A cold Castle

Its a lovely clear morning as I walk out onto the balcony (stoop) to look across the roofs opposite. Across the city my eyes resting on the large passenger ship slowly coming in through the harbour entrance. It must be Tuesday, 8am, the Mail Ship on time, like a watch, carrying its precious cargo, letters from home.
The cloud, forming on the mountain behind heralds the Cape Doctor and the skipper, manoeuvring his lovely ship is well aware of the difficulty if he doesn't get alongside soon. Fussily the little tugs nip in and out, a quick push here and there to assist in the docking. The tall cranes (made in Barrow, seen on the quays of any port in the world) already hovering, one with the gangway, others dropping their hooks right into the ships hold to unload passenger baggage. The officials climb on board, the pilot disembarks and the swarthy ranks of dock workers wait patiently for the first discharge of cargo.  Officious little men in white uniform, epaulets gleaming with the importance of the rank, customs officer, regulation comb tucked into the top of the regulation calf length socks, strut the scene, in their position of "top dog".
The passengers begin to disembark, some to sight-see this beautiful city others to head for the Customs Shed to reclaim their baggage from the piles of luggage spread across the floor of the shed. Open your bag sir !! 
The sun is climbing higher and with it the temperature. The wide eyed visitors marvel at the spacious well trimmed avenue leading up to the city streets, as they saunter off into the elite shops such as Stutterford, amazed that in Darkest Africa such a civilised place can exist. The piccanin and the chirpy sound of with the penny whistle, add a delightful contrast but then the visitor has not had time to absorb the deeper conflict within this apparently, "have it all society". 

With the mail arriving its time to walk into town, down from the lower slopes of the mountain through the patchwork quilt of dwellings that adorn this part of town, through the impressive gardens, sprinkled with statues set amongst tall gracious trees and   flanking the equally impressive buildings of Parliament. After the peace of the Garden the noise of the city streets opens out but not without a final lingering smell of freshly watered flowers sold by flower vendors.
Down through the bustle of the city to another oasis, the Post Office a mausoleum to the past with scenes from South Africa's history writ large on the walls. It is a tranquil escape from the noise outside and in those days a reminder of the difference in this society from the one I had left. The queues stretched to the marble counter in lines that were drawn rigorously on racial lines. Whites only, Blacks only and heaven help you if you tried to buck the system.
Poste Restante was the service to collect your mail, a series of pidgin holes to hold the precious letters and as you backed away with your pile (if you were lucky),  you re-entered the bright bustling scene impatient to open your mail. 
Where better than the balcony of the Grand Hotel on Adderly Street,

A cold Castle, a toasted ham sandwich and news from home,

 life was great !!!