Rooikrans I

In every Capetonian's lineage is a male relative or antecedent renowned for spending much of his waking life on the ledges at what was once Cape Town's premier fishing spot, Rooikrans — or Rooikrantz.

A short walk south of the Rooikrans parking lot and a scramble down the red-rock cliffs might have you stopping in your tracks to see two or three silver spinners, each tracking the other, snaking far out to sea before disappearing beneath the heaving swell, only to be reeled in immediately. An unwary yellowtail would see three silver flashes and instinctively launch itself at the hook. Fish are not easily landed on the ledges and gaffes are long and expertly wielded.

The casting continues all day.

Passing a fully laden fisherman on his way down late one afternoon, I asked him if he intended fishing or "fishing". "Neither," he responded. "I just need to get away from the wife."

It's that kind of place.

Climbing down to the ledges, you'll soon learn that it's an extraordinary person who frequents Rooikrans, a person for whom I have great respect. No-one illustrates this better than another sometime visitor to the ledges, muso, poet, surfer and fisherman Robin Auld, whose essay Rooikrantz is worth reading in full.

There was, according to the weekly angling report in the Argus, a run of yellowtail at Rooikrantz. Yellowtail are not caught too often by surf fisherman like myself. You need to spin for them at places where you have access to deep blue water, places where rock falls sheer into the ocean. Rooikrantz, just inside the tip of Cape Point in the Good Hope reserve, is rated one of the best. Never having been there I decided to give it a try. The morning after the report I drove to the reserve, paid at the gate and headed to the small car park above Rooikrantz where several cars were already parked. The stony path leading down the mountainside is very steep, it tacks its way down by running at a shallow gradient and then changing direction sharply to come back the other way.

It took me about forty-five minutes to get down to Rooikrantz. The path arrived at sea level not quite at the spot, having to bypass the red cliffs that seemed to overhang the actual fishing area. There was quite a swell running. It seemed that you were standing next to the open ocean, and in a sense you were. The swells came in from the deep, lifting the blue up ten feet or so against the rock and then sucking back, not breaking onto the rocks but sweeping past and heading into the bay. There were five or six men sitting on a large, flat rock some way back and up from what seemed to be the best spot. Their rods were lying, unattended, close to the water. Some way down there were a few anglers spinning from some precarious looking perches. Their silver spoons sparkled out in arcs against the sky before splashing down and barreling back through the water like tiny torpedoes.

Nobody was catching anything. The fishing area seemed to have an amphitheatre feel to it, as if it was the setting for something. The massive cliffs that formed the backdrop seemed to curve around us and any sound, even a kicked stone, echoed and reverberated around the rock arena.

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Do yourself a favour. Read this story. We'll get round to the pictures and Lavatory Ledge later ...