun-baked, rocky hills of his beloved Provence. But Africa had changed him. Its warm and generous people, awe-inspiring beauty and the vibrant rhythm of life had caused his home sickness to gradually evaporate. It had been replaced by a deep sense of belonging. He was home. Even his regular letters to loved ones back in France had changed over the years. No longer were there descriptions of struggle and promises of an imminent return. Now Frédéric’s detailed descriptions of his daily experiences were filled with enthusiasm and love for the land and its people – sometimes in the form of poetry or intricate charcoal sketches – and always ending with an impassioned plea to his family to come and join him.
Frédéric had loved his time in Johannesburg. Closing the doors of his restaurant and shuttering its windows had been a painful experience. He had put his heart and soul into the place, ser
Days, months, and years soon passed, and the legend of an amiable Frenchman named Laurentin, who owned and ran a fabulous little wine farm on the banks of the Vaal River, spread far and wide. As his renown grew, it was no longer just the everyday traveller who enjoyed a place at his long table. His old patrons from Johannesburg and even further afield also seemed to find their way to Lindeque Falls. In fact, it was not long before the lodgings at the Laurentin Farm had to be expanded and upgraded to accommodate the who’s who of British, Boer and Basotho society who would arrive with their entourages for a few days respite from the unpleasantness of war and its aftermath. It was in one of these entourages that Frédéric Laurentin first laid eyes on the woman that would add a completely new dimension to his life and hospitality.
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It all seemed to happen at once in 1916. The once quiet riverbanks at Lindeque Falls suddenly become a hive of activity. A construction camp shot up on the Transvaal side of the river, a stone’s throw away from Frédéric’s farmhouse. The long-anticipated construction of the Vaal River Barrage had begun.
Many strong hands were needed to build up the dam wall, and, in preparation, recruiters had been sent out to distant towns in an attempt to secure labourers for the years of hard work that lay ahead. The Paramount Chief of the Basotho nation, Griffith Lerotholi, had also been approached, with promises of tributes to be paid to the royal house and local chiefs in exchange for a reliable annual supply of men to bolster the Vaal workforce. Before deciding whether to cooperate, Chief Lerotholi had decided to send a group of trusted advisors to inspect working conditions and negotiate a final tribute amount to be paid annually into the royal coffers. It was among these advisors that the king had included a beautiful young women named Ramatla.
Legend had it that Princess Let’sabisa, Griffith’s elder sister, had taken in a little baby girl after her young mother, one of the queen mother’s attendants, had passed on during childbirth. The little girl had been miraculously rescued by the midwives and Let’sabisa had subsequently named her Ramatla, meaning “strength”. Loved by all in the royal household, especially by her grandfather, King Lerotholi I, Ramatla had grown up to be a strong-willed young woman, just as her name had portended, full of curiosity and unafraid of standing her ground amongst the chiefs of the royal court. While her doting grandfather and uncles sometimes had to apologise for the little princess’s forthrightness during official proceedings, they were secretly fond of asking her opinion about important matters of state, knowing all too well that her views would not be tempered by protocol and petty political considerations.
Her influence in the royal household had steadily grown, making it relatively easy for Ramatla to convince the regent to include her on the Vaal expedition. In fact, it was not the first time that she had managed to twist the arm of a Paramount Chief when it came to taking a trip outside the borders of the landlocked mountain kingdom. Since childhood, her ability to cajole had resulted in her tagging along with her grandfather and uncles on many of their diplomatic, and even military, expeditions, arguably making her the most travelled delegate in the royal entourage. Bloemfontein, Cape Town, Durban, Johannesburg, and even the capitals of other neighbouring states had become familiar territory to her. Ever the socialite, the bold little princess had built up a wide circle of friends over the years and was especially fond of mealtimes with them, enjoying, and even learning to prepare, the varied dishes of Boer and Brit, Zulu and Indian.
The princess’s entourage arrived late on a Sunday afternoon. As was customary, Frédéric rushed out of the farmhouse to greet his newly arrived guests. A cloud of dust surrounded the oxen and wagon as servants hurriedly offloaded a small mountain of luggage. A row of stately looking gentlemen in dark Basotho blankets and triangular grass hats stood to one side, and Frédéric proceeded to greet each of them with a warm handshake and a firm embrace.
Amid all the bustle and dust, he had not noticed her. She had been overseeing the offloading, but now she approached the men. Frédéric turned to see a ravishingly beautiful woman in colourful traditional attire, silhouetted against the early evening sunlight as it passed through the fine dust that hung in the air. A muffled ”Bonjour” was all that he was able to utter as he moved forward to greet her with a slight bow. Ramatla smiled and offered her hand. She had long been looking forward to meeting the famous Frédéric Laurentin.
With royalty at his table, Frédéric spared no effort, presenting his guests with large portions of the finest Provençal dishes in his repertoire, and as always, his favourite red and white wines were on offer to perfectly compliment the food. It wasn’t long before spirits were high and the volume of conversation even higher. It was when the tired gentlemen were rising from the table to head for their rooms that Frédéric suddenly noticed they had hardly touched their food. It seemed that only Ramatla had enjoyed a decent portion. He had never experienced this before, and, unsure how to respond, he froze in his tracks, countless scenarios flashing through his mind as he tried to make sense of his guests’ apparent rejection of his best efforts.
Mr. Laurentin. “Your food was delicious, Mr. Laurentin,” she said smiling,” but if you really want to win over the hearts of my countrymen, you need to add something that is familiar to us – we love the tastes of home.”
Ramatla, quick to notice the look of embarrassment and puzzlement on Frédéric’s face, waited for the men of her entourage to leave, and then approached Mr. Laurentin. “Your food was delicious, Mr. Laurentin,” she said smiling,” but if you really want to win over the hearts of my countrymen, you need to add something that is familiar to us – we love the tastes of home.”
This one sentence was the start of a conversation that lasted deep into the night. In fact, it was the start of a conversation that would continue for many years. Ramatla, the fiery little Basotho princess began the journey of teaching Mr. Frédéric Laurentin the finer aspects of traditional Southern African cuisine. From the art of making papa with the perfect consistency, to the skill of preparing fresh moroho and pot-baked bread. From the virtues of roasted maize to the tantalizing taste of tripe stew. A new culinary world opened up for Frédéric, and he soon discovered that in addition to Ramatla’s extensive knowledge of traditional Basotho fare, her cooking had also been influenced by the many cultures and culinary traditions she had experienced during her travels throughout the sub-continent.
Frédéric immediately started to put his new-found knowledge to use. Imagine Ramatla’s surprise when she and her entourage, returning from a day of tiring negotiations, were met by the familiar aroma of roasted maize, papa and lekakarane, Ramatla’s favourite chicken dish, as they entered the farmhouse door. Ramatla’s eyes sparkled, and she smiled from ear to ear. Frédéric’s simple act of kindness had won her heart and convinced her that she had found a kindred spirit with a sincere love for people, food, and warm hospitality. That night all the dishes were empty after dinner…
History does not tell us exactly what happened to Frédéric and Ramatla in the subsequent years, but legend has it that during that period, a prominent Basotho princess was traditionally wed to a certain Frenchman in Maseru, the capital of Basutoland. It may well be that this was our hero and heroine, and that they returned to Lindeque Falls, further developing their own special offering and entertaining guests from far and wide at their little oasis on the banks of the Vaal.
Now, many years later, Pont de Val, built on the foundations of the old farmhouse, carries forward the legacy of Frédéric and Ramatla’s unique marriage of traditional Provençal and African cuisine.
With eclectic rhythms, good-hearted chatter and infectious laughter filling the air on balmy evenings, over glasses of Pont de Val’s finest vintages, we can well imagine that a certain warm-hearted Frenchman and his feisty African princess are very pleased!