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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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

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 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.

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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.

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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.

Find Très Nagual at their stores in Cape Point and Gardens, South Africa.

Or pay a visit to one of our stores in Cape Town, Joburg or Plettenberg Bay, South Africa to discover one of their unique liquid hand soaps, custom made for Mungo using all-natural botanicals. 

If you take a wander through the Old Nick Village grounds, there’s a spot where the trees hum with activity. Flashes of yellow. Weaver birds at work. In the run up to winter, we watch them building their nests. They are known to use only the freshest and best materials, and a masterful weave. They were here before us. Perhaps they’ll outlast us. But they’re a fitting kind of mascot for the Mungo Mill. For the place we call home.

In preparation for the cooling off, we too start nesting. Finding warmth in pattern and texture. The Double Cloth comes off the loom. A warm and weighty throw, with a unique weaving construction that differs the pattern on either side. A new run of Linen Scarves is brought to life on our Ruti looms. We weave the scarf in small batches, each carefully designed to make the most of the limited colours left in yarn storage. It’s our way of designing to minimise waste, whilst making something remarkable. Each fold of shimmery fabric bears a true selvedge, a special self-finished edge particular only to shuttle looms.

We find in the colder months, and especially when the rain pours, that our Plett store is full. People trickle into the mill next door. Winter (like any) is a good time to take a tour. We open our production doors because we believe in the value of bridging the gap between maker and consumer. Between product and process. To make better choices, one must first understand, learn, and witness. Today most of us keep a safe distance from how our goods are made – faceless production, products alchemized from obscurity into existence. We feel the call to resist the surge of newness, now and novelty that has characterised contemporary retail. And the cult of silence and disillusionment that sits alongside.

Which is why we stick with the values of old: craftsmanship and quality. Transparency. Longevity. Timelessness. We hope that the Mungo product in your hand adds beauty and ritual to your bathtime, or your home. Something to be used, treasured, loved. To bring comfort. To be handed down. To bring joy.

The Double Cloth

The Linen Scarf

“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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Read next: In the Studio | A Conversation with Textile Designer, Lucie Panis-Jones

We’re at Villa d’Almè for one reason, to visit the linen spinners who have, for the past 150 years, meticulously transformed flax into yarn. We are far from the fields of Normandy where it is grown, yet the connections run deep, and the relationships are old.

Written by Dax Holding

Bergamo, Italy

Descending from the mountains of the Alps, you follow the streams that once fed the factories of Italy’s industrialised north. Green Alpine valleys with rapidly moving waters, ice cold from the source of melting snow. We’re at Villa d’Almè for one reason, to visit Linificio e Canapificio Nazionale and the linen spinners who have for the past 150 years meticulously transformed flax into yarn. We are far from the fields of Normandy where linen is grown, yet the connections run deep, and the relationships are old.

We enter through a mechanised glass door, ascend in a lift into a modern office space where people sit staring at screens, plying the trade of modern-day commerce. There is information on the walls telling stories and revealing history – old oil paintings of the founders, the changes that have occurred over the past 150 years. We are ushered into a large boardroom, offered coffee, and discuss the effects of market pressure, war and climate on linen.

The narrative is scary; however, we sit in the same seats that generations before us did. We are guided by their history and soothed by their presence. Soon we have spoken of the things we must speak of and it’s time to delve deeper into the building.

We travel down, out of the light, into the humid basements where the real magic happens.

Walking down the humming rows of spinning frames you are immersed in the unique smell of linen, like earth, the same smell you find standing over one of our looms in South Africa.

A smell reminiscent of the fynbos that surrounds us in Plettenberg Bay.

The workers move quietly and gently, focused, with the sure movements of people familiar and confident with the repetition of their work.

These machines were designed and made before any of our times, modified through decades of innovation to produce a little bit more, a little bit better, hopefully a little bit faster. But always using the same basic ingredients. Wood, water, iron and people. All singularly focused on twisting the long thin fibres of a grass into yarn.

We just skim the surface.

We leave the spinning process and now travel by stairway, twisting up to the top floors to find ourselves immersed in an exhibition celebrating linen, life and art. This unexpected delight takes us into yet another dimension and precipitates a completely different conversation. What are we doing as people, as businesses, to change the common narrative?

The space once filled with machines is now devoted to art. High-value real estate is no longer able to sustain production in a country where labour and the cost of doing business has forced the majority of production to move to Lithuania and Tunisia.

More on our fibres:

The Lineage of our Linen

From Flax to Fibre

The use of agrochemicals in the conventional cotton sector affects an estimated 44% of cotton farmers each year. The results of this are grim: soil degradation, water pollution, biodiversity loss and habitat destruction. Not to mention to the health risks associated with exposing cotton farmers to harsh chemical pesticides and fertilisers. A reaction to these conditions has witnessed many companies disengaging from cotton and opting for alternatives such as synthetics, in the form of cheap plastic-based fibres.

The result? It’s thought that 70% of the world’s clothes are now produced from plastic. And although many of us are more adept at saying no to single-use plastics (straws, single-use bottles and the like falling out of favour) we often forget about the toxic plastics in our clothing and textiles.

Cotton has been farmed and used for thousands of years. At any one time, everyone on the planet is wearing or using at least one article of cotton cloth a day. Not only in the everyday t-shirt, but in everything from bank notes to bubble-gum. Versatile, soft, breathable, absorbent, hypoallergenic, durable, biodegradable and renewable. It’s easy to sing its praises. But the production of cotton fibre into cloth has not been an unblemished one either. And although changing old systems is hard, at some point you have to strike out.

We continue to believe in using natural fibres. They feel better on the skin. Are better for the planet. They biodegrade, rather than not spending aeons in landfill.

We’re also committed to being transparent with our manufacturing. Which is why we open the door of our mill to you, each and every day. We don’t claim to possess all the answers, but we recognise that there are better ways to doing things. And that organic agriculture is part of this shift.

In 2020 we became South Africa’s first Global Organic Textile Standard (GOTS) certified mill. A world-leading standard for organic fibre processing, that has rigorous environmental and social ramifications – right from the soil and seed, to the finished product. Whilst not all our textiles are woven with organic cotton (we use OEKO-TEX certified linen and conventional Southern African grown cotton too), we’re committed to finding better ways to produce and to consume. To pursue sustainable stewardship. And to reflect that process with you too.

This Earth Day, we celebrate those textile standards that serve the betterment of our people and planet.

Find out more about our GOTS certification and organic journey here.

#happyearthday

Read next: Behind the Seams | The Hidden Cost of Fast Fashion

Organic Cotton Range

A bird’s eye view of Poortjies lagoon in Plettenberg Bay mid-March would have afforded an interesting sight. Starfish bodies, floating on the water’s surface. Each connected at the centre, and slowly drawn down the line of the beach by a guide, donned in bright blue. You’d spot the telltale sign of a snorkel. A small face, coming up for air. A peal of laughter carried on the wind, rippling across the slow-moving tide.

At the end of 2023, we hosted our third annual Mungo Swim Club. A five-day challenge with the shared goal to reconnect, revive and raise funds for a worthy cause. We held clubs across Cape Town, Knysna and Plettenberg Bay, asking swimmers to join us for a consecutive series of early morning dips. We encouraged swimmers to extend their good will, by each donating towards I AM WATER to secure their spot. And in the end we rewarded each who saw it through – rain, wind or shine – with a custom Mungo Swim Club towel.

665 of you participated. Driven by a collective sense of good feeling – and perhaps the shared self-possession that you never regret a swim.

Through this we were able to raise over R100,000 for I AM WATER. A contribution supporting their incredible and vital work – one that tackles ocean conservation and issues of accessibility, by offering transformative water experiences for youths in under-resourced communities.

“IAW has helped me overcome my fear of not being able to swim, and helped me bridge the gap between my community and the ocean, making conservation accessible to those who, like me, yearn to be part of something greater. Now, as I teach the next generation about their connection to the oceans, I see the same spark of wonder in their eyes that I felt. It’s a reminder that no matter where we come from, the ocean is a part of us all, and it’s our duty to protect it.”

– Marlin van Sensie, IAW coach.

It was a pleasure to see the funds materialising into action, with the IAW team visiting the Garden Route to host a 2-day Ocean Guardians Workshop. The event began with a talk at the Crags Primary School, where IAW staff brought home the need to protect our oceans, against the real and present threats of overfishing, pollution, and habitat destruction. The enthusiastic and engaged responses from the students were a testament to the passion of the IAW team.

Then the Ocean Guardians Workshop was underway. Day 1 unfolded at Poortjies Lagoon in Plettenberg Bay, with a programme that included mindfulness and breathwork activities, educational presentations, nature walks and beach clean ups, explorations of the shore and team work activities, before getting into gear – wetsuits, masks and snorkels donned for the first dip. Guided by the team, the students were put at ease in the water, mastering their new gear before exploring the world of wonder below. Lunch on the beach followed, with an opportunity to share feedback and reflect on the day’s learnings.

“Hosting the Ocean Guardians Workshop in Plettenberg Bay and Knysna was a first-time endeavour for us… but the serene beauty of these locations offered a refreshing change of scenery, with new marine life to discover. The estuary and lagoon ecosystems presented a distinctive environment, teeming with seagrass, sea hares, hermit crabs, and nudibranchs.”

Day 2 saw the students building on their confidence from the previous day, with a trip to the Knysna Lagoon. Exploration of the rocky shores revealed an abundance of sea treasures – gem-toned anemones, starfish and even a shy octopus, before a dip into deeper waters of the Knysna Lagoon.

The afternoon ended off with a certificate ceremony, bringing home the students’ newfound roles as future ocean guardians.

“The most fulfilling aspect of conducting these workshops is witnessing the joy reflected in the students’ smiles at the conclusion of each session, helping them overcome their fears regarding the oceanic environment and its organisms. It’s a testament to the effort invested in educating, mentoring, and nurturing the upcoming generation. By equipping them with the necessary knowledge and skills I hope to inspire them to become stewards… perpetuating a legacy of ocean conservation.”

To mark the event, we presented each student with a Mungo Scout Towel, a sea-spired kids towel woven with 100% organic cotton, and designed with the next generation of in mind.

A towel we like to say was designed for the sea swimmers, oceanographers, avid explorers… for the rockpool-finders, sandcastle builders and first-time snorkellers of the future…

Looking around at the faces, and hearing the feedback at close of day, drove it all home.
The importance of hopefulness. The power of possibility. The value of inspired collective action.
What a pleasure it has been to work with this incredible team.
Here’s to Swim Club 2024.

Want to get involved? Sign up to our mailing list to join one of our upcoming Swim Clubs.

IAW was founded by South African freediver and ocean conservationist, Hanli Prinsloo. Read our conversation with her, The Art of Being Optimistic, next on our blog.

Summer in Plettenberg Bay is renowned. A time of year that sees tens of thousands of locals and holidaymakers alike flock to the town’s pristine Blue Flag beaches to make the most of the sun and surf. But whilst many of us are enjoying the waters or working on our tans, there are those who are hard at work: the lifeguards. Over 60 of whom keep vigil over 13 beaches in the area, right from Nature’s Valley to the Robberg peninsula.

Above and beyond safeguarding our seas, the Lifeguard Programme supports a proactive skill development initiative in Plettenberg Bay. Training and upskilling youths from local communities with valuable skills that set them up for future success.

“We have about 15 kids who come through the programme each year. Some of these kids might take 2-3 years to pass through the necessary training – others a year. So on average that’s about 10 kids every year. A very small fraction of these kids come from affluent communities. They are predominantly from disadvantaged backgrounds,” says Lifeguard Instructor and Examiner, Chas Fraser.

The programme is rigorous, and requires a strong level of commitment. Not to mention peak physicality, strong aquatic skills, effective teamwork and open communication. Constant vigilance is key, as the guards must consistently monitor both the water conditions, and swimmer capability. Those who persevere are led through a comprehensive program of personal and professional development, acquiring skills that open up a world of career options.

“This profession has to have real working skills. You have to be on time, you can’t bunk work, you have to have a lot of discipline. We’ve seen these kids get jobs on cruise ships, in fire and rescue, become paramedics… It’s a stepping stone to earn income and to move onto other careers.”

In support of the programme, and as a gesture of appreciation for the boys and girls in red and yellow, over the last few years we’ve been weaving a special run of our Itawuli – a pure cotton towel that has been a signature of the Mungo range for close to a decade. Keeping the towel’s iconic geometric design, we’ve switched up the colours – an all-red towel with a yellow stripe to reflect the occasion.

“The Mungo towels were among the most cherished sponsorships we’ve received for the individual guards. They love them and have kept them warm, dry and protected from the wind. They are durable, attractive and practical and the squad would like me to thank you for this. External support of the programmes has become a cornerstone in its ability to carry on developing and keeping a highly professional labour force and to direct more funds to our highly successful, disadvantaged community development training. Lifesaving is the catalyst of the programme. But at the end of the day, the real life saving is saving these kids lives; giving them opportunities.”

Since the hand over, we’ve had many customers and beach-goers ask us where they can get their hands on one of these towels. Whilst this red and yellow beauty isn’t part of our current range, you can still shop one of our Itawuli colourways here. And if you spot one on the beach, we’d love to see – tag us at @mungodesign

Shop the In Range Mungo Itawuli

Blue Moon

Cango Grey

Emerald Green