If you encounter the eerie clatter of a horse’s hooves coming from Oude Werf in the dark of night, going down Church Street, you’ve crossed paths with Landdrost Daniel van Rijneveld, who has been trapped in the netherworld for some 250 years. And he deserves it. He’s the one who sub-divided the location of the first church and graveyard of Stellenbosch, for development.
The thatch roof chapel was destroyed in a devastating fire in 1710, which burnt down most of the young town. What could be salvaged was re-used in the construction of a new church, on the site of the current day Moederkerk. The old plot remained peaceful and empty for three-quarters of a century, until the greedy Landdrost took it upon himself to desecrate if. And for such sacrilege he’d forever forfeited any rest unto his soul. So if you see the mirage of an old man on a tired horse doing their never-ending rounds, let it be a lesson: don’t screw with the dead.
Books also seem to have restless nights in Stellenbosch. And once again, it’s the discontented departed at work. Long ago, there used to be a mortuary in Dorp Street, where Verbatim Bookshop is today, and its books seem to go walkies overnight to other places, or they simply end up on the floor. Some freaked out tourists swear that when they looked through the window one evening, they could clearly see books floating around. But legend has it that the spirits with their acquired taste for the printed word will at this time of year, as the Day of the Dead approaches, go wandering all over town, visiting libraries, other bookshops, student hostels and professorial studies, even homes. So hold on to your books this month, people.
The City of Oaks also had its ‘stinking rich’. Not just anyone was allowed to be buried under the floors of the new church. Only those with enough money to bestow their benevolence upon the poor in their lifetimes – and the church, of course – were allowed such an honour. But the dead bodies of the rich, unfortunately, go the same way as all flesh, spreading the distinct odour of decaying corpse for months to come. So if you smell a weird whiff of something rotting around that area, you may know that you’re poor and they don’t want you stepping on their expensive graves. One of them, it is said, a Mr Johan Cloete, was famous for his stinking morals, and was therefore banished to burial on the banks of the Eerste River. Just to remind everyone that ‘here lays a scoundrel’ the villagers carved a skull and bones on his gravestone. But the man’s angry ghost raised such hell in the nights, that dominee was called to talk him over to the other side, after which he calmed down. But in a month of two eclipses, it’s quite possible that he may rise again to announce his resentful and dissed presence in the shadows of the river foliage. Better watch out.
And what is an Old Town without the haunting presence of a woman scorned, projecting her angst and sorrows into the current day ether? A hapless wife is apparently hanging around Berghhuis in Drostdy Street. The house was built in the 1750s by Deputy Bailiff Olof Bergh, and his family happily resided there for many years until 1777. But the next inhabitants weren’t so cheery, enduring a stormy marriage until the woman of the house ended up at the bottom of the stairs. Her dead body was carried out, but she never left. And she’s making herself felt with icy shivers down your spine. Mercifully, she has thus far been a quiet ghost. But who knows?
Text: Editorial Desk | Image: Wikiwand
