WHOEVER thought it would be a good idea to put one h straight after another in the name of a place?
Fransch is the old Dutch word for French and Hoek is corner. Hence Franschhoek. Before 1947 it was, more sensibly, Fransche Hoek. And before that Olifantshoek, the name apparently favoured by the original Khoi inhabitants — who were of course forcibly moved by the colonists.
So I am invariably tempted to stop at the signs outside wine estates that say things like “Founded in 1865”. To cross out “founded” and replace it with “stolen”.
The Franschhoek Literary Festival exists in a similar bubble of unreality. If you were a tourist who knew nothing about the town and happened upon it during festival weekend you might think it is a retirement village for well-read, well-heeled white people.
Diversity is hard to find here, among the audiences, the authors and the panels who discuss their book. Because writing and reading are accessible only to those who have the time and the money.
We have the time and the money, and we happened to stay in the same hotel as Tony Leon, the former politician and ambassador. One morning at breakfast we could hear him holding court at a table laden with those his ilk.
The unctuously posh language and tone so freely deployed in a society such as ours made me recoil. And cringe. And be grateful that I will never lose my way into that level of privilege.
Not much puts me off a good Eggs Benedict, but that came close. When they were done they sent each other on their way with an arching “Ta-ra, ta-ra …”
Yet, for all the unearned advantage displayed like fat bellies on an Italian beach, and for all Franschhoek’s fake frenchiness, the festival remains worthwhile. In an age when it can seem as if we are actively pushed away from thinking, ideas emerge, circulate and circulate here. So let’s be happy to see rooms filled with festinos:
And when you're tired of thinking, go outside and look up:
Outrageous, isn't it. Of course, you're soon queueing for your next event:
I had two favourites, one from an enduring interest, the other from a newish pursuit. The first is below. Among the few things my father got right was to play Roger Lucey's music loudly. Hearing it again brought many tears. Not least because his anger remains valid., but I was chuffed to be able to put a splodge of sunshine on his nose:
Here's a flavour of Roger's lyrics, from You Only Need Say Nothing:
There's a beggar sitting legless
On a pavement in the town
Hoping just to catch your eye
Hoping that you'll look down
And he shifts his tired body
And counts the coppers that he's begged
And wonders will he get home first
Or will he first get mugged
And you know that it's so damned easy
To turn and look away
And you only need say nothing
To have nothing at all to say
Then there was Roger Ballen, the spookily genius photographer. Here he is drawing in my copy of his new book Roger Ballen: Spirits and Spaces. How cool is that!
I also went to 30 Years of Art and Democracy in South Africa by Liese van der Watt. Aptly, the event was in the Ebony/Curated Gallery:
More views? Done:
Sometimes the view is inside out, if you see what I mean. Especially when you can capture lights in the window:
And so another Franschhoek Literary Festival is over. This one came within hours of being cancelled because of the wild weather that visited in the days before. Happily the sun came out and systems were restored in time for the festival to go ahead. We'll be back. Doubtless, so will Tony bloody Leon.
© 2026 Telford Vice. Words and photographs.