Weathered Haven
Seagulls rise as whispers of old walls meet the sky.
The cottage faces the wind.
Its whitewashed walls lean ever so slightly, not from poor craftsmanship but from decades of salt air and southeasters battering the gables. The thatched roof, darkened with age and stitched with wire to resist storms, sits firmly on its shoulders. The door is shut, the shutters drawn, but there’s something watchful in the way it occupies the corner—like an old woman seated quietly on her stoep, listening for the sea.
This house is one of many that form the heart of Kassiesbaai and one of my favourites to photograph in the historic fishing quarter of Arniston (Waenhuiskrans). Built by hand, maintained by generations, and passed down like stories around a fire, these cottages are not only dwellings, they are witnesses. They have seen boys turn into fishermen, women gather at dusk with bowls and gossip, gulls wheel overhead in the hush before rain, and storms that sweep sand up past the thresholds.
And yet, they endure.
The Voice of the Stones
The cottage in the image is typical of those found in Kassiesbaai: thick lime-plastered walls, a long rectangular structure, and a steeply pitched thatch roof, a style known locally as hartbeeshuis. It speaks of Cape Vernacular architecture, but more deeply, it speaks of necessity. This is not a style adopted for trend or visual charm: it was what the builders could manage using local sandstone, lime, and reeds gathered from nearby vleis.
The rough texture of the walls tells its own tale. The lime wash was traditionally reapplied by hand each spring, mixed with sea sand and crushed shells to help it stick and glisten in the sun. Families would come together, scraping away the salt-cracked residue of the year before, repainting the walls anew as a ritual of care and community.
Its purpose was both protective and aesthetic. Lime keeps insects out, reflects the sun, and provides a barrier against the ever-encroaching moisture from the sea. The lichen blotches and crumbling edges do not mar the structure, they dignify it. They are the patina of a life lived without insulation or modern conveniences, just wind, sea, salt, and survival.
A Village Carved from Necessity
Arniston’s fishing community dates back to the early 1800s, when freed slaves, local fishers, and displaced farmers settled near this natural harbour. The name Kassiesbaai comes from the wooden fish boxes (kassies) that were once stacked around the bay to dry and mend nets. These boxes, like the houses, were crafted from what was available. Here, nothing was wasted. Rope became washing lines. Driftwood became window frames. Old boats, when too tired to row, were stripped and used to patch a roof.
The people who lived here knew the sea intimately. The men could read the swell and wind before sunrise. The women cured fish on long planks set out in the sun. Children were taught early to watch the clouds and help carry baskets. Evenings were marked by oil lamps and conversation, and always, the whisper of the ocean through the cracks in the shutters.
Of Wings and Weather
In the image, two gulls rise against a sky bruised by weather—one bright-winged, the other dark. They arc above the house as if tracing its memory in the clouds. This, too, is Arniston. A place where light and shadow are never separate. Where weather is not background but character.
Winter here arrives like an old friend: familiar, blunt, and oddly reassuring. It sweeps over the dunes and between the houses, shakes the satellite dishes, and lifts the skirts of the bushes that cling to the stone fences. Yet, the cottages never flinch. They were built to lean into the storm.
Who Lives Behind These Walls?
It’s easy to romanticise such places. But behind these thick, weathered walls are real lives, both past and present. Elders who have seen their village become a heritage site. Youths trying to bridge old ways and new. Fishermen no longer allowed to fish the waters their fathers once knew, due to modern quotas and coastal restrictions.
Still, families remain, some holding onto these cottages with fierce loyalty. Others have left, seeking work inland, or sold to newcomers who saw charm in cracked plaster and a seaview.
But for those who know, this cottage is more than quaint. It is memory made material. It is the sound of a kettle whistling on a gas stove, the scratch of radio static, the scent of snoek being grilled over coals. It is the long echo of footsteps on a slate floor and the creak of a chair turned to the window.
The Light That Remains
What draws one to such a place is not just aesthetic but atmosphere. There’s something magnetic in the quiet dignity of these houses. They are humble, but not fragile. Weathered, but not weary. They carry the echoes of generations in the grain of their doors and the tilt of their stoops.
When photographed, they do not pose—they remember. And when the gulls pass overhead, as they do in this image, it feels as if the house is exhaling a breath held since morning.
There is no grandeur here, no opulence. Just honesty. And that, perhaps, is its greatest beauty.
About The Arniston Stories
The Arniston Stories is a photographic series capturing the quiet resilience, heritage, and rhythms of life in the coastal village of Arniston (Waenhuiskrans), South Africa. Through a collection of fine art images and accompanying narratives, the series offers a window into the textures, histories, and natural beauty of this unique place—told one story, one photograph at a time.
