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Journeys through time and wine from Stellenbosch to Prince Albert

Journeys through time and wine from Stellenbosch to Prince Albert
Jars of Karoo wonder. Isn’t that the cleverest name for a jam ever? (Photos: Tony Jackman)
Tony Jackman
By Tony Jackman
23 Aug 2024
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Long roads lead to Prince Albert, and last weekend they brought old stories to town when cars full of well mannered and even more well heeled people from the cities cruised in for the first ever Vino Camino, the country’s newest annual wine event.

A smiling gentleman from Plettenberg Bay asked me, soon after I’d arrived in Prince Albert last Friday, what I would be writing about the first Vino Camino. Well, I don’t know yet, I said, we’ll have to see what happens. Stories unfold and must be followed, like old roads. Eventually, your destination lies before you, as you take the final sip and write the last word.

Let’s start a very long time ago. Once upon a time in 1975, the 20-year-old version of me climbed into a Volksie Beetle with my Londoner friend Tim Sanders and an American girl we had met. I don’t recall her name but her thick ginger hair was plaited right down her back, unforgettably, over her blue denim jeans and jacket. 

The Stellenbosch Wine Route was barely weeks old, and we were off to Stellenbosch to taste wines. The hot day is seared into my mind. A flash of memory has just brought it back to me: it was Tim’s sister Libby’s Beetle, and he was driving. We stomped barefoot on grapes at Spier, because that’s how wine making began then, then drove via Muratie to Delheim for a ploughman’s platter. The venerable Spatz Sperling was in situ, regaling us with wine stories, not least his legendary Spatzendreck, golden nectar that he had first made in 1961; it was already a legend, and remains so today, although Spatz left us in 2017.

Turning back towards home, we stopped at Muratie, a farm that has always stood out for me as staunchly individual and an historical gem of the winelands. And here, in Prince Albert 49 years later, is Rijk Melck himself, to pour you his wines and tell you the wonderful Muratie stories. A gentleman of wine with far-seeing eyes, and they see not only forward back back in time, so that the stories of the Muratie antecedents are captured in bottles along with the wines. Every bottle holds a bit of Muratie history.

Albert van Niekerk of Crystallum and Van Niekerk Vintners (left); legendary Rijk Melck of the equally legendary Muratie, and Alice Verburg, winemaker with her larger-than-life dad Niels at Luddite. (Photos: Tony Jackman)



Standing on a sunny stoep in Prince Albert last weekend, my mind roared back to 1975 and that similarly sunny afternoon on the farm. But there was more history to unfold in Prince Albert that day, in the grounds of the Yellow House on the far edge of town. After tasting the lauded wines of Luddite winemaker Alice Verburg, daughter of the larger-than-life Niels Verburg, we wandered over to a corner table where Peter-Allen Finlayson of Gabriëlskloof walked us through their trio of ranges, but my focus fell on one in particular.

One word: Lieberstein. Not actually that once ubiquitous wine from all those decades ago, but a modern wine made in its honour. Decades ago, Lieberstein was celebrated in the jingle that everyone of my vintage will remember: Get together with Lieberstein, anywhere, any time…. 

Sonwater (centre), an ode to Lieberstein from Van Niekerk Vintners. (Photo: Tony Jackman)



That wine was an institution, as was another wildly popular wine of that era, Virginia, marketed as “the wine for men who enjoy being men”. Moving on swiftly. That brand sold like Coca-Cola, so who cares if the messaging wouldn’t quite work in our current society.

Fixing some errata in the original version of this story, with apologies: Hosting this wine stall were Albert van Niekerk and his wife Anmar van Niekerk. Anmar is the winemaker for Gabriëlskloof, while Albert is the winemaker for Crystallum, whose wines are made in the Gabriëlskloof cellar. Together, they make Van Niekerk Vintners wines, their personal brand that is not part of the Gabriëlskloof range.  

Among the wines in this experimental category is Sonwater, which is loosely based on Lieberstein, in that it is 90% Chenin blanc and 10% Clairette blanche, although this iteration is dry, unlike Lieberstein.

Consider the growth of the South African wine industry since those days when South African wines were barely known in the wider world, from grape crushing by foot and natural fermentation to innovative fermentation techniques and precision viticulture. I don’t remember hearing words like terroir and biodynamic in 1975.

Which is where Niels Verburg from Luddite comes in: he named his wines Luddite as a wry take on how he sees himself and his approach to winemaking: use the old ways, keep it simple, make wines like they used to be made without the encumbrance of new methods. Build it and they’ll come… and if you’d like an idea of the queues, as it were, to buy Luddite wines, just look at the country’s high-end wine lists. They are among the darlings of the sommeliers who seek out the best of the best. And Gabriëlskloof wines are also resplendent in those echelons.

And now our journey has brought us to Prince Albert, reached (for us) via the traveller’s glory that is Meiringspoort, and the first Vino Camino, and what an impressive show, astonishingly slick and well organised considering that this was its first outing. Behind it are Prince Albert restaurateur and charcutier Jeremy Freemantle and his Stellenbosch business partner Karen Henriques, who need to take a collective bow.

If the name is a tad puzzling at first – you may imagine that you’ll be grabbing a bottle of wine and a glass and trekking into the mountains to drink it – you need to picture the town’s main street. Church Street is a long ramble, and many of us chose to drive out to the Yellow House last Saturday, rather than walk; it is a factor that the time it takes to walk to the further wine stalls eats away at the time you’d like to spend on the reason you’re there: to taste wine and talk about wine. And what a big plus that the winemakers were at their tables in person. The name works, despite this: it’s clearly the work of a marketing guru, and that the name is right showed in the hordes who snapped up the limited number of tickets.

But where there is wine there has to be food. We were there at Jeremy’s invitation, so for us his restaurant was the focal point. He had arranged accommodation for us right across the road, at Colleen Penfold’s creamy, dreamy guest house and antique store. I say “creamy” because everything is painted cream, from the floors and ceilings to the very clothes she wears. 

Colleen Penfold outside Prince Albert Country Stay, her guest house and antiques and vintage store in Prince Albert. Left: the private verandah at the rear, off which you will find your dreamy, creamy room. (Photos: Tony Jackman)



Colleen was a generous host, having taken on the full management of the operation since her husband’s passing only months ago. She’s taken the baton with aplomb.

The creaminess of Prince Albert Country Stay is a beautiful visual theme, soft and gentle, and the perfect backdrop for the eye-popping antiques Colleen collects. It’s been a passion since she was a girl, and there was so much to covet that it was safer for me to exit the shop and head across the road to Jeremy’s, lest my bank manager give me a good talking-to.

Bicycles on the rooftop of Colleen Penfold’s Prince Albert Country Stay. (Photo: Tony Jackman)



Let’s get the low point out of the way: for dinner on Friday night, Jeremy had booked us into a restaurant further down lengthy Church Street, who had no record of the booking Jeremy had made, but found us a table anyway, to their credit. It wasn’t the best start, and that’s the polite version. 

There was no menu – odd, but then explain to customers what the options are. There was vague pointing to “it’s out there”, where I found a spit braai buffet of good lamb and cold vegetables on a table in the night air. There was no starter of any kind and a pudding for afters; a simple malva would have been fine.

Hospitality requires more than a plate of food. I’d never have friends over for a braai and not give them a nibble of something first, and I invariably make a pudding or provide something with ice cream as a dessert. It’s simple hospitality – R250 for some spit braai and vegetables with no starter or simple pudding is just not good enough. And the price is not the point: whatever you’re charging, a single plate of food does not do the job of a restaurant.

Let me be clear: this was not the lovely Yellow House, which is further out of town, but a venue that I have decided not to name, to save them some embarrassment.

That same gentleman from Plettenberg Bay asked me, last Saturday morning, how I would deal with it when I wrote. I’d need to think about it, I replied. In the end, it became clear that I needed to give some details, hence these further notes. If I’m not discussing the bad, where’s the truth of the good that I need to write about too?

Which brings us to Saturday night’s dinner, which couldn’t have been more different. Jeremy’s is smart, and his food is superb. His menu is small, always a good sign. He changes his menus frequently, an even better sign of good things to come once you sit down at your table.

Jeremy carves me an exquisite taste of his world-class jamon. (Photos: Tony Jackman)



I soon acquired a severe case of Other Plate Envy when our starters arrived. His charcuterie skills (trained by Richard Bosman) are top drawer, and the beef tataki set before The Foodie’s Wife (she allowed me a sample) was just sublime. Not to take away from my excellent, wonderfully creamy roasted tomato and red pepper soup (for which we published his recipe this Tuesday), but let’s say I made a somewhat ungentlemanly note to myself: get my order in first next time. (We never choose the same dish.)

Jeremy Freemantle’s beef carpaccio in the Japanese tataki style (left), dressed with soy, honey and garlic. His creamy roasted red pepper and tomato soup (right). (Photos: Tony Jackman)



Tataki is essentially Japanese carpaccio, not technically charcuterie, but either way, this man has a way with meat. Dressed with soy, honey and garlic, these super fine slivers of beef were silky and delectable. 

I had to have meat for a main course. Here it is: beef short rib, dark and deeply flavoured with soy and sake, making Jeremy’s interest in Japanese cooking methods and ingredients clear. Very much my kind of food, and accompanied by a crisp, clean slaw shredded very finely, an elegant side dish offering perfect contrast. Di’s choice of seafood penne with nduja made by his own hand was well received.

Beef short rib lacquered with sake and soy and flavoured with fivespice. Right: Jeremy’s exquisite, moist clementine cake served with spekboom ice cream. (Photos: Tony Jackman)



A note on portion sizes at Jeremy’s, from the top of the menu: “Our portion sizes are all the same and not intended as starters or mains. We encourage our guests to taste more than one dish, but we promise that you will enjoy a generous helping of each.” Prices that night ranged from R120 to R220 (for dishes such as Norwegian salmon, lamb shank, and the beef short rib). I had seen a lunch menu during the day that had lower prices, and also included a charcuterie selection, which I had sort of “chosen” and then not found on the evening menu.

The Lazy Lizard, once a bus terminal. Their excellent breakfast with perfect poached eggs. (Photos: Tony Jackman)



Crossing the road to Colleen’s ode to cream, we slept pleasantly and headed for the town’s favourite breakfast spot, so everyone told us, the Lazy Lizard. Supremely good breakfast but wait, there’s more: Peck’s anchovy paste! Three jars of it went home with us, along with many memories.

Jars of Karoo wonder. Isn’t that the cleverest name for a jam ever? (Photos: Tony Jackman)



You come away with things after a weekend like this, and there’s much to think about on the drive home through Meiringspoort and at the fireside at Kabbelrus in De Rust, a treat we’d promised ourselves on the way home. The ease with which strangers fall into conversation over tastes of wine at tables in the sunshine. The exquisite slice of his own jamon that Jeremy slices for me near the end of our meal. The jars of many Karoo things on the shelves at the Lazy Lizard. 

Oh, and the elegant wine glass that was your passport, as it were, to every sip of wine to be poured into it. DM

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