A little down the road from the Mungo Mill and up a winding jeep track into the hills you find Petrichor, home to Ilan, Daphne and their family. Atop a hill overlooking the Tsitsikamma mountain range, it’s here, this late summer, that Mungo had our latest lifestyle shoot with Nicola Suttle, a day long shoot tracing the sun as it wove light through and around the house.

Wayfarer and Summer Towels

Wayfarer Summer Towels

Pablo on the natural pool deck with Ruti Kikois

A heavy mist lay thick that early morning when we arrived, cloaking the surrounding hills. Greeted by a wood fired sauna, its warm wood interior and our linen gowns gave us the start to our shoot.

With the mist burnt off by the strengthening sun, the valley and hills revealed themselves. We moved to the natural pool, the dogs, Pablo and Karuna, trailing us. Pablo decided our carefully styled Ruti kikoi, intentionally laid just so on the decking, would be a great place for a morning nap.

Clouds trailed up and sometimes we waited for them to pass, so as to catch the light we needed, bouncing it into the vast sun soaked lounge, plushed with our cushions and the new Duo Blanket. The double weave of the Duo looking at home in the setting and picking up on the olive greens and blush pinks of the ericas in the veld growing lush about the home.

Shoots are varied full days; we chase light and deadlines, trying to get as many considered shots into our allotted time as we can, but in the soft interiors and verdant garden of Petrichor, the demands of styling and shooting sat lightly – the calm of the space holding us.

The Duo Blanket in Mesa

Our 12 hours there made us curious; what is an average day in this beautiful home and setting – We asked our hosts, Ilan and Daphne, to share what a day in their family’s life at Petrichor looks and feels like. Read about it here:

Daphne, Ilan and Raphael, photos by Amy Keevy

Ilan

The frogs start first. Then the birds. Then the dogs hear something moving through the fynbos, and that’s the day begun.

I make coffee and take it to the verandah. The Keurbooms valley is still in shadow, and there’s a thin orange line rising across the Tsitsikamma mountains. It’s quiet in a way that city people don’t have a word for; not the absence of noise, but a fullness; loeries calling across the valley, wind through the fynbos and the occasional bark from our dog, Karuna, who has spotted a bokkie on the trail or a porcupine having breakfast on our bulbs.

Winter mornings are my favourite. The sun rises and hits the black terracotta tiles above the fireplace, and moves across them throughout the morning. It turns the room into something living. 

Mungo Table linen and Cushions

“We couldn’t design that, we chose the tiles and orientation, but the sun did the rest. By the end of the day, it has made its way all the way round to kiss the raw terracotta tiles in the kitchen for its last goodbye.”

– Ilan Green, Petrichor host and co-creator

Daphne

Our son, Raphael, comes straight to the kitchen. He’s two and every morning is an event. Breakfast happens while he tells us of something he’s seen; a bird flying by or a spider in a web, something only he has noticed. His presence and the joy that consistently follows him, reminds me to join him – these moments will be over quickly.

I grew up on a farm in the Free State. Dirt, animals, open sky. I didn’t know it was special until I left. Working in health, I’ve come to understand what a childhood like that does to a nervous system; it regulates you. The ground under your feet, the rhythm of seasons, the honesty of the natural materials around you. We’re wired for it.

“I arrived with a feeling, not a floor plan. I needed soft curves, natural materials, a vegetable garden and a natural pool. I had a strong intuition for what a nervous system needs from its environment. Ilan translated that into material choices; the limestone underfoot, the oak joinery, the handmade terracotta…”

– Daphne Green, Petrichor host and co-creator

Ilan

Evenings are when the house shifts. The terracotta lights start to glow as the daylight fades. The architecture dissolves, and the home appears.

The sauna has become a daily ritual. It’s wood-fired, which means your planning starts two hours before you want to sit in it. That slowness is part of it, by the time it’s ready you’ve shifted gear. Sitting in the heat, overlooking the Tsitsikamma range, everything drops away. It’s the smallest space on the property and it gives me the biggest peace and healing.

My relationship with weather and seasons has shifted since living here. Being off-grid has forced me to become intimate with the natural world. As a city boy, I was initially overwhelmed, but it’s become the biggest gift. Not only the technical learning, but the gratitude for clean water, for the power of the sun.

Ilan and Daphne built their home around two core ideas; provenance – knowing where something comes from and finding integrity at every step, and that what you surround yourself with – from people to animals, to the materials you choose to live with, shape who you are. At Mungo, with our cloth rooted in process, and the people who make it connected to all steps in production, we resonate with this.

Petrichor and Mungo don’t ask you to admire them; they ask to live in them. Barefoot, with your family and friends, with seasonal joy in the everyday. And if you let it, that kind of living with and amongst, will change you.

As Ilan says “When you surround yourself with things that have a genuine story, your space becomes calmer. Even if your mind can’t name it, your body can tell the difference.”

It’s three o’clock on a warm afternoon. We’re seated in a coffee shop in central Paarl, moving from outside under the trees to a quiet corner. Light cracks through the window, illuminating the sage green wallpaper, patterned with storybook-style birds and creeping vines. There are hanging plants, an eclectic mix of artworks, and pastel-toned ceramics – very on-brand for the guest.

I’m sitting down with artist Lené Ehlers. Over the course of two hours, we’ll talk about art and process – and a creative approach to life. About trusting your intuition, and following the path that feels most aligned.

Although we’re tucked into this cosy nook, beside a doorway where visitors come and go (one of whom is Lené’s mom), I imagine her back in her studio: a familiar pair of overalls, flecked with paint.

“There’s a pair of pants I always wear, and a T-shirt with paint spots – I have to wear that uniform, because the paint gets everywhere.”

The image adds to the idyll: life and work flowing interchangeably. The artist part of the process; blending into her work. Leaving touches of herself – like a signature. The hopeless – or in this case, hopeful – romantic embedded into every stroke.

I wonder about the interplay of living and working – the degree of separation (if any) required for the creative. Particularly for someone who lives in a home-meets-studio.

“Aren’t you tempted to just roll out of bed, pick up a brush, and do another stroke?” I ask.

“I used to be like that. But the thing with painting is that you need the right light. I’ve tried candlelight, but natural light is best – so I don’t have that temptation to work through the night.”

Looking at Lené’s pieces, there is considerable romance. The palettes are soft and calming. The overall effect is dreamy and sensory.

We talk about her chosen subject matter, and the feeling it evokes. The drawing of inspiration from something visually pleasing – and how this itself is a kind of fresh, radical concept. How the pursuit of the pleasurable, of beauty, might stand against modern art as we know it: pieces viewed with a sense of detachment or disillusionment. Works in white-walled spaces that require a certain kind of cerebral engagement.

Emotive. Sensory. Pleasing in palette and subject. Lené’s floral-driven works create a sense of softness and comfort. These are pieces to be lived with and enjoyed – not just observed.

“In traditional gallery spaces, I often feel like it’s a cold atmosphere to interact with art. Some people feel like they need to engage with a piece in a particular way. But in a warm space, you’re more comfortable. You can experience it in your own way.”

In 2022, Lené found a fitting ‘cosy’ home for her work after meeting Michael Chandler of Chandler House.

“Chandler House has this homey feel. I could immediately see my paintings living in that kind of space. Michael collects antique interiors – couches, kilims, ceramics – so it creates a picture. It’s immersive, and that suits the work.”

That show marked a turning point – both aesthetically and emotionally. It affirmed the path she was on, and helped define the distinctive style of her current work: painterly florals, thick with texture, laced with textile influences.

“At that first exhibition, Michael introduced me to a woman who imports Suzanis – traditional textiles from Uzbekistan. These have become a major inspiration in my work. He could see I had a pattern-driven aesthetic, but needed a little something more. From that show, I actually bought my first Suzani – so it’s a sentimental piece too.”

While Lené’s medium today is oil on canvas, her roots lie in floristry.

“While I was studying in Stellenbosch, I worked at a florist on weekends. When I graduated, I started doing flowers full time – working at different companies for around five years. Then I slowly began illustrating on the side, just for myself. That led to an exhibition in a gallery I’d admired. And it just built from there. Eventually, I started experimenting with paint, and now I’m doing full-on oils.”

Her earlier pieces, done in acrylic ink on paper, were more experimental – hints of florals embedded within patterns. Now, she’s arrived at something more grounded: flowers centre stage, with subtle echoes of pattern and textile below.

Lené’s current oil works are rich in texture – thick, expressive, and slow to dry. Sometimes a single piece can take up to three months to complete. And the process is tactile. Instinctual. Driven by feeling.

“I don’t overthink it. I start by going to the flower market and picking colours that speak to me. Then I arrange them in a vase, choose a cloth, and begin painting. I get a lot of joy from curating the still life before I even touch the brush.”

But how does it begin?

“I have synesthesia – when I feel something, I see a colour. So the palette very much comes from a certain state of mind.”

The work unfolds intuitively – following the flow of a line, or called to a colour, by instinct. It’s an approach to process, but also a kind of ordering principle to life. A way of being in flow. Living a life defined by your own terms. Engrossed by the work, and letting what feels right lead.

And for those wanting to be led by that freedom of feeling; by the freedom to lead a creative life – what is her advice?

“Start small. But take aligned steps. People ask me: should I get a gallery? Should I go it alone? I can’t answer that. That’s between you and your journey. You have to do what feels right for you. There are no right or wrongs.”

Before we part, I ask Lené about her dream exhibition space. I half expect her to say a sunlit gallery in Paris, or the splendour of the Tate or the Louvre. But her answer is simpler. More grounded. Entirely in keeping with everything she’s said.

“I see my artworks in cosy heritage homes. A warm place with wooden floors. Above a mantelpiece. That would make me very happy – to know that my paintings were in a happy home.”

Words by Georgina Selander

Photography by JD Allin

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“Come at 4am. There’ll be loud music playing and the coffee machine will be on.”

Say no more.

There’s a sweet serendipity to be invited in behind the scenes – when someone opens the private doors to their passion. And more so when those doors open with the scent of butter and bread.

It’s the early hours in Yzerfontein – it’s the West Coast, and the sun won’t rise until close to 8am. The streets are quiet, the air smells salty, blowing off the cold Atlantic water. There’s a soft drizzle of rain.

You park in the parking lot. Close to the midnight hours, the streets are blue-black. But there’s a light shining through the glass doors at Rosemead Artisan Bakery. Inside, a man is moving back and forth between the floured countertops. Behind him are big – very big – ovens. You watch a while before you go inside. The scene is romantic. Idyllic. Like the opening credits to a movie. Anything seems possible.

It’s quiet now. But in a few hours there will be people quickly setting foot inside – the barefoot surfer and his dog, the genteel older couple with their newspaper, the young bohemians who are glad to be out of Cape Town. Some will even arrive before opening time, hoping for an early coffee. If it were December, then the line would be long – an unending stream for three to four hours. So you’re lucky you’ve paid a visit on a Thursday in March. Over the course of the morning (four hours pass by in an instant) you’ll watch these comers-and-goers. All of them Brett will greet. He seems to be on a first-name basis with most. You’ll also meet his brother, his mother-in-law (who makes the rusks), and even his wife and children – who live five minutes up the road.

When you go inside, the musical score is fitting: Don Henley’s Boys of Summer. An exceptionally apt theme tune for a bakery with a distinctly laid-back feel. But don’t let the vibe deceive you – there is a serious approach to quality here. This may, or may not (you’ll have to find out for yourself), be the best bread you ever try. And you won’t be the first to think so – in fact, 893 people have vouched for it on Google reviews. The most recent of which proclaims:

“This is the best bakery in [the] Cape Province. If you walk in you are part of an experience. The smell, the look and the people… If I [were to] live in Yzterfontein, this bakery will lead to my end, they will have to put their bread in my coffin one day. I challenge you to prove me wrong.”

I ask Brett about this. His response is humble. It’s clear that whatever is happening here – the subtle magic – has happened organically. They don’t have a website. Their Instagram page is refreshingly uncurated. Their Facebook page was hacked a few years ago and never revived (much to Brett’s satisfaction). And if you look around the bakery, you’ll find no sign at the till begging you to leave a review. You aren’t being coaxed into a positive feeling. That becomes all the more part of the growing excitement. Social media might have made things so agonisingly accessible that barely anything seems like a hidden gem. The untapped, untouched spaces of the planet have been overrun by the uninfluential influencer. But here you are, feeling like you’re privy to something sacred.

So what is it? Why do people keep coming back? Why can’t you get your hands on a baguette in December? Well, it’s that ‘thing’ of course – the timeless basics: good. Simple. Delicious. No frills, no fuss – no lipstick on a pig. It’s an ‘if you know, you know’ type of situation.

The idea is to stick to the classics and do them incredibly well, with the best quality ingredients. “We have three kids, and we want everyone to be nourished – not just fed,” says Brett.

The atmosphere at Rosemead Artisan Bakery encapsulates a sense of the unhurried, unpretentious surfer town – the Muizenberg, perhaps, of 10 years ago, before gentrification became an actualised buzzword. It’s honest and easy-going and not dolled up for show. And it makes sense – in a way, owner and Head Baker Brett Nortier has recreated a sense of his upbringing in the ‘Deep South’, where he cut his culinary teeth by learning the basics at his aunt’s bakery in Kalk Bay.

“In my mid-teens, my aunt returned from a small French village where she’d been learning to bake. She opened a bakery in a double garage on Rosmead Road, an old cobbled street in Kalk Bay. For pocket money, my brother and I helped out – making cheese sticks, coffee, whatever was needed. The bakery was just across from a great wave, so we’d come in early, bake, go for a surf, and help out again after. It was a cool way to grow up – walking down in the mornings, watching the sunrise over the sea. My aunt would be on the wall, waving her arms to call us in: ‘We’re busy! Come and help.’ Back then we didn’t have phones. From Grade 6, we’d be surfing in Kommetjie or Kalk Bay, just leaving notes on the fridge with a whiteboard marker: ‘In Noordhoek. See you at 8.’”

After school, Brett went to culinary school, where he met his wife, Anli. “We were both doing fine-dining internships – I was at the Greenhouse, then rated the top restaurant in the country, and she was at Terroir. After that, we helped out at my aunt’s bakery again before moving to Stellenbosch, where we spent five years at a great bakery – I probably learned the most there. But we wanted to be near the sea and always dreamed of starting something of our own. Ten years ago, we visited for a weekend, and someone mentioned a spot we could rent – a padstal on the R27. We checked it out and said, ‘Let’s do it.’ We took out a loan and launched with just the two of us – she did pastry, I did bread. I handled deliveries, she did the invoicing. We were washing dishes, doing everything ourselves. Some nights we only slept two or three hours, then started again the next day. Slowly we added help, and eventually moved here – we’ve been in this building for seven years now. This was the original Yzerfontein shop – it had the old-school Coca-Cola sign and everything.”

The approach at Rosemead runs through every aspect – local, artisanal, well-crafted. From the traceable supply chain (all the suppliers are written on a blackboard), who form a network of mindful, quality-focused makers that supply their flour, their coffee, their eggs, and their meat, through to the wares.

“What I started realising is the more these kinds of like-minded businesses can support each other, the better – consciously buying something from the smaller guy. We’ve got a lady up the road who supplies us with eggs – gosh, those chickens have a good life! And our coffee cup sets – they’re handmade by a friend of ours who’s a potter. Each one is a little different and yes, they cost a bit more, but they’re super special.”

What’s to be loved is also the process in action. You can see it all happening – the loaves go in, they come out. The timers tick and the mixers churn in plain sight. And periodically, the smells keep changing: first, the nutty scent of the first loaves. A wash of butter as the croissants come out. A wave of sweetness, like a cloud, when the pasteis de nata emerge. No wonder you don’t want to leave.

And the man behind it all is baking. Baking, sharing a joke with the staff, and enjoying a toasted sandwich by the window – where he waves off a mom and her son, who each carry off a loaf of sourdough, carefully wrapped in tissue paper like the beautiful bounty that they are. “People are surprised to see the owner working behind the scenes,” says Brett.

The quality is consistent – that’s a non-negotiable. But, like all things artisanal, you’ll find subtle variations. And perhaps this in itself is reason enough to keep coming back – to see how the flavour of their sought-after sourdough subtly shifts with the seasons.

“People ask, ‘Is your bread as good as this person’s bread?’ I’d say you’d have to eat our bread 10 days in a row – winter, spring, summer, autumn – and then do that at every other bakery. Because every loaf is not going to be perfect every day. The temperature is different every day, the flour is different every day. Also, we all have different opinions – I like it to be really dark, and the crust to be a bit too thick. My wife prefers it a bit lighter and crispy. So what’s perfect for me and perfect for you is completely different. And I think that’s what makes it so unique – that we have customers coming in and saying they want the slightly darker one.”

As the world becomes increasingly overrun by AI – spreading its bland canvas in the pursuit of singularity, perfection, uniformity – these qualities are surely going to become increasingly desirable: the hand of the maker, the imperfectly perfect. And so too will the spaces like Rosemead Artisan Bakery, where you’ll find community. Connection. And good conversation.

“We’re here to make people happy. People must feel relieved when they come here.”

It’s easy to believe.

“We’ve got ten minutes to kill. Would you like a croissant and a coffee?”

It’s an easy yes. And soon, a thing of beauty is placed in front of you – burnished and buttery, still warm from the oven.

“Nothing better than that right?”

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Words by Georgina Selander
Images by JDee Allin

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Each tea towel is woven on our restored Lancashire looms, which date back to the late 1800s. The unique feature of these antique looms is their shuttle, the bobbin inside which lies the yarn-wound pirn, and which carries the weft (left to right) threads across the warp. The special characteristic of shuttle loom weaving is its ability to produce a true selvedge, a self-bound edge that requires no extra hemming. We’ve left the true selvedge exposed on the short ends of our Chelsea Tea Towel, as a hallmark of traditional craftsmanship.

Fitting to the floral theme of the show, each tea towel features a delicate floral design, brought to life on our looms using an antique handweaving pattern. This pattern is drawn from a historic book of weaving, reimagined into colourful expression on our looms. A design that comfortably finds its place in our range – merging traditional weaving techniques with contemporary designs and palettes.

Traditional Weaving – The Back Story of our Lancashire Looms

At the Mungo Mill in Plettenberg Bay, you’ll find a cross-section of weaving machinery and technology that spans from pre-industrial to present-day. Included in our collection, are two original Lancashire looms, carefully restored by our Master Weaver, Stuart Holding.

Stu, who grew up in High Bentham, completed his apprenticeship in the Yorkshire silk mills in the 1960s – an experience that cultivated a lifelong passion for cloth-making. A few decades later, he was gifted two antique Lancashire looms, on which he began weaving runs of tea towels from his studio in Plettenberg Bay.

With the launch of our UK/EU store, and our showcase at the RHS Chelsea Flower Show, Stu’s journey comes full circle. What began in the mills of Yorkshire several decades ago, and took shape in South Africa, has now returned to the UK… Quality, natural fibre woven textiles  – in your area (or at your door). 

A kikoi is more than just a cloth. Worn, wrapped, or draped, or spread, it’s a versatile garment that makes the ultimate travel companion or trans seasonal wardrobe staple.

The beauty of the kikoi lies in its multi-functionality. Whether used as a sarong, scarf, lightweight throw, beach wrap or baby sling, it’s a staple for travel and everyday life. With a durable weave that makes it a cherished companion for years to come.

Breezy and beach-bag ready, the simple (but mighty) kikoi carries with it the spirit of a sun-soaked coastline, or unhurried days on holiday.

The Story Behind the Kikoi

The kikoi, a rectangular piece of woven cloth, holds a rich history rooted in East Africa, particularly along the Swahili coast. Originally introduced by Arab traders centuries ago, the kikoi quickly evolved into a cultural icon, loved for both its vibrant patterns and practical use. Traditionally used as sarongs, kikois also serve a variety of purposes, including shawls, scarves, head wraps or throws.

Kikois, a versatile travel companion

Lightweight and quick-drying, the kikoi is a versatile companion for days on the go, and summer holiday adventuring – easily stashed in your beach tote or hiking backpack, transitioning from a quick-drying beach towel to a scarf or wrap when the sun dips. Sprawl it out over grass as a picnic blanket, wrap up your souvenirs in your travel case, or convert it into a baby sling if you’ve got a little one in tow.

It’s the year-round, well-loved companion for any adventure – one that makes the ultimate gift for any friend or family member.

GOTS-Certified Organic Cotton

The Organic Ruti Kikoi is woven from GOTS-certified organic cotton. The Global Organic Textile Standard (GOTS) is a globally recognised certification that ensures that the cotton is grown without synthetic pesticides or fertilisers – safeguarding soil health, water quality, and biodiversity. It also upholds ethical labour standards, ensuring fair treatment of farmers and workers throughout the supply chain.

This naturally cultivated cotton results in a fabric that’s gentle on the skin, soft to the touch and breathable for year-round use.

Woven on Traditional Shuttle Looms

Our Organic Ruti Kikois are woven at our mill in Plettenberg Bay on our mid-century Ruti looms. 

One of the distinguishing features of the Ruti loom is its shuttle – a wooden bobbin inside which rests the yarn-carrying pirn. The shuttle, which flies back and forth across the warp (or vertical threads), has the unique ability to produce a true selvedge. This tightly woven, self-finished edge, which runs the length of the woven cloth, requires no extra hemming, and is a hallmark of traditional shuttle loom weaving. You’ll find the selvedge on our Lancashire loom products – our Summer Towels, and baby blankets – as well as our Linen Scarves. Look out for it as a sign of artisanal, small-batch textile weaving.

Traditional Weaving, Timeless Design

Our Ruti looms form a key piece in our story of textile making through the ages (at the Mungo Mill you’ll find a display of weaving techniques and technology right back from prehistoric times to present day). 

Our Rutis, thought to date around 1960, are semi-automatic pirn-change looms. These looms, at one time the height of weaving technology, stop when the shuttle runs out of thread. This intelligent feature revolutionise the industry, improving efficiency, and allowing a single weaver to operate multiple looms at once. 

At our mill, you’ll find two Rutis in operation. Pay a visit and see them in action – our mill doors are always open for visitors.

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For those who’ve visited our Cape Town store at 78 Hout Street, you may already be familiar with the sight and sound of our antique Hattersley loom. Affectionately nicknamed ‘Hattie’, this cherished 130-year-old shuttle loom faithfully wove runs of Cook’s Cloths for several years. Her distinctive clattering sound, produced by the shuttle – the yarn-carrying bobbin that flies back and forth across the warp, weaving the weft (or left-to-right threads) – often drew curious visitors to our shop doors.

A few years ago, as the Mungo Mill entered its next chapter, we made the decision to return Hattie to our headquarters in Plettenberg Bay. Here, she can be tended to by those who know how to keep her running and join our full collection of looms. Today, she stands proudly at the front of the mill, serving as a historic jewel in our collection of weaving techniques and technology through the ages – from prehistoric times to the present day. For those who’ve yet to visit our mill, our doors are always open. Here, you can connect product to the process and witness how the first threads become finished cloth.

Hattie has tried on a few new hats since her early days, including weaving a limited edition run of silk, mohair, and bamboo scarves – a creative collaboration between our design intern, Neta, and resident designer, Lenore. Most recently, she’s returned to weaving Cook’s Cloths. An original Mungo design, first brought to life by our Master Weaver, Stu Holding, it has now been reimagined by Ray and Lenore from our design team.

So, what is a Cook’s Cloth, you ask? It’s a versatile kitchen cloth meets apron – designed to seamlessly transition between tasks. Woven with a cotton warp and a cotton-linen blend weft, the Cook’s Cloth is both durable and absorbent, perfect for cleaning, drying, and mopping up spills like a traditional dishcloth. But with the addition of a waist tie, it transforms easily into an apron. And for those who like a bit of coverage while eating, the buttonhole allows it to be secured neatly over your shirt button.

Each Cook’s Cloth features a traditional true selvedge – a tightly woven, non-fraying edge that requires no additional hemming and is unique to shuttle loom weaving. With its contemporary palette and timeless herringbone weave, the Cook’s Cloth makes the perfect gift for anyone who knows their way around a kitchen (or a braai).

Watch the video

A lot has changed since this video was made. Hattie now resides in the Mungo Mill in Plettenberg Bay and continues to rhythmically weave life into contemporary textiles.

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After venturing into the mill to see our looms in action, where they witness first threads being woven into finished fabric, the students then visit our flagship store next door. Here they have a chance to touch and feel the finished cloth on the shelves, while our retail manager, Jonica, chats to them about fibres, weaves, colours and more – plus the ins and outs of running the shop floor and everything it entails… 

The design-your-own-kikoi workshop.

Guided by our designer, Lenore, the students learn the basic principles of design and colour theory. They explore concepts like ‘form versus function,’ experiment with sources of inspiration, and dive into the world of colour, before tackling the highlight of the day: designing their own kikoi.

After combing through magazines for colour, mood and pattern inspiration, the students select their desired yarn colours and make wrappings – winding threads into looped bundles to be attached to their finished designs. Each student is given graph paper, and designing begins. Colourways are created through combinations of warp (vertical) and weft (horizontal) stripes, and filled in with coloured pens to match the chosen yarns.

Time to Vote

After all the designs are complete, Lenore renders each one into a digital simulation. The designs are then shared with our friends, followers, and the wider community to determine a standout design.

With a winner chosen, production begins. The finished kikoi is woven to life on our looms at the Mungo Mill, and the cloth cut and prepped for sale – online and in our stores.

After combing through magazines for colour, mood and pattern inspiration, the students select their desired yarn colours and make wrappings – winding threads into looped bundles to be attached to their finished designs. Each student is given graph paper, and designing begins. Colourways are created through combinations of warp (vertical) and weft (horizontal) stripes, and filled in with coloured pens to match the chosen yarns.

And The Winner Is…

‘Galaxy’ was designed by Jeslynn Windvogel, and wraps up our 2024 Kids of Kurland Kikoi Project.

All proceeds from ‘Galaxy’ go directly back to the Crags Primary School, supporting the hiring of a much-needed additional teacher.

A Truly Feel-good Purchase.

The Kids of Kurland Kikoi is an annual project run by our Corporate Social Responsibility initiative, MOVE. Since 2018, we’ve dedicated 1% of our profits to initiatives that uplift the Plettenberg Bay community, where our mill and flagship store are located. 

The 2024 Kids of Kurland Project is now in its sixth year. And next year, we’ll do it again.

Previous Kids of Kurland Winners

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We’ve got you covered with the ultimate Christmas gift guide –
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The Story Behind the Grill Apron

 One summer holiday, a long time ago, a lively household was embroiled in a classic family debate. The source of contention? The indiscriminate use of a kitchen cloth.
Some were of the opinion that a single cloth could handle everything – from holding greasy tongs and wiping off oily fingers, to mopping up spills or scattered coffee grounds.
However, others held a differing view.

So there was only one way to settle it. A new cloth would emerge, designed to meet every need.
A cloth that could rival all others in its utility – navigating the chaos of the kitchen or the barbecue with its versatility (and good looks).

Enter, the Grill Apron.

The Grill Apron is designed to meet all your kitchen or fireside culinary needs. A cloth that will allow you to grill with gusto or cook with abandon.
It’s the kind of companion that every passionate pit master needs. Or for anyone who wants to dress to impress in the kitchen.

No need for that dismally dirty, shoulder-slung dishcloth
when you’ve got a Grill Apron at your side.

Who needs the Grill Apron?

The versatility of the Grill Apron makes it the perfect gift for almost anyone who knows their way around a barbecue, a kitchen, or a backyard.

A multi-use addition that’s sure to top the ‘best gift ever received’ list for any deserving dad, barbecue-obsessed boyfriend or female who can handle the flames..

If you, or your significant other, is into any of following, this is the ultimate cloth for:

• • Barbecuing
  • Cooking
  • Baking
  • Home DIY
  • Gardening
  • Crafting
  • Looking cool
  • Saving the day
  • BBQ Thor/Campfire Cowboy cosplay

Barbecue with it, clean surfaces with it, protect your hands from the flames with it, hold hot plates with it, wipe your hands on it, keep food warm with it, cook up a storm with it.

You get the drill/grill…

Let’s face it – cooking is a messy business.

If you’ve covered every counter surface, used every pot and pan at your disposal, lost a stukkie of the wors to the dog, or spilled red wine all over your new shoes, you’re probably doing something right and everyone is having fun. 

But we all know that heavy is the title of ‘Barbecue Master’. So you might as well look good while doing it.

The Grill Apron Colourways

More from our blog:

 Provincial Onion and Camembert Tart | In the Kitchen with Karen Dudley

Memory is a slippery thing. It can haunt and delude you, take you down false turns full of false accusations. But it is also a warm and tender container – of the perfect day, a fond meeting, a dinner with friends. It is a carrier of legacy, a conduit for dreaming, and a place where feeling and fantasy meet – and play.

Lately, I keep having this thought:
Memory cloth. Memory cloth. Memory cloth.
It’s becoming obsessive.

I have a dress in my cupboard that I’ve never worn. But I can’t bear to get rid of it, or to rehome it, and likely, I never will. This is because it belonged to my mother. It is a black linen shift dress, cut to the knee. In all the years it’s been in my possession, I’d hoped there would be a time I could slip into it – my mother’s frame much slighter than mine. And now I have outgrown it: my style has changed, and I find myself, time and again, making the same choices: comfort over all else. I cannot bear anything too cinching; it cannot touch my belly, it cannot hug my arms. The looser the fit, the freer I feel. The more room I have to move, the more room I have for everything else. I am a cloth person – I work for the cloth, so to speak – but I am fussy about how it lands on my skin. Or, perhaps because of this, I am fussy about how it lands on my skin.

I know that I will never get rid of this dress. It has followed me through three changes of address. It has travelled with me to Italy and to Spain, where I had the notion that I could use it to slip into a different skin – into another place, and another time. Travel opens up these kinds of romantic prospects; the ability to change yourself at will, on a whim.

Memory cloth. Memory cloth. Memory cloth.

I have in my possession a fairly vast and enviable collection of Mungo textiles. Some are one-offs or samples – strokes of creative genius that didn’t quite make the cut. Others accumulated over the years with a sense of I must have this thing. This thing feels luxurious and special. Linen bedding being one of them.

The first to be mine was the Summer Towel, woven in a vivid Cobalt Blue. It was 2019, I was fresh on the block, and slowly penning my way into the role of Mungo’s copywriter. “You work here now, you have to take home a towel. That is the deal. That is the rite of passage,” I was told.

Although I’ve accumulated several others over the years, that towel is still my favourite. It’s soft and organic, and the best reference to the old textile term ‘lofty’. And it has a story. It’s woven on a 130-year-old Lancashire loom – one that makes an incredible sound and stands sentinel at the front of the Mungo Mill. This loom is history in motion: a century ago, it clattered away in a different world, in an English weaving shed, powered by steam.

It’s the loom gifted to Stuart over 30 years ago, on which he began weaving limited runs of kitchen cloths from a small studio where passers-by would watch him work. Those were the early days of Mungo – one man and a loom. Now, we’re 100-strong. That loom, and that towel, have stories to tell. And what’s life without a little story to it, a little swing and song?

When my father died, it is the whispering of cloth that I remember. I received a phone call on a Thursday morning, at a time too early for any good news. I was in bed, and slipped off the sheets as if sliding down a wall, taking in three words that changed everything, all at once. I went to my mother – she was in bed, the duvet ruched up around her. Her bedding was always warm, always smelt like her, and always felt like home. We put sunflowers out for him on a square of linen. I do not remember the faces that came and went. I remember the sunflowers, and the linen.

Memory cloth. Memory cloth. Memory cloth.

When my niece was born, there was only one thing to do. I could not be there to count her eyelashes and her toes and her starfish fingers. I could not be there to hold her – but I could give her something that could. Her Mungo baby blanket is two years old now, and so is she. She still carries it with her into the lounge, the end trailing on the floor, her fingers curling into the folds. That cloth is part of her story now – it is memory in the making. Perhaps one day my Mungo Bakuba Throw – by then a vintage piece – will bear witness to my own children. It will swaddle small feet in bed, or add a sense of ritual to Sunday movie nights.

I hold no sentimental value to the uninteresting, mass-produced t-shirts in my collection. And this is perhaps a failing of their design – they won’t become hand-me-downs, or heirloom goods. They might briefly extend their life by being rehomed to another. And then, at last, they will see out their days somewhere they shouldn’t – the home no designer or clothmaker intends for their garment: the sprawling, and yet largely invisible elephant in the room – landfill.

But a Mungo cloth is a textile to be treasured. One that is timeless. One that will last. One that has a story – because I know how it was made, I’ve seen it on the looms, I know the face behind the cloth and six years later, I still feel very soft about working here.

Memory is a slippery thing. (I was right about the sunflowers. Was I right about the linen?)
But I do know its power, its beauty, its story.
I know its ability to turn a simple cloth into something much, much more.

Memory cloth. Memory cloth. Memory cloth.

Featured Products

More from our blog:

The Subtle Magic of Scent with Tres Nagual | Winter Reflections | The Story Behind the Double Cloth

It’s no secret that at Mungo we love dogs. In fact, we love your dog – enough to help you by making their doggy dreams come true with the best dog blanket out there. Because as far as good-looking, durable dog blankets go, this one is pretty darn perfect. Perfect enough to help you pamper your pet.

Whether your pup prefers a cozy corner of the home, or is always snuggled up on your lap, the Mungo Fido Dog Blanket is the perfect mix of comfort and durability for dogs of all shapes and sizes.

The Fido Dog Blanket is woven with high-quality, 100% cotton – meaning it’s soft and gentle on your canine companion, yet tough enough to handle the daily wear and tear of paws, claws, and plenty of pet naps. This durable dog blanket is designed to last – with a hard-wearing weave that makes it difficult to destroy.

Whether you have a cheeky Chihuahua or a handsome Great Dane, we’ve got you covered: The Fido comes in two sizes, so you can choose the small dog blanket for petite pups or the large dog blanket for bigger breeds who need more room to sprawl. It’s also perfect for throwing over your dog’s favourite spot on the couch or adding a homely touch to their dog bed.

Beyond just looks and comfort, this blanket is easy to care for. It’s lightweight and machine washable, making clean-up after muddy walks or messy meals a breeze. Plus, with its playful palette and bold design, it’s as good looking as it is functional.

Treat your dog to the very best with the Mungo Fido Dog Blanket—because your best friend no doubt deserves nothing less. A durable cotton dog blanket that’s both pet-friendly and owner-approved….

Amy Ayanda is a Cape Town based multi-disciplinary artist and musician. We recently collaborated with her to produce an original artwork for our Joburg store at 44 Stanley. The piece is inspired by our richly coloured Wild Fire Double Cloth, a reversible, 100% cotton throw. We sat down with Amy to talk about process, palette, her journey into motherhood, and the importance of slowing down.

“I’m having a love affair with blue.”

Amy is standing in front of an easel in her Mowbray studio. Behind her is a large floral scape. There’s the distinctive yellow. Warm browns. Swirls of rich blue. It’s a piece that seemingly captures the point at which she finds herself now, artistically.

“There are styles that I have become known for – like the landscapes and the florals. But last year I went through a phase of covering everything in blue. I think it was a sense of needing time to pause.”

Amy’s relationship with colour reflects her evolving process and, lately, the necessity of slowing down. It’s about breaking free from static visions of yourself. The breathing room that comes with change. And the freedom to reiterate and to reimagine.

“My final show at art school was quite conceptual. I’d done large landscapes, oil paintings, and layered work with mixed media and dried flowers. I was producing art that people loved, but couldn’t afford. When I stepped out of that, I didn’t really know what kind of art I made, and I had to figure that out. There wasn’t that application of the marketing side of things, and I felt a bit confused about who I was producing my work for and why.”

But something shifted quite soon thereafter. Around 2017, when Amy’s first child, Frances, was a year old, a kind of fearlessness took root. A vanguard, stick-it-to-the-man spirit that would bring life to the emerging Amy Ayanda brand.

“At the time, I was waitressing for 7 or 8 hours a day, and still breastfeeding. Pumping in the bathrooms and walking away from my shift with R300 a night. And then I just decided, I’m going to spend that time in the studio and, as a joke, sell my paintings for R300 each. I started making small-scale pieces, painting on paper. I would paint every single night. When my partner, Dean, came home from work, he would take over with Frances, and I’d make as much as possible. I’d photograph it, and sell it on Instagram. I made so much money that first month that I decided to quit waitressing. That changed my life.

It was such a cool period. Frances and I had so much one on one time. We’d walk in the forest, and have beautiful, connecting time. And then at night I’d go into my studio at the bottom of the house and just work – sometimes until 11pm – but it was exciting.”

From there – through an intense period of self-practice and late night studio sessions – Amy began to develop her characteristic style. Refining the Fine Art education she’d received at Michaelis to cultivate a more intuitive artistic voice.

“I think the trick was actually not being so precious about it. I stopped holding on to what I thought something should look like, and went for whatever was coming out of me at the time. I went through the motions of thinking, ‘What does the consumer want?’ But each day I went back into the studio, and worked on making it more and more my own. Over time I developed this style of repetitive mark making, and found I enjoyed working with certain colours.”

This continued for a few years, as Amy established a successful business with a body of work that took inspiration from local landscapes, fynbos and flora, and colour. But after the burnout she experienced post-COVID, and the birth of her twins, she recognised the need to slow down, and to take a more considered approach to her work.

“Back then I had this drive in me that was quite intense. It enabled me to build my brand, but it also wasn’t sustainable. I was still doing things at the pace before I’d even become pregnant with the twins. So recently it’s been about making changes to value myself, and my work. I needed fresh colour. Even looking at my brushstrokes – they were very tight, and controlled. But over this year of slowing down, everything is just looser and freer.

I still paint flowers, landscapes, and images of people holding one another. But they’re a little bit more abstract – not necessarily the mother-child connection, because I think that connection isn’t restricted to having birthed someone. And my views on the ideal way that mothers should mother, or breastfeed, are out the window. My first birth with Frances was very natural and all went according to plan. But my twin birth was 7 weeks early, and I couldn’t breastfeed. That almost spiritual way that you believe mothering or birthing takes place isn’t the same for everyone. That also helped me become a better mom. And so birth then became a big part of the images I made.”

Slowing down has allowed her to be more intentional about her craft. Although the frenzied online sale culture of COVID made her work widely accessible, she’s creating room for more one-on-one connections and collaborations. And finding joy in smaller moments.

“I really love walking. I’ll go to Newlands or Rondebosch, or the Pipe Track if I’m feeling brave. Painting also brings me back into a state of meditation – it’s like a diary entry. I’m soaking it all in. I’m grateful that I can just be with the kids and be a bit more quiet and observe more, because I think there’s a lot to gain in observing.”

In many ways, Amy’s journey as an artist has come full circle. She now lives and works in her childhood home in Mowbray – a place that provided a safe container for her early creative expression. A place that continues to fuel her connection to memory, and to motherhood.

“My studio is my old lounge, where my dad used to sit and listen to his radio. There’s a fireplace here, and it was always a very warm space. When there were thunderstorms, my sister and I used to move our mattresses in, and open the curtains. The fire would be going, and we’d watch the thunder and lightning through the window. That memory is quite a special one, and sometimes when I’m in my studio, or when Frances walks in, I think of that.

We moved back in in 2021, when my twins were 9 months old. I was the youngest of 3, and now I have 3 children. And my child goes to the same school that I went to, across the road. So it feels like quite a 360 for me. A beautiful in-sync, flowy line of time that’s come back together. Sometimes it’s scary, because being a parent is scary, but I have this sense of knowing, because home is a safe place.”

Seeing Amy now, a grown artist, and mother of 3, begs the question: what was she like as a child?

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been painting and drawing, and making up stories in my mind. I always wanted to redecorate my bedroom. I would focus on it, and it would become my whole life for a weekend. I’d even save up money to buy paint tubs and redo the walls. My room was a different colour so many times. So I always had that energy to change things up, and go for it. My parents were incredibly supportive. They didn’t think any idea was too big. When there was passion around it, we were always supported.”

This connection to home and to memory is something that Amy brings to her work. Her piece for Mungo incorporates the colours of the Wild Fire Double Cloth, and marries her earlier styles with where she finds herself now: the vivid pinks with the cooler blue tones, and the familiar fast-paced mark making with softer strokes.

“I really love this landscape. And I think both art and cloth speak to each other – to calm, sensory home environments. With weaving and with art, there’s story behind it, and process. And the fact that it’s local – there’s nothing cooler than that. We’ve got so many amazing talents here. Why look anywhere else?”

Reflecting on Amy’s course, there is a lot to be proud of. There are hallmarks of courage, and persistence. To produce a significant body of work, pursue paths in both art and music, build a brand, and raise three children… It is no wonder that she is frequently asked, ‘how do you do it?’

“I’ve learned to be quite fearless. A lot of this has taken a lot of grit. Selling art is incredibly difficult. Marketing it is incredibly difficult. But I’ve been quite fearless in the way I’ve jumped into things. I like the idea of building community, and making people feel like they can do something – that they can take a chance, because it’s definitely possible. You don’t need a ton of money. You just need to be brave.”

Find Amy Ayanda’s artwork for Mungo in our Joburg retail store at 44 Stanley, Milpark.

Featured products

How many of us can say we bring our whole selves, our values, emotions, and life experiences, to work every day? It takes a special kind of job to make space for who you really are. For Master Weaver and founder, Stuart Holding, ​​Mungo isn’t just a business; it’s the reflection of a life lived fully. Stuart’s journey began in the mills of Yorkshire, where he trained as a weaver in his formative years. From there, his path took unexpected turns, from a stint in Australia to a new beginning in South Africa. Along the way, he embraced some wild adventures, found love, had children, and even explored unconventional projects like weaving with dog hair. Mungo stands as the culmination of Stuart’s experiences – a legacy of family, passion, and a lifelong commitment to the art of weaving. Join us as we sit down with Stu to talk about the story behind Mungo and the man who brought it to life.

Stu Holding was born in High Bentham in Northern Yorkshire. This region, along the River Wenning, was known to be one of the centres of weaving in the 18th Century.

When did your passion for woven textiles begin?

In many ways, weaving textiles was almost destiny for me. I grew up in High Bentham, a town with three textile mills. For many, working in the mills or the surrounding farms was a natural career path. I remember being about 11 years old when my mother would send me to the corner café. I’d often stop outside the mills, peering through frosted windows to watch workers inspect woven fabric, holding it up to the light to check for faults. It was captivating. Those moments sparked a lifelong interest in textiles.

At 16, I started my apprenticeship at the Wenning Silk Mills, spending five years “going through the mill” as the saying goes. It was there I developed a deep respect for the craft of weaving. To this day, the transformation of yarn into fabric amazes me. Standing in the Mungo Mill today, watching the first few metres of cloth come off the loom, still blows my hair back.

After completing my apprenticeship and qualifying as a Loom Overlooker at 21, I left High Bentham and spent a few years travelling before settling in South Africa, where Mungo would eventually take root.

1960s snapshots: Left – Stu Holding’s home in High Bentham, a hub for weaving and agriculture in Britain. Right – A young Stu with his guitar, embracing his creative side.

What happened next?

In the 1970s, I moved to South Africa, where I met my wife, Janet, a potter. We eventually moved to Plettenberg Bay, a coastal town on South Africa’s Garden Route, where I began training local yarn spinners. My early weaving experiments involved mohair, which I turned into blankets, jackets, and waistcoats. I sold these at the original Old Nick trading store, part of the Old Nick Village, a historic homestead that Janet and I have expanded into a hub for creative studios, workshops, and retail stores.

Stu met Jan in 1974 after he moved to South Africa (they met through his dog, Cassie).

How did Mungo become a family-run business?

About 15 years ago, our children, Dax and Tessa, joined the business, taking Mungo to new heights. Tessa brought a strong creative vision, shaping the brand’s visual identity and marketing, while Dax focused on upholding the company’s core principles: quality, innovation, sustainability, and transparency. One major milestone was achieving GOTS (Global Organic Textile Standard) certification in 2019, which was a proud moment for all of us.

It’s incredibly rewarding to have them onboard, contributing to Mungo’s future growth while maintaining its ethical production practices and commitment to sustainable textiles.

Top left: Stu Holding in action. Bottom Left: Jan and Stu holding and their two dogs. Centre: Stu tinkering with a loom with Dax’s assistance. Right: Stu firing pots.

How did cloth-making expand into what Mungo is today?

In 1998, I was gifted two Lancashire looms dating back to the 1880s. These were the very looms I had trained on during my apprenticeship. I refurbished them and started weaving small runs of cloth in a studio at the back of Old Nick Village. I kept the doors open, allowing visitors to watch the weaving process. This connection between the maker, the product, and the process became fundamental to Mungo’s philosophy.

As we expanded, we built the Mungo Mill in 2017, a double-volume building next to our original retail store. Today, the mill houses close to 100 employees and about 20 looms. Visitors can witness over 150 years of weaving technology, from warp-weighted weaving devices to antique Lancashire looms, and even the latest state-of-the-art Dornier machines, which were custom-built for us in Lindau, Germany.

Left image: Stuart with his son, Dax, both wrapped in the Ikat cloth woven by Stuart. Right image: Stuart carefully hand-knotting the resist sections on the warp, preparing it for resist dyeing to weave an Ikat hanging.

Stu Holding’s original waistcoats and coats at the Old Nick Fabrics store in the 1980s, now the Mungo flagship store in Plettenberg Bay, South Africa..

Did your early life in the Yorkshire mills influence how Mungo operates today?

Absolutely. The Yorkshire textile mills where I grew up were my first inspiration. I admired how they co-existed with the natural environment, and I wanted to bring that same philosophy to Mungo. It created a self-sustaining community, with gardens, allotments, and vibrant local markets.

We’ve incorporated that spirit into the Mungo Mill at Old Nick Village. The Mungo Mill is a beautiful space, designed by Italian architect Andrea Christoforetti, and surrounded by koi ponds and lush gardens. We host a weekly market that supports local artisans and small-scale manufacturers. It’s a place where work and nature come together, much like the mills of my youth.

Vintage drawings and photographs of Old Nick Village. The original building is now home to Mungo’s flagship store in Plettenberg Bay..

How does Mungo stand apart in today’s fast fashion-driven textile industry?

What we’ve created at Mungo is quite different from the mass production of cloth we see today, especially with the rise of fast fashion. We focus on small-batch production of high-quality home textiles, made with intention and care for both the natural environment and the people who create them. Our process is slower and more thoughtful, but that’s how we ensure that every piece we make upholds our core values of sustainability, transparency, and respect for the craft.

Stu standing on the Keurboomstrand rocks overlooking the ocean.

How do you understand creativity?

As I get older, I find myself reflecting more on where I’ve come from and how it shapes who I am today. I always knew I wanted something different to the world my parents came from — something creative. To me, creativity isn’t just about artistic talent; it’s about living a life full of adventure. Whether it’s climbing the highest mountain or paddling down the longest river, it’s that spirit that defines a creative life to me.

The natural beauty of this place we live, with its dramatic landscapes, wild ocean and mountains, indigenous forests, and rich biodiversity, deeply connects me to the environment. There’s a rhythm to life here dictated by the seasons, tides, and changing light that influences my creative process in many ways. I’ve always known I didn’t fit into the corporate world where rigid structures and predefined paths often stifle creativity. Here, surrounded by nature, I found the freedom to express myself and explore alternative ways of doing business.

Watch the video below to learn about who we are.

More from our blog:

Antique looms and why we run them | An insider guide to the Chelsea Flower Show | In search of joy.

In conversation with David Plenderleith and Florian Baumann, the hands behind Très Nagual – an all-natural, holistic perfumery based in Cape Point. From their unassuming home base between the aloes, across from Scarborough’s iconic Scone Shack, you’ll find the pair producing small-batch, consciously crafted soaps and scents.

Find their custom-made liquid hand soaps now in our stores.

“Smell this”

The door is open to the sun. There are aloes and a purple-grey mountain. It is late afternoon, the in-between stage when the air settles into stillness. In a place where time seems to have slowed down.

David picks up a bottle of scent. He sprays the air. The fine mist catches the slow light. And instantly the room is redolent with a rich perfume. The kind that makes you close your eyes. Take a breath.

“Dry incense.”

Holy basil. Immortelle. Sandalwood.

“It’s like earth.”

There’s something about scent that shifts the energy in the room now. A softening. An opening. An ease. This is play. This is letting go. This is how friends are made.

“Scent is such a delicate perceptual door. It is much more subliminal, almost subconscious, in the way the messages come through. It can captivate. It can entice. It can shun. It holds this etheric feeling, because you can’t really see it. Present, and then fleeting. On a molecular level, natural scent is free to move. And the moment someone thinks they understand scent, it changes.”

“Shapeshifting?”

“Shapeshifting, in a way. But yet it’s formless. So there’s no form to shift.”

People amble into the shop. We fall quiet and watch. The easing, the opening, is happening for others too.

“Shifts happen within a realm of feeling. I’ve seen it so many times. Someone may enter the space, hunched, or not happy. Tense. After some time with Florian, they come out lighter and lifted. In some ways it’s the product speaking. But it’s also the transmission that happens. And for our work to uplift, that is essentially the way that aromatherapy works in healing the mind, body and emotions. But we’re doing it in a more contemporary way – rather than in treatment rooms behind closed doors, we want to make it accessible. Scent becomes an ambience that is created.”

It’s quite easy to see now. This is a place of feeling. Of learning. And perhaps unlearning too. This is experience, more than retail. In fact, the very idea that something is being sold here seems to slip away. What’s taking place is much more. The undoing, the connecting, the softening. One could easily be swept through the open doors on a yellow breeze, and casually stay forever.

“What surprises you the most about what happens here?”

“What surprises me is that people come,” says Florian. “And that is such a pleasure. It is a journey. Plants, and their essences, their memories, their function – they become your own. I like to see the bigger picture, and to take more into account than just the perfume. To look at the ‘why, how, when, and for what reason’? And I like to ask people, ‘How is your mother?’

Perhaps this says it all. The point of connection. The intimacy that can be created between strangers that soon become friends.

We are standing outside now, looking in. A girl comes to the door. She’s ridden her bicycle here. Her name is Fran. She greets Florian warmly and goes in. A new scent journey is about to begin.

“Another surprise is that whenever I am cutting soap I get a lot of people crowded around me, and they say, ‘Oh, that’s amazing! Is that a big bar of soap? I never thought that’s how it’s made.’”

But of course. So little process happens in plain sight. The same recognition that happens here, happens in the Mungo Mill. Faces turn in wonder. Shifts happen. Thoughts tick in time with the looms.

“Flo’s background is in biology,” David tells me. “He holds a scientific approach to formulation. He also trained as a chef at Silwood in Cape Town. So there’s that unique combination of gastronomy, textures, taste and smell, with the understanding of plants and their function. I would say the dance with us is that every product has both our hands. Florian brings a sense of compassionate craftsmanship; logic and thoroughness. I feel we really inspire each other and lead each other to new places of expression in the way that we co-create. We work to our strengths, and allow a space for the other to step into.”

We move inside. Now we are standing before a lineage of scents. Different batches of ‘Nefertūm.’ There are notes of lime, Amyris and blue lotus. Subtle variances in each.

“Try this one, Fran. The new batch.”

“What is interesting is that the new Nefertum lasts so long,” she says. “It’s so good. I sprayed it the other day, then I went for a bath and when I woke up I still had this scent – it was still there but it had changed. The batch that I get from your town shop is amazing. It has more of a floral base.”

We’re on to something here. The threads draw closer together. It’s about the nature of change. The changes in nature. It’s a reminder of the perfectly imperfect natural rhythms we should rest in.

“If I follow the cycles, some batches are very different from the others. The immortelle, for example, that grows out at Hemel-en-Aarde, is always different. The last batch is from a new field. The previous batch from a 3-year-old field. And so the oil is very different. But then I explain to the customers that this is the natural world, and it should be so. Once that is communicated, it actually becomes a quality unsurpassed.”

The understanding of seasonal shifts. The awareness of change. The sense of harmony. It’s a refreshing exhale in a world where uniformity has become the standard. A world obsessed with an illusion of perfection. David and Florian are small-batch, craft producers. Much like we are. They understand cycles and variances and the importance of flow. Of the mark of the maker. The mark of the material.

Another scent is introduced.

“What do you see?”

“It’s the forest.”

“Another layer to Florian is his understanding of the mind. The mechanisms of thinking. He formulates, creating an image, and then builds a scent from that place.”

“It’s wet, like the forest. Like moss, and deep, rich greens. And ferns.”

“Your words, they give me inspiration. Because now I see that I have permission to go deeper into the underground and maybe make it a little more soily too. Because you seem comfortable there, you see? So now I have direction for my next batch. That’s how seasons happen, how cycles come about. And that is my greatest freedom. So the next time you come, I’ll say, ‘Smell this – now it’s like wet terracotta.”

“This is one of my favourites,” says David, picking up Savon à Barbe. It’s a play of organic tea tree from Zimbabwe, Pure Bergamot, Virginian Cedarwood, lots of Patchouli and a touch of Sandalwood. It’s very clean – there’s a lightness. I get an image of a day at the beach – being sun kissed and salty. A little bit of suncream.”

“White shells.”

“Mmmm.”

“An aspect of the work is in living in receptivity to not only our needs, or nature’s, but someone else’s. That takes it up to their depth – from their perspective. It’s listening, in the way we formulate.”

More people come, and go, and play. Apprehensive, reserved at first. And then the lessening. The loosening. The easing into peace. The quiet healing.

“Matching scent to personality is another layer of experience. Flo has become very good at this – reading people and matching them to a scent. Perhaps something on the playful side; fruity and floral. Or we might talk about the intention of the scent, and see if that is an energy they want to step into.”

It is the closing of the light now. Three hours have passed quietly. The mountain grows its purple shadow.

“There are mornings here where the aloes are full of dew. They look like the cosmos is resting inside of them. Luminous. And that energy, that vitality, that bit of freshness that doesn’t get tiring. That’s uplifting, and happy, and very medicinal – that is Hildegard. For me Hildegard’s image is like the first light of a new day.”

And what a perfect end. As the light of this one closes. It’s in the art of looking, isn’t it?

“There is that growing sense of consciousness. People are awakening to it. Becoming conscious of your surroundings, of your actions, of your feelings. There’s the practical side – turning around the bottle, looking at the label. Thinking about what I put on my skin, the cloth I use. They say that where attention goes, energy flows. What you look at, what you seek, is seeking you.”

A last look at that wise mountain. The glowing aloes. The magic is complete.

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“Such is my love, that I made him a syrup.”

We’d been on a hike in Newlands Forest. There was a coffee truck parked at the bottom of the hill. “The young kids ask for flavoured syrup,” the barrister had said. We come home. I’m standing in an emerald green kitchen. Doors open to a courtyard where a wall of basil is growing abundantly. Karen is preparing possibly the most luxurious thing I’ve ever eaten. A cardamom bun. Now being toasted to heavenly scented perfection. With a knife she works the cold butter (salted only). And then her son enters the kitchen. She tells him about the coffee stand in the forest. The barrister’s remark. “Oh really? He asks. “I made him one, you know? A syrup.” Her voice sounds like a wink.

It is 11:30 and I am laughing now. Laughing because it is not even noon and somehow I have had the profuse luck of being served three breakfasts by Karen Dudley. This has all happened spontaneously. I lucked in when I found out she needed a ride from the car service station while we were drinking our forest coffees the day before. She had a gap. I took it. Sliding through her front door, sneaking through a winding edible garden, and into her home. Speaking of.

“This is Willy Wonka’s paradise of the eclectic,” I tell her, placing my things on her kitchen countertop, eyes on stalks. There is a large mural of geese in front of me. A taxidermied peacock next to the fridge. And shelves laden with all manner of crockery – gravy boats, egg cups, milk jugs, and a mug for whatever mood you might find yourself in (the Mad Hatter would keel over). And a pink wall. “Everybody looks good against that wall,” she says.

“In another life would you be incarnated as an interior designer?” The words are instantly redundant. “Oh yes. “I’d like to think I’d be an interior designer just like I am as a chef. In the same way I help people to find their food identity, I’d want them to find their own sense of expression – through the pictures that they choose and the things that make them happy.”

“You know what I think it is?” Now she’s getting the coffee machine going. It’s very noisy but in a good way; this isn’t your run of the mill brew. And the conversation between sips will be good. “I think that life is too short to not be with the things that make you happy, and that are beautiful. I find it’s one of those things that people think they need permission for. They’re like, ‘Can I really try that? What if it doesn’t look like this person’s house?’ No. When you acknowledge what makes you happy, it all works together. Style is about knowing what you love.”

The coffee grinder continues to shout at us.
“You know what I do have? A bun.”
Now she is rustling in her freezer. I’m watching. So is the peacock. And I have this kind of tingly feeling. Something is happening here. The Karen Dudley thing is happening.
“Let me put these cardamom buns in the airfryer.” Soon the kitchen fills with a sweet, spicy scent.
“Did you get those from The Local Baker at the OZCF market?”
“Yes, on Saturday. You must go in the morning. Here. Have some of this while you wait.”
She presents me with a plate of green melon. It’s cold and sweet. It needs no dressing up. And it reminds me of a conversation we’d had the day before.
“One thing must sing.”
We were walking uphill and I was a little out of breath. The forest cracked open into a gravelly path. I thought about my notebook in the car. Instead, I mentally banked this perfectly formed pearl. She was wearing a silky red neck scarf and I thought, ‘I could never.’

I’m beginning to see it in action. Looking at this cold melon on a china blue plate. Karen’s food language does just this. In the way she heroes the simple ingredient. The everyday vegetable. She’s the champion of the humble broccoli stem. Transforming dishes not by overdoing them – by giving them voice. “You must go deep into what the thing was always meant to be, and wanted to be.” I know this melon wants to be eaten by me.

So I need to know. Where does this come from? Who is Karen Dudley?

“It began when I realised that if you make a warm loaf of bread and you serve it with cold slabs of butter that you would always have friends. I realised that I had some kind of skill in taking people somewhere with food – on a journey. And although I haven’t been to cooking school, that actually gave me a kind of freedom. I wasn’t tethered to anybody’s expectations. I also always had a huge genuine curiosity and interest in anything that was different, anything unusual – a new texture, a new flavour.”

The smell of cardamom is now dizzying.
“I’m going open the Langbaken cheese.”

“I’d been working in Washington DC with a chef who’d trained at the Culinary Institute of America.”
“So the lesser known CIA?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
She pierces a knife into the corner of the cheese wrapper.
“He’d taken me under his wing and kind of baptised me. He’d say, “The President of Uganda is coming for lunch. We’re going to poach this salmon now.” And then he’d say, “Goodbye!” and I’d have to figure out how that was going to go. So I reached into my memory of all the things my mother was trying to teach me years back.

I combined what I was learning there, and came back to South Africa. I ran a little stream here for a while, persuading the YMCA, who had a large property in Constantia, that they needed a retreat. At that time we were a brand new country – it was ‘94, ‘95 – and there was this need for people to come together around a table. So I began to cook, with the idea to create a space where people could meet and connect.

Then one day a friend called me and asked me to come and help for the season in London – for all the schmancy people who collect their food on the King’s Road and go to the country. I stayed for two and half years, free as a bird. Beholden to no one. Cooking with everything that was presented to me. People were just coming out of Tikka Chicken and Coronation Chicken and a little bit of salad. And there I kind of registered, ‘Oh I can do the catering thing,’ realising that we didn’t have much of this going on in South Africa.

I came back and was doing people’s rugby boxes and 80th birthdays and their 21sts… My business was growing, and people were starting to understand that such freshness and deliciousness was possible. We were working from my kitchen, but soon realised we needed to find our place. We found a burnt out old fish shop on Woodstock Main Road. It was completely grody but perfect. And then we started up a stall at the Neighbourgoods Market, realising that we could do retail.”

This is my first memory of Karen. Iconic curls. The best dangly earrings on the block. Signature silver bangles and an energy, and a laugh, that was magnetic. Making ‘Love Sandwiches’. A name that needs no explaining. 17 years later and my mouth still waters, thinking about the sight of large bowls of pesto and honey mustard sausages and slabs of creamy white Danish feta. I’d take the pocket money from working at my mother’s cheese stand and ask for a panini with all the best bits.

“We had the shop in Woodstock. We thought no one would walk past the window and want to buy salad and beef fillet and sliced chicken. But before we’d even opened people were going, ‘What is this place?’ And suddenly I needed five staff to serve in the day and there were queues outside. People embraced our food. They embraced our vibe, and the fun. It was really quite magical. And it stayed like that for 11 years.”

The coffee is ready. The buns come out of the airfryer. They’re toasted and crispy on top. Karen works some cold butter on the plate. It’s the simplest thing really. Bread. Butter. But somehow it alchemizes into something more.

Somewhere in this genesis story, there’s mention of her mother. So I want to know: is the cult of deliciousness hereditary?

“My mom was a very good cook. Of just kind of ordinary things. But my parents travelled quite a bit in the 70s, which is quite unusual for coloured folks. But everytime they came back, they came with new ideas, which totally inspired and kind of enlightened us. And so we learnt that there could be white garbage collectors, and that people of different colours could be together. And about paella. With my folks there was very much an acknowledgement of deliciousness. Whether that meant hot rolls out of the bakery on a Sunday or slap chips from the right place. It was more about pursuing what was delicious and simple, as opposed to very pretentious, or what you think is supposed to be good.”

Which makes me think about this weird transition that happens – somewhere in your late 20s or 30s – where you’re suddenly supposed to prefer dark chocolate. Milk chocolate becomes unsophisticated. Pedestrian.

What she’s learnt – this concept of deliciousness – runs deep. Unadulterated. And so does the sense of family. I notice the large dining room table. Laid with a homely sort of cloth. I wonder what meals are being had around that table. I fantasise about being invited in (or locking myself in her pantry until dinnertime). “What are you eating here?” I ask, biting into the bun at last. Cracking off a piece of salty cheese.

“Supper is usually a layered one. My family likes a starch, so often it starts with a roast potato. One that’s either boiled or microwaved, and then smooshed and put in the airfryer so that it’s all crispy. And then we layer vegetables on top. You have some dressing at the bottom, some potatoes, some fine beans, some fried up brussel sprouts. We don’t eat a lot of meat. And when we do, we eat just a little. The night before we roasted eggplant with tahini ranch and tomato smoor and crispy onions. That’s kind of typical.”

I love how this is her’ typical’. I think of the years of unseasoned spag bol served up in my own home.

“Sadly nothing traditional like lasagna.”
“Oh why? That’s so boring.”
“It’s not that it’s boring; it’s sooo delicious. But there are too many stages. It’s too much love. I love lasagna but somebody else must make it.”

Karen’s dinner table scene seems to conjure up something emotional in her. Her eyes are shining.

“I speak about this in my new book, Onwards. A lot of the story is about me coming home. I would spend my days, and all my creativity energy, making food for strangers and a few friends. I poured all of this energy on people I didn’t know. And then I began transferring all of this loving attention, this creative energy, to my family. It was a most humble and beautiful thing to me.”

“Hang on. I have something else.”
She digs around in a drawer behind the counter. Now the toaster is going on.
“I only have white bread. How embarrassing.”
“Oh no, Karen, why not a sourdough?” I tease.
“Come with me.”
We go to yet another fridge. She takes out a large jar. You need to try this.”
It’s an orange-red-white concoction. I know exactly what this is.
The toast is popped. She butters it. Delicately layers some of the pickled cabbage on top. Slices it in four and hands it over.
“Here.”
The crunch of the toast. The tangy topping.
I’ve lived in South Korea. I’ve eaten more kimchi than most Saffers. I’m a snob, I admit. But this… This is eye-rolling-ly good.
“I put a Table Mountain stone in the jar.”
“Noted. The recipe calls for one Table Mountain stone.”
Ottolenghi might have his za’atar or rose harissa, but Karen Dudley has her Table Mountain stone.
“You know what? The humble government bread is actually perfect. It doesn’t overpower. It heroes the kimchi.”

I tell her about the years I spent living in South Korea. And how food – like this piece of toast – transforms and transports you. “It’s the ultimate nostalgia. A smell, a flavour – it instantly takes you back to a time or a place.”

“It’s so interesting that you say that, because food has this way of becoming an articulate of culture. How people clutch things to their bosoms – those memories and those evocations that become part of the fabric of culture; of the way we live and choose to live. Similarly, you have a Mungo towel that you may be lucky enough to have for 20 or more years. And that fabric, that feel, becomes part of the culture of your life. Becomes part of the culture of your family.”

“One more.”
Another toast goes in. Another jar is plucked from the pantry.
“Try this.” She turns my palm over, pouring out an hourglass trickle of sesame seeds. Gomashio. Sesame seeds and salt.
She comes back to the counter. Swipes the toast with butter. Deftly places a few small boat-shaped lettuce leaves on top.
“The other thing that people always underestimate is how generous plants are with us. In that they create opportunities to catch flavour. Look at these leaves. Pockets of opportunity, I call it.”
She plucks a few sprigs of dill. A crack of salt
“Here my friend. Have a try of that.”
Lush. Of course it is.

“I think my thing is to kind of reach for what is truly delicious. And then bring it into the world to share. And to present it in a way that feels free and accessible, but also beautiful. It’s not a fusion. It’s about how flavours sit beside each other and make each other happy.”

Yip. Yip. The fact that I’ve been called her friend makes me feel part of a secret club.

“Some chefs are very caught up in their recipes and in their techniques. I’m more interested in the ones caught up in flavour – which is a very sensuous thing. The ones going for the jugular.”

I can’t waste any of it. Now I’m mopping up the fallen sesame seeds with my fingers.
“You see? I’m leaving my DNA here. So that I can be buried with your basil.”

Life would be immeasurably more pleasurable if I could eat like this all the time.
“How can the home cook up their everyday dinner game?” I ask for myself. For anyone reading whose mouth is watering.

“Don’t underestimate the importance of a dressing. A dressing or a sauce can really pull things together at the last minute, and save you from boredom and monotony. You have a plate of broccoli? Sauce. Piece of fish? Nước chấm. And then the other thing that is so worth exploring is a crunchy topping. Like seasoned bread crumbs sprinkled on a pasta – pangrattato, they call it. Or coconut flakes and mint to make a gremolata. It totally elevates the game.

Watching her put this together, I’m reminded of how creativity can’t be constrained to the canvas. Or to the kitchen. Looking around, listening to her speak, I’m reminded that all of it is a creative act. Your life is your work of art.

“Every minute the energy is flowing. From every minute new is created, and new is created, and new is created. We’re in perpetual creation, you know?”

I nod. Take another bite.

“Do you want some pomegranate with that?” She sprinkles a few of the ruby gems on my toast.

“You know what? I’m going to crush this pomegranate aril into my notebook. A memory of love.”

Cooking is just that for Karen. An act of love. Whether it’s around the dinner table, or for the lucky guests who are welcomed into the warmth of her kitchen. Who join her for a cup of coffee or a walk in the forest. She can’t even seem to help it. It flows out of her, much the same way as everything else. A natural extension of the inside out.

If you’d like to feel it too, listen to her podcast – Toast.

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