The Cape, Privately · Wednesday 10 February 2027
A wine of their own, on the farm my family named.
In the late 1920s my great-grandfather, Richard Stuttaford, bought and consolidated several farms in the Stellenbosch valley. There was a problem: across the valley stood another great estate, owned by family friends, with an almost identical name. The post went astray; suppliers were forever confused. So in 1928 he renamed his farm — taking Stellen from Stellenbosch and rust, which in Afrikaans and Dutch means rest — and registered it as a trademark.
Stellenrust. His place of rest in Stellenbosch. The farm left the family fifteen years ago and is in other hands now, but the name he chose is still on the bottle — and I grew up running these blocks, and swimming in the stone-walled bend of the river below the house where my mother was raised.
The wine has travelled further than most people realise. Stellenrust has been poured in business class on Lufthansa and South African Airways, so it is quite possible your guests will have drunk it on the way here, without knowing whose farm it came from.
This morning they make a wine of their own in the valley he farmed, and then sit down to lunch on the farm itself. This afternoon they visit the estate whose name caused all the confusion — still owned by the Barlow family, still friends. The whole day is one story, and no one else can tell it.
Up from the Waterfront and inland over the Cape Flats to the Stellenbosch bowl, with the Simonsberg and the Helderberg rising ahead. Twenty minutes or so, against an hour and a half on the motorway.
The winemaker meets us with a thief in his hand — the long glass pipette used to draw wine straight from the barrel. The same cabernet, same vintage, tasted from French oak, then American, then Eastern European, so guests understand what a tree on another continent does to a grape grown here. This is not a tasting anyone can book.
This is the morning they become winemakers. On a wine farm on the edge of Stellenbosch, in a room beside the river, several wines are laid out in front of them, each made from a single grape, and each with something missing on its own. One has fruit but no backbone, another is firm and serious but a little closed, a third brings perfume and spice. They taste them one by one, then measure, mix, taste again and adjust, until the wine in the glass is exactly the way they like it. Then they give it a name and design its label, which is usually where the laughter starts. We taste each other’s wines, argue a little about whose is best, and raise a glass to the winemakers in the room. They arrive as guests and leave as winemakers.
Then the part of the day closest to my heart. We drive out to Stellenrust, the farm my great-grandfather named, where my mother grew up and where I swam in the river pool as a boy. A long table is laid for the group in the garden, or in the hall if the wind is up, with the mountains all around. Cape country cooking is set down in the middle of the table to share, the Chenin from the old bush vines is poured first and then the Shiraz, and somewhere between the two I tell them how the farm got its name. We have not owned it for many years, but for one long afternoon it feels like coming home.
A short hop across the valley to the estate that started all the confusion, owned by the Barlow family and still in their hands. The old cellar buildings, the gardens, the Simonsberg standing over it all — and a tasting on the lawn rather than a technical session, because by now the story matters more than the wine.
Back over the mountains to the Waterfront while the sun is still on the water, and fifteen minutes to the house.
Their fifth night at 21 Nettleton and their last. The chef who has cooked for them all week does so properly: a long dinner at the table they have come to think of as theirs, and the Atlantic going dark below the terrace. Tomorrow they leave the Cape.
| John Sparks | I tell the story standing on the ground where it happened. My mother was raised on the upper portion of this farm. |
|---|---|
| The cellarmaster | Leads the barrel tasting and the blending, in his own cellar. |
| Trip guide | With the party throughout, in Russian. |
| Guests | 12 |
|---|---|
| Helicopter legs | 3 |
| Estates | 2 |
| Accommodation | 21 Nettleton, night 5 of 5 |
The proposal
Not tours. Living chapters.February · The Cape
The Cape, three waysThe Cape, PrivatelyThe Cape, HostedThe Cape, EssentialApril · For the Families
For the FamiliesApril · Lesotho
Lesotho and the High CountrySeptember · The whales
The Whales, and Deep TimeWhere they stay
21 NettletonTintswalo AtlanticRadisson CollectionLanzeracGrootbosThe MarineHarbour HouseThe Shark BaySanbonaNambiti HillsEsiweni Luxury Safari LodgeCleopatra Mountain FarmhouseWhere they eat
Café CapriceStellenrustTwo Oceans RestaurantLa ColombeBeau ConstantiaCreationAlong the way
Table MountainThe Bo-KaapThe Castle of Good HopeThe Company’s GardenHout BayBoulders BeachGroot ConstantiaKlein ConstantiaBuitenverwachtingStellenboschRustenbergHermanus and Walker BayRiding at Pearly BeachThe Art of the BlendFranschhoekChapman’s PeakCape of Good HopeSnorkelling with SealsGreat White Shark DivingThe whales: the trailerTalk to me
john@visitorstoafrica.comWhatsApp