South Africans must many cherish fond memories of the beautiful Union-Castle Mail
Steamships with their lavender painted hulls that plied the Atlantic between Cape Town
and the UK for so many years.
THE LAVENDER LADIES
BARBARA DURLACHER
They tramped the seas from 1900 to 1977, leaving Cape Town every Wednesday
punctually at eleven, these lavender-hulled vessels of the Union-Castle Mail Steamship
Company. Sailing between Southampton and Cape Town in almost unbroken
procession, they became part of the South African way of life and provided a living link
between Britain and its former colonial possession. As far as I am aware, they were the
only regular bi-weekly mail ship service plying north to south, anywhere in the world.
A favourite holiday was to sail round the coast from Durban to Cape Town, first stop
East London. While the ship loaded oranges from the Sundays River and wool bales
from the Eastern Province passengers visited shore excursions or went shopping. Then
on to Port Elizabeth for a day or so - more shopping or a day trip to Addo Elephant Park
- while more wool, apples or oranges were loaded. On arrival at Mossel Bay, the ship
hove-to in deeper water, while lighters or barges ferried cargo back and forth.
Passengers spent time at the stern, watching the sharks feeding from the ship’s garbage
or playing deck games, while others enjoyed the pleasure of lazing in deck-chairs
alongside the pool. Busy stewards deftly served cold cider and sandwiches; passengers
who preferred a more substantial meal went down to lunch in the decorated dining room.
Reaching Cape Town, the three to four day stopover allowed for plenty of sightseeing for
those unfamiliar with the city. Then, on Wednesday morning, punctually at eleven,
hooters would blow, paper streamers arch from ship to shore as Mums and Dads called
last goodbyes and the gangplank was removed. Sometimes a uniformed band would
play, or a Scottish piper in full regalia skirl a lament as he marched up and down. Then,
the tugs would nuzzle the bows, manoeuvring the ship from the shore as it delicately
turned in the basin and headed towards the open sea.
Turning back towards the land, the last enduring sight was always that of Table
Mountain crowned with its white cloth. Or, were one sailing home from the north, the first
sight was the rosy-tinted flanks of the mountain in the early dawn glow, with the twinkling
lights of the Atlantic seaboard suburbs shining like diamonds along the base, and the
high loops of De Waal Drive skirting the University.
Then, out into the ocean, as flying fish surfed the waves and schools of dolphins played
tag, keeping pace with the leisurely tramp, tramp, tramp of the powerful engines carving
their way through the ocean. Comfortable accommodation, an air-conditioned library,
numerous cocktail bars, several restaurants, a beautiful swimming bath, dancing under
the stars – who could ask for a more perfect way of beginning a European holiday, or
returning home to visit the folks?
Golden days spent at sea sunning and swimming. New friends, leisure pastimes, card
and deck games. Horseracing, fancy hat parades, the Captain’s cocktail party. Musical
entertainments staged by the hardworking and talented crew and the absurd ‘Crossing
the Line’ ceremony. Here King Neptune and the Queen Amphitrite, the Royal Baby, the
Royal Barbers and Constables were played by the ugliest and brawniest of the below-
deck crew. They were garbed in bright yellow fright-wigs and crowns and brandished
tridents and enormous cut-throat razors and batons. The Royal Baby sported a bonnet,
a large dummy and an enormous droopy napkin. Posing asinine questions to novice
travellers, anybody who had not crossed the equator before was fair game. Irrespective
of the answer, the novice was ‘shaved’ with the huge wooden cut-throat razor; or chased
round the pool by the Constables and then made to walk the plank before being
unceremoniously tipped into the pool.
Before the enormous increase in the cost of oil, the journey took thirteen days and calls
were made at Las Palmas or Madeira to take on passengers. Arriving in the roadstead, a
brisk trade began between the bumboats selling beautifully embroidered table linen,
bright shawls and trinkets, basketwork and novelties. Knowledgeable travellers looked
forward to these excellent bargains and business was brisk. Money and goods passed
from bumboat to ship in a roped basket. In later years, electronic goods and leather
jackets were much in demand from the myriad of shops on the main street, which always
stayed open, no matter how late the hour. Occasionally, the ship stayed long enough to
allow the visitor a quick coach trip, but as the roads are narrow and precipitous and
access difficult not much of the beautiful scenery and famously luxuriant vegetation
could be seen. A better idea would be to come back later for a proper holiday and spend
time walking the network of paths alongside the irrigation channels to enjoy the views
and see the islands properly.
A day and a night trudging through the Bay of Biscay famed for it’s appalling weather,
then speed is reduced and the needle is delicately threaded as we negotiate the shallow
English Channel, the busiest waterway in the world. At last, we enter the Southampton
Roads, creep past the oil storage tanks at Milford Haven on the Welsh coast and gently,
carefully, navigate the crowded anchorage until we tie up alongside the Ocean Terminal
where the Boat Train waits.
Grey skies, grey quays, grey harbour-side buildings. Colourless and grim, the spirits fall
at this first glimpse of England. Can it really be as bad as it appears? But after the bustle
and rush of boarding the boat train, the passengers settle down for the journey to
London, and the sun breaks through the clouds. Then the soft greens, blues and greys
of the English countryside appear. A flash of a gaily-painted gypsy caravan in a field, a
split-second glimpse of a brilliant cock pheasant high stepping along a hedgerow and all
the doubts vanish, to be replaced by the thought, “Yes! I like it; this is for me.”