Postcards from Paternoster

Exploring the beaches, flavours, and local voices of Paternoster.

I arrived in Paternoster on a perfect summer’s day, the cobalt sea shimmering beneath a wide West Coast sky. White-washed cottages dotted the powdery beaches, and for a moment, the entire village looked like a postcard someone had shaken into life. Paternoster—Our Father—is one of South Africa’s oldest fishing villages, a place where the sea has always dictated the rhythm of life.

I have known this village my entire life. As a child, we drove through Paternoster on our way to Tietiesbaai to camp, passing only a hotel and a small shop in those days. It felt rugged and remote, a slip of coastline far from everything. Over the years, the village changed, restaurants appeared, guesthouses multiplied, luxury white homes rose beside humble fishing cottages, yet the fishing community at its heart remained.

It was at that same old hotel, still the centre of village life, that I met Roske. Warm, open, and quick to smile, she has lived in Paternoster her whole life. Her parents worked at Paternoster Fisheries “in the old days,” and the house they lived in still stands, now transformed into a guesthouse named after her nephew, Koos Nap. She remembers when there were only sandy tracks and no electricity, when the village was divided into three small districts: Kraaifontein, Vaalplaas, and Kliprug.

Roske Walters

Before it became an inn, the hotel building had once been a juvenile prison, later a church and a school. It was eventually taken over by the Carosini family, who still own it more than fifty years later. “Most people in Paternoster are Anglicans,” Roske told me, pointing out the church that still stands on its original plot.“I am a proud resident of Paternoster. I would not want to live anywhere else,” she said

A typical fisherman's style house with small windows.

The sea, she explained, still governs everything. The fishermen go out daily in the right season; their lives and fortunes rise and fall with the tides. “The sea is like a mother,” she said. “She gives with an open heart.” Children play freely in the dusty streets. You can buy bokkoms—salted, dried fish—for fifty rand. Mondays mean fish for supper: snoek with baked bread, jam, and coffee, which she described as “heaven’s food.”

The Anglican Church.

When the southeaster blows, it is “kreef weather.” You’ll see bakkies heading for the slipway, returning stacked with crates of crayfish. She even shared the reason the old fishing cottages have such small windows: fishermen used them to watch for the flickering candle lights out at sea.

Koos Nap - The house where Roske grew up.

Paternoster today holds two worlds side by side. There are internationally acclaimed restaurants like Wolfgat, and a growing collection of cafés and eateries with names as charming as they are delicious: Gaaitjie, Seekat, Voorstrandt, Blikkies Pizza. Even the hotel serves excellent seafood, I can personally recommend the fish and chips.

I loved the view from the Voorstrandt Restaurant

During my visit, the southeaster howled so fiercely that conversations were swallowed mid-sentence, swept into the wind before they reached another ear. I walked along the beach, stopping often at the Voorstrandt for coffee, enjoying what is perhaps the best sea view in town. At the Paternoster Waterfront, I explored small art galleries and peered into the Koelkamers theatre space, a surprise burst of culture amid the fishing nets and seagulls.

In front of the Seekat restaurant.

I even ventured into the famous Panty Bar, where the young barman assured me that, even today, women still occasionally leave behind their undergarments for the collection swinging from the ceiling beams. He told me that the quiet lull would soon break, holidaymakers were due in two weeks, and then the bar would be full every night.

The famous Panty Bar at the Paternoster Hotel.

Walking through the village, I admired the beautiful holiday homes, but my attention always returned to the heart of Paternoster: the fishing community nestled right in the middle, steadfast and unchanged. There is an older soul here, deeper than the restaurants and the whitewashed walls, something shaped by wind, salt, memory, and the ceaseless sea.

Paternoster still belongs, in its essence, to the fishermen and to the tide. And if you stand on the beach at dusk, with the southeaster tugging at your hair and the colours shifting over the bay, you can feel it, the quiet, enduring pulse of a place that has given so much, for so long.

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