That sense of deep-rooted calm carries through every room. Every object, from the coffee-table volume of Vogue photographs to the Hario Buono kettle neatly positioned on the stove, contributes to the near-mathematical precision of curation. This, for me, is the magic of Japandi design. It’s low-profile and humble, yet utterly absorbing. I feel faintly meditative each time I return to the apartment, which, after a day immersed in the melting pot of Cape Tonian nature, sport and hospitality, becomes a welcome, sanctuary-like moment of recuperation.
We spend early evenings on the balcony terrace, watching the sky turn pink over Lion’s Head. Tall, jagged and majestic, the uninterrupted view is a reminder of just what a feat it was to climb (worth it, I might add, for one of the most beautiful sunrises I have ever witnessed). In the mornings, paragliders circle the mountaintops, their colourful canopies like speckled butterflies carried on the Cape Doctor – the city’s strong, dry south-easterly wind that blows all summer long.
With Cape Town’s vast and brilliant culinary scene, it would have been easy to never once cook (note Le Lude in neighbouring Franschhoek for an exquisite three-course alfresco lunch, and The Stranger’s Club in buzzy Green Point for a farmstead brunch). Yet despite the abundance of recommendations at our fingertips, we couldn’t resist spending one evening in the serenity of the apartment’s open-plan kitchen. With jazz playing over the Sonos and a bottle of South African rosé chilling, we laid out plates of fresh hummus, olives and warm flatbread from Oranjezicht Market across the terrazzo breakfast bar.
