A graphic new weave, brought to life on a rare loom, with a yarn that took us somewhere unexpected…

A Yarn with a Different Ending

In early 2022, we sourced a batch of wool and mohair yarn from Stucken, the renowned South African spinners based in Uitenhage. The goal? A new Mungo blanket. Something warm, weighty and soft, that could be cherished for years to come. But as we began weaving test runs, something wasn’t quite right. The yarn’s micron count – the measurement of fibre fineness – gave the cloth more structure and texture than softness. Beautiful, yes. But not quite right for the kind of blanket we had envisioned.

But one of the perks of having our own mill, and our full operation (from design through to finished product) under one roof, means that we have room to reimagine and reiterate…

So our design team went back to the drawing board, and looked for a new application. We considered the yarn’s qualities – handle, weight, texture – and began to reimagine it as a cushion cover. What emerged was the Pixel Cushion: bold, graphic, and dimensional.

With just a limited run fresh off our looms, this is a special once-off weave that will briefly join our current cushion cover range. But the good news is that this isn’t the end of our wool story. We’ll continue to refine and develop our approach to weaving with animal fibres – so a wool and mohair blanket is still on the horizon…

The Weave: Overshot, Reimagined

The Pixel Cushion design uses a traditional overshot weave – a structure that pairs a plain (tabby) weave with floating weft threads to create a patterned, raised surface. Originally popular in the 18th and 19th centuries for bedspreads in America and England, it’s been reinterpreted here for a bold, modern cloth, full of depth and dimension.

“By enlarging the block design, using some vibrant colours, and incorporating yarns with varying textures, we were able to create this graphic, textural effect – something that feels quite contemporary. The final cloth is full of dimensional blocks, contrasts and shadows. At the same time, there’s this very traditional weave structure. So it becomes a fabric that’s both modern and rooted in tradition. This old-meets-new design approach is very true to Mungo and how we work – drawing on contemporary palettes, aesthetics and influences, while using traditional weaving techniques and technologies (like our antique shuttle looms) to create something that’s both modern and timeless.”

– Lenore, Mungo designer

The Challenges of the Saurer Loom

The Pixel Cushions were woven on a particularly special machine: our mid-century Saurer shuttle loom, donated to us by renowned South African mohair weaver, Jan Paul Barnard. Thought to date back to the 1960s, the Saurer was once the height of weaving technology. It bridges a key gap in our collection at the Mungo Mill – sitting between our 100+ year-old Hattersley domestic loom and the modern Dornier rapier machines crafted by the post-WWII aircraft company of the same name. This loom’s inclusion completes our story: a working display of weaving evolution, from hand looms to industrial-era innovation. And it’s one you can witness in person – our open mill in Plettenberg Bay invites you to see the full process, from first threads to finished cloth.

While the Saurer has its charms, it’s not without quirks – particularly when it comes to patterning. To create the Pixel Cushion weave, our design team worked with an old-school pattern card system. Unlike modern Jacquard or electronic looms, the Saurer reads punched cards, fed in by hand. Each hole determines which threads lift or stay down, guiding the formation of the weave. Complicating things? The cards had to be punched in reverse order. A painstaking process, requiring close collaboration and a good deal of patience.

“This was our first experiment with patterning on the Saurer. We had only woven plain weaves on it before. But we were excited to push the loom further. It took quite a lot of figuring out and reiterations, but I think the end result is something quite special.”

The Pixel Cushions

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It’s three o’clock on a warm afternoon. We’re seated in a coffee shop in central Paarl, moving from outside under the trees to a quiet corner. Light cracks through the window, illuminating the sage green wallpaper, patterned with storybook-style birds and creeping vines. There are hanging plants, an eclectic mix of artworks, and pastel-toned ceramics – very on-brand for the guest.

I’m sitting down with artist Lené Ehlers. Over the course of two hours, we’ll talk about art and process – and a creative approach to life. About trusting your intuition, and following the path that feels most aligned.

Although we’re tucked into this cosy nook, beside a doorway where visitors come and go (one of whom is Lené’s mom), I imagine her back in her studio: a familiar pair of overalls, flecked with paint.

“There’s a pair of pants I always wear, and a T-shirt with paint spots – I have to wear that uniform, because the paint gets everywhere.”

The image adds to the idyll: life and work flowing interchangeably. The artist part of the process; blending into her work. Leaving touches of herself – like a signature. The hopeless – or in this case, hopeful – romantic embedded into every stroke.

I wonder about the interplay of living and working – the degree of separation (if any) required for the creative. Particularly for someone who lives in a home-meets-studio.

“Aren’t you tempted to just roll out of bed, pick up a brush, and do another stroke?” I ask.

“I used to be like that. But the thing with painting is that you need the right light. I’ve tried candlelight, but natural light is best – so I don’t have that temptation to work through the night.”

Looking at Lené’s pieces, there is considerable romance. The palettes are soft and calming. The overall effect is dreamy and sensory.

We talk about her chosen subject matter, and the feeling it evokes. The drawing of inspiration from something visually pleasing – and how this itself is a kind of fresh, radical concept. How the pursuit of the pleasurable, of beauty, might stand against modern art as we know it: pieces viewed with a sense of detachment or disillusionment. Works in white-walled spaces that require a certain kind of cerebral engagement.

Emotive. Sensory. Pleasing in palette and subject. Lené’s floral-driven works create a sense of softness and comfort. These are pieces to be lived with and enjoyed – not just observed.

“In traditional gallery spaces, I often feel like it’s a cold atmosphere to interact with art. Some people feel like they need to engage with a piece in a particular way. But in a warm space, you’re more comfortable. You can experience it in your own way.”

In 2022, Lené found a fitting ‘cosy’ home for her work after meeting Michael Chandler of Chandler House.

“Chandler House has this homey feel. I could immediately see my paintings living in that kind of space. Michael collects antique interiors – couches, kilims, ceramics – so it creates a picture. It’s immersive, and that suits the work.”

That show marked a turning point – both aesthetically and emotionally. It affirmed the path she was on, and helped define the distinctive style of her current work: painterly florals, thick with texture, laced with textile influences.

“At that first exhibition, Michael introduced me to a woman who imports Suzanis – traditional textiles from Uzbekistan. These have become a major inspiration in my work. He could see I had a pattern-driven aesthetic, but needed a little something more. From that show, I actually bought my first Suzani – so it’s a sentimental piece too.”

While Lené’s medium today is oil on canvas, her roots lie in floristry.

“While I was studying in Stellenbosch, I worked at a florist on weekends. When I graduated, I started doing flowers full time – working at different companies for around five years. Then I slowly began illustrating on the side, just for myself. That led to an exhibition in a gallery I’d admired. And it just built from there. Eventually, I started experimenting with paint, and now I’m doing full-on oils.”

Her earlier pieces, done in acrylic ink on paper, were more experimental – hints of florals embedded within patterns. Now, she’s arrived at something more grounded: flowers centre stage, with subtle echoes of pattern and textile below.

Lené’s current oil works are rich in texture – thick, expressive, and slow to dry. Sometimes a single piece can take up to three months to complete. And the process is tactile. Instinctual. Driven by feeling.

“I don’t overthink it. I start by going to the flower market and picking colours that speak to me. Then I arrange them in a vase, choose a cloth, and begin painting. I get a lot of joy from curating the still life before I even touch the brush.”

But how does it begin?

“I have synesthesia – when I feel something, I see a colour. So the palette very much comes from a certain state of mind.”

The work unfolds intuitively – following the flow of a line, or called to a colour, by instinct. It’s an approach to process, but also a kind of ordering principle to life. A way of being in flow. Living a life defined by your own terms. Engrossed by the work, and letting what feels right lead.

And for those wanting to be led by that freedom of feeling; by the freedom to lead a creative life – what is her advice?

“Start small. But take aligned steps. People ask me: should I get a gallery? Should I go it alone? I can’t answer that. That’s between you and your journey. You have to do what feels right for you. There are no right or wrongs.”

Before we part, I ask Lené about her dream exhibition space. I half expect her to say a sunlit gallery in Paris, or the splendour of the Tate or the Louvre. But her answer is simpler. More grounded. Entirely in keeping with everything she’s said.

“I see my artworks in cosy heritage homes. A warm place with wooden floors. Above a mantelpiece. That would make me very happy – to know that my paintings were in a happy home.”

Words by Georgina Selander

Photography by JD Allin

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“Come at 4am. There’ll be loud music playing and the coffee machine will be on.”

Say no more.

There’s a sweet serendipity to be invited in behind the scenes – when someone opens the private doors to their passion. And more so when those doors open with the scent of butter and bread.

It’s the early hours in Yzerfontein – it’s the West Coast, and the sun won’t rise until close to 8am. The streets are quiet, the air smells salty, blowing off the cold Atlantic water. There’s a soft drizzle of rain.

You park in the parking lot. Close to the midnight hours, the streets are blue-black. But there’s a light shining through the glass doors at Rosemead Artisan Bakery. Inside, a man is moving back and forth between the floured countertops. Behind him are big – very big – ovens. You watch a while before you go inside. The scene is romantic. Idyllic. Like the opening credits to a movie. Anything seems possible.

It’s quiet now. But in a few hours there will be people quickly setting foot inside – the barefoot surfer and his dog, the genteel older couple with their newspaper, the young bohemians who are glad to be out of Cape Town. Some will even arrive before opening time, hoping for an early coffee. If it were December, then the line would be long – an unending stream for three to four hours. So you’re lucky you’ve paid a visit on a Thursday in March. Over the course of the morning (four hours pass by in an instant) you’ll watch these comers-and-goers. All of them Brett will greet. He seems to be on a first-name basis with most. You’ll also meet his brother, his mother-in-law (who makes the rusks), and even his wife and children – who live five minutes up the road.

When you go inside, the musical score is fitting: Don Henley’s Boys of Summer. An exceptionally apt theme tune for a bakery with a distinctly laid-back feel. But don’t let the vibe deceive you – there is a serious approach to quality here. This may, or may not (you’ll have to find out for yourself), be the best bread you ever try. And you won’t be the first to think so – in fact, 893 people have vouched for it on Google reviews. The most recent of which proclaims:

“This is the best bakery in [the] Cape Province. If you walk in you are part of an experience. The smell, the look and the people… If I [were to] live in Yzterfontein, this bakery will lead to my end, they will have to put their bread in my coffin one day. I challenge you to prove me wrong.”

I ask Brett about this. His response is humble. It’s clear that whatever is happening here – the subtle magic – has happened organically. They don’t have a website. Their Instagram page is refreshingly uncurated. Their Facebook page was hacked a few years ago and never revived (much to Brett’s satisfaction). And if you look around the bakery, you’ll find no sign at the till begging you to leave a review. You aren’t being coaxed into a positive feeling. That becomes all the more part of the growing excitement. Social media might have made things so agonisingly accessible that barely anything seems like a hidden gem. The untapped, untouched spaces of the planet have been overrun by the uninfluential influencer. But here you are, feeling like you’re privy to something sacred.

So what is it? Why do people keep coming back? Why can’t you get your hands on a baguette in December? Well, it’s that ‘thing’ of course – the timeless basics: good. Simple. Delicious. No frills, no fuss – no lipstick on a pig. It’s an ‘if you know, you know’ type of situation.

The idea is to stick to the classics and do them incredibly well, with the best quality ingredients. “We have three kids, and we want everyone to be nourished – not just fed,” says Brett.

The atmosphere at Rosemead Artisan Bakery encapsulates a sense of the unhurried, unpretentious surfer town – the Muizenberg, perhaps, of 10 years ago, before gentrification became an actualised buzzword. It’s honest and easy-going and not dolled up for show. And it makes sense – in a way, owner and Head Baker Brett Nortier has recreated a sense of his upbringing in the ‘Deep South’, where he cut his culinary teeth by learning the basics at his aunt’s bakery in Kalk Bay.

“In my mid-teens, my aunt returned from a small French village where she’d been learning to bake. She opened a bakery in a double garage on Rosmead Road, an old cobbled street in Kalk Bay. For pocket money, my brother and I helped out – making cheese sticks, coffee, whatever was needed. The bakery was just across from a great wave, so we’d come in early, bake, go for a surf, and help out again after. It was a cool way to grow up – walking down in the mornings, watching the sunrise over the sea. My aunt would be on the wall, waving her arms to call us in: ‘We’re busy! Come and help.’ Back then we didn’t have phones. From Grade 6, we’d be surfing in Kommetjie or Kalk Bay, just leaving notes on the fridge with a whiteboard marker: ‘In Noordhoek. See you at 8.’”

After school, Brett went to culinary school, where he met his wife, Anli. “We were both doing fine-dining internships – I was at the Greenhouse, then rated the top restaurant in the country, and she was at Terroir. After that, we helped out at my aunt’s bakery again before moving to Stellenbosch, where we spent five years at a great bakery – I probably learned the most there. But we wanted to be near the sea and always dreamed of starting something of our own. Ten years ago, we visited for a weekend, and someone mentioned a spot we could rent – a padstal on the R27. We checked it out and said, ‘Let’s do it.’ We took out a loan and launched with just the two of us – she did pastry, I did bread. I handled deliveries, she did the invoicing. We were washing dishes, doing everything ourselves. Some nights we only slept two or three hours, then started again the next day. Slowly we added help, and eventually moved here – we’ve been in this building for seven years now. This was the original Yzerfontein shop – it had the old-school Coca-Cola sign and everything.”

The approach at Rosemead runs through every aspect – local, artisanal, well-crafted. From the traceable supply chain (all the suppliers are written on a blackboard), who form a network of mindful, quality-focused makers that supply their flour, their coffee, their eggs, and their meat, through to the wares.

“What I started realising is the more these kinds of like-minded businesses can support each other, the better – consciously buying something from the smaller guy. We’ve got a lady up the road who supplies us with eggs – gosh, those chickens have a good life! And our coffee cup sets – they’re handmade by a friend of ours who’s a potter. Each one is a little different and yes, they cost a bit more, but they’re super special.”

What’s to be loved is also the process in action. You can see it all happening – the loaves go in, they come out. The timers tick and the mixers churn in plain sight. And periodically, the smells keep changing: first, the nutty scent of the first loaves. A wash of butter as the croissants come out. A wave of sweetness, like a cloud, when the pasteis de nata emerge. No wonder you don’t want to leave.

And the man behind it all is baking. Baking, sharing a joke with the staff, and enjoying a toasted sandwich by the window – where he waves off a mom and her son, who each carry off a loaf of sourdough, carefully wrapped in tissue paper like the beautiful bounty that they are. “People are surprised to see the owner working behind the scenes,” says Brett.

The quality is consistent – that’s a non-negotiable. But, like all things artisanal, you’ll find subtle variations. And perhaps this in itself is reason enough to keep coming back – to see how the flavour of their sought-after sourdough subtly shifts with the seasons.

“People ask, ‘Is your bread as good as this person’s bread?’ I’d say you’d have to eat our bread 10 days in a row – winter, spring, summer, autumn – and then do that at every other bakery. Because every loaf is not going to be perfect every day. The temperature is different every day, the flour is different every day. Also, we all have different opinions – I like it to be really dark, and the crust to be a bit too thick. My wife prefers it a bit lighter and crispy. So what’s perfect for me and perfect for you is completely different. And I think that’s what makes it so unique – that we have customers coming in and saying they want the slightly darker one.”

As the world becomes increasingly overrun by AI – spreading its bland canvas in the pursuit of singularity, perfection, uniformity – these qualities are surely going to become increasingly desirable: the hand of the maker, the imperfectly perfect. And so too will the spaces like Rosemead Artisan Bakery, where you’ll find community. Connection. And good conversation.

“We’re here to make people happy. People must feel relieved when they come here.”

It’s easy to believe.

“We’ve got ten minutes to kill. Would you like a croissant and a coffee?”

It’s an easy yes. And soon, a thing of beauty is placed in front of you – burnished and buttery, still warm from the oven.

“Nothing better than that right?”

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Words by Georgina Selander
Images by JDee Allin

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Rich in pattern and texture, the Whalebone Throw adds bold accent to your interior styling – making it as much of a decorative piece as a functional one.

A versatile, companion for all seasons. 

Woven with 100% cotton, the Whalebone Throw is more than just a blanket—it’s an all-season essential. Soft to the touch, lightweight yet cosy, this throw offers the perfect balance of comfort and practicality. Whether you’re layering it on cooler nights or adding extra warmth in the winter, its breathable design makes it the ideal companion year-round.

Striking in pattern and rich in texture, it effortlessly doubles as a statement piece, adding bold accents to your living space. Easy to care for, The Whalebone Throw will maintain its softness and colour brilliance over time, offering luxurious comfort for everyday use.

A Fresh Take on A Classic

Every design has a story, and the Whalebone Throw is no exception. “The Bakuba Throw has been a staple in our collection for years,” explains designer Ray Cele. It has that soft, breathable handle of pure cotton, with a really beautiful zig-zag design. With the Whalebone, we wanted to take that classic feel and give it a contemporary twist.”

Inspired by the idea of creating something bold yet refined, our design team set out to craft a throw that felt both timeless and fresh. “We played with textures and patterns to bring a more modern aesthetic into the fold, without losing the familiar softness and quality that people love about our throws.”

It’s All in the Details

It’s the small details that make the Whalebone Throw truly stand out. The multi-directional weave, featuring an intricate combination of twill and plain weave patterns, creates a striking visual effect. “The design almost has a 3D appearance,” Cele explains. “The recurring diamond motif is enhanced by raised ribs, adding dimension and texture. What you get is this very visual, undulating pattern. When you look at it up close you can really see all the little intricate details.”

First Tests to Finished Cloth

“After the first prototypes came out, it was clear that something was missing – it needed a finished touch. So we started experimenting with borders, adjusting the draft—essentially how the pattern is set up on the loom.”

What followed was a series of tests, tweaking the weave structure to strike the perfect balance between design, softness, and durability. “It took time to get it just right, but the final product is something quite special.”

Now available in Copper, Palm, Taupe, and Papaya. Shop online or in our stores across Cape Town, Joburg, Stellenbosch and Plettenberg Bay.

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As an independent weaving mill, not swayed by seasonal trends or outside demands, we have licence to play. To create one-of-a-kind products that align our design to innovate, with a commitment to quality craftsmanship.

At the Mungo Mill, we have 18 looms. A mix of antique shuttle-operated looms, and more mid-century rapier machines. Each of which have unique characteristics and charms. Under one roof, we’re able to oversee the full production line – from design, right through to warping, weaving, CMT, finishing, dispatch and retail. This gives us control over the full process. And endless room for experimentation. And it inevitably allows for flexibility to play with new designs, weave constructions and colour combinations – creating samples that are passed from hand to hand, and taken home to test, until we are satisfied that the finished product is ‘just right’.

Our designs come together through a combination of generations of passed-down skill, and creative flair. Our Master Weaver and founder, Stuart Holding, has over 50 years of experience working with textiles – beginning with an apprenticeship in the Yorkshire silk mills at age 15 that cultivated a lifelong passion for cloth.

One of our earliest double cloth samples dates back to 2010, when Stuart wove a 100% cotton double cloth kikoi on our Ruti shuttle looms. According to our designer, Lenore, the ‘Plett Kikoi’ had been floating around for many years. “It was quite a simple double cloth – it didn’t have stripes in the front or back – but the weight was interesting, and that fed the inspiration.”

For our Double Cloth throw, the first tests were done on our antique Lancashire looms – playing with the construction to determine the best weight and weave construction.

“The warp construction for the double cloth is very time-consuming, so using the Lancashire is a much quicker set-up – making it easier for us to get an idea of the design. Once we were happy, we transferred it over to the dobby looms (our Dornier machines) to get the full width of the throw.

But product development inevitably involves iterations. And the Double Cloth was no exception.

“The first cloth off the loom was stiff, and didn’t have much volume. We’d first tried a plain weave – but once we switched over to a 2/2 twill, which has more floats, the cloth took on a lovely lofty feel. The 2/2 added a kind of dimension to the design, and this is what gives the throw an almost wool-like texture and warmth.”

“The lags were also an interesting part of the story. In the sampling process, we used lags for the pick plan. Much like the pattern card, the lags transfer the design scheme onto the loom. For the Double Cloth, the lag chain was over 4 metres long – the longest we’d ever created!”

“The finished product came together beautifully. The magic of this throw is that you have double the amount of threads, so it has a really nice weight to it. And then of course it’s reversible – two distinct fabrics stitched together, giving you different designs on either side. So you can flip the blanket over, depending on the season – or your mood!

And the palette? Our designer of course must speak to that.

“We experimented with natural, earthy tones. The Karoo colourway is full of rusts, browns, oranges and grey. It speaks to that arid, yet strikingly beautiful landscape so distinct to this region. And then the Camdeboo – named after a nature reserve in the Eastern Cape where you’ll find the Valley of Desolation. There’s something about those mountains, which cast blue shadows in the early mornings and late afternoons – that’s what we captured in the Camdeboo.”

Karoo

Camdeboo

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Amy Ayanda is a Cape Town based multi-disciplinary artist and musician. We recently collaborated with her to produce an original artwork for our Joburg store at 44 Stanley. The piece is inspired by our richly coloured Wild Fire Double Cloth, a reversible, 100% cotton throw. We sat down with Amy to talk about process, palette, her journey into motherhood, and the importance of slowing down.

“I’m having a love affair with blue.”

Amy is standing in front of an easel in her Mowbray studio. Behind her is a large floral scape. There’s the distinctive yellow. Warm browns. Swirls of rich blue. It’s a piece that seemingly captures the point at which she finds herself now, artistically.

“There are styles that I have become known for – like the landscapes and the florals. But last year I went through a phase of covering everything in blue. I think it was a sense of needing time to pause.”

Amy’s relationship with colour reflects her evolving process and, lately, the necessity of slowing down. It’s about breaking free from static visions of yourself. The breathing room that comes with change. And the freedom to reiterate and to reimagine.

“My final show at art school was quite conceptual. I’d done large landscapes, oil paintings, and layered work with mixed media and dried flowers. I was producing art that people loved, but couldn’t afford. When I stepped out of that, I didn’t really know what kind of art I made, and I had to figure that out. There wasn’t that application of the marketing side of things, and I felt a bit confused about who I was producing my work for and why.”

But something shifted quite soon thereafter. Around 2017, when Amy’s first child, Frances, was a year old, a kind of fearlessness took root. A vanguard, stick-it-to-the-man spirit that would bring life to the emerging Amy Ayanda brand.

“At the time, I was waitressing for 7 or 8 hours a day, and still breastfeeding. Pumping in the bathrooms and walking away from my shift with R300 a night. And then I just decided, I’m going to spend that time in the studio and, as a joke, sell my paintings for R300 each. I started making small-scale pieces, painting on paper. I would paint every single night. When my partner, Dean, came home from work, he would take over with Frances, and I’d make as much as possible. I’d photograph it, and sell it on Instagram. I made so much money that first month that I decided to quit waitressing. That changed my life.

It was such a cool period. Frances and I had so much one on one time. We’d walk in the forest, and have beautiful, connecting time. And then at night I’d go into my studio at the bottom of the house and just work – sometimes until 11pm – but it was exciting.”

From there – through an intense period of self-practice and late night studio sessions – Amy began to develop her characteristic style. Refining the Fine Art education she’d received at Michaelis to cultivate a more intuitive artistic voice.

“I think the trick was actually not being so precious about it. I stopped holding on to what I thought something should look like, and went for whatever was coming out of me at the time. I went through the motions of thinking, ‘What does the consumer want?’ But each day I went back into the studio, and worked on making it more and more my own. Over time I developed this style of repetitive mark making, and found I enjoyed working with certain colours.”

This continued for a few years, as Amy established a successful business with a body of work that took inspiration from local landscapes, fynbos and flora, and colour. But after the burnout she experienced post-COVID, and the birth of her twins, she recognised the need to slow down, and to take a more considered approach to her work.

“Back then I had this drive in me that was quite intense. It enabled me to build my brand, but it also wasn’t sustainable. I was still doing things at the pace before I’d even become pregnant with the twins. So recently it’s been about making changes to value myself, and my work. I needed fresh colour. Even looking at my brushstrokes – they were very tight, and controlled. But over this year of slowing down, everything is just looser and freer.

I still paint flowers, landscapes, and images of people holding one another. But they’re a little bit more abstract – not necessarily the mother-child connection, because I think that connection isn’t restricted to having birthed someone. And my views on the ideal way that mothers should mother, or breastfeed, are out the window. My first birth with Frances was very natural and all went according to plan. But my twin birth was 7 weeks early, and I couldn’t breastfeed. That almost spiritual way that you believe mothering or birthing takes place isn’t the same for everyone. That also helped me become a better mom. And so birth then became a big part of the images I made.”

Slowing down has allowed her to be more intentional about her craft. Although the frenzied online sale culture of COVID made her work widely accessible, she’s creating room for more one-on-one connections and collaborations. And finding joy in smaller moments.

“I really love walking. I’ll go to Newlands or Rondebosch, or the Pipe Track if I’m feeling brave. Painting also brings me back into a state of meditation – it’s like a diary entry. I’m soaking it all in. I’m grateful that I can just be with the kids and be a bit more quiet and observe more, because I think there’s a lot to gain in observing.”

In many ways, Amy’s journey as an artist has come full circle. She now lives and works in her childhood home in Mowbray – a place that provided a safe container for her early creative expression. A place that continues to fuel her connection to memory, and to motherhood.

“My studio is my old lounge, where my dad used to sit and listen to his radio. There’s a fireplace here, and it was always a very warm space. When there were thunderstorms, my sister and I used to move our mattresses in, and open the curtains. The fire would be going, and we’d watch the thunder and lightning through the window. That memory is quite a special one, and sometimes when I’m in my studio, or when Frances walks in, I think of that.

We moved back in in 2021, when my twins were 9 months old. I was the youngest of 3, and now I have 3 children. And my child goes to the same school that I went to, across the road. So it feels like quite a 360 for me. A beautiful in-sync, flowy line of time that’s come back together. Sometimes it’s scary, because being a parent is scary, but I have this sense of knowing, because home is a safe place.”

Seeing Amy now, a grown artist, and mother of 3, begs the question: what was she like as a child?

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been painting and drawing, and making up stories in my mind. I always wanted to redecorate my bedroom. I would focus on it, and it would become my whole life for a weekend. I’d even save up money to buy paint tubs and redo the walls. My room was a different colour so many times. So I always had that energy to change things up, and go for it. My parents were incredibly supportive. They didn’t think any idea was too big. When there was passion around it, we were always supported.”

This connection to home and to memory is something that Amy brings to her work. Her piece for Mungo incorporates the colours of the Wild Fire Double Cloth, and marries her earlier styles with where she finds herself now: the vivid pinks with the cooler blue tones, and the familiar fast-paced mark making with softer strokes.

“I really love this landscape. And I think both art and cloth speak to each other – to calm, sensory home environments. With weaving and with art, there’s story behind it, and process. And the fact that it’s local – there’s nothing cooler than that. We’ve got so many amazing talents here. Why look anywhere else?”

Reflecting on Amy’s course, there is a lot to be proud of. There are hallmarks of courage, and persistence. To produce a significant body of work, pursue paths in both art and music, build a brand, and raise three children… It is no wonder that she is frequently asked, ‘how do you do it?’

“I’ve learned to be quite fearless. A lot of this has taken a lot of grit. Selling art is incredibly difficult. Marketing it is incredibly difficult. But I’ve been quite fearless in the way I’ve jumped into things. I like the idea of building community, and making people feel like they can do something – that they can take a chance, because it’s definitely possible. You don’t need a ton of money. You just need to be brave.”

Find Amy Ayanda’s artwork for Mungo in our Joburg retail store at 44 Stanley, Milpark.

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In conversation with David Plenderleith and Florian Baumann, the hands behind Très Nagual – an all-natural, holistic perfumery based in Cape Point. From their unassuming home base between the aloes, across from Scarborough’s iconic Scone Shack, you’ll find the pair producing small-batch, consciously crafted soaps and scents.

Find their custom-made liquid hand soaps now in our stores.

“Smell this”

The door is open to the sun. There are aloes and a purple-grey mountain. It is late afternoon, the in-between stage when the air settles into stillness. In a place where time seems to have slowed down.

David picks up a bottle of scent. He sprays the air. The fine mist catches the slow light. And instantly the room is redolent with a rich perfume. The kind that makes you close your eyes. Take a breath.

“Dry incense.”

Holy basil. Immortelle. Sandalwood.

“It’s like earth.”

There’s something about scent that shifts the energy in the room now. A softening. An opening. An ease. This is play. This is letting go. This is how friends are made.

“Scent is such a delicate perceptual door. It is much more subliminal, almost subconscious, in the way the messages come through. It can captivate. It can entice. It can shun. It holds this etheric feeling, because you can’t really see it. Present, and then fleeting. On a molecular level, natural scent is free to move. And the moment someone thinks they understand scent, it changes.”

“Shapeshifting?”

“Shapeshifting, in a way. But yet it’s formless. So there’s no form to shift.”

People amble into the shop. We fall quiet and watch. The easing, the opening, is happening for others too.

“Shifts happen within a realm of feeling. I’ve seen it so many times. Someone may enter the space, hunched, or not happy. Tense. After some time with Florian, they come out lighter and lifted. In some ways it’s the product speaking. But it’s also the transmission that happens. And for our work to uplift, that is essentially the way that aromatherapy works in healing the mind, body and emotions. But we’re doing it in a more contemporary way – rather than in treatment rooms behind closed doors, we want to make it accessible. Scent becomes an ambience that is created.”

It’s quite easy to see now. This is a place of feeling. Of learning. And perhaps unlearning too. This is experience, more than retail. In fact, the very idea that something is being sold here seems to slip away. What’s taking place is much more. The undoing, the connecting, the softening. One could easily be swept through the open doors on a yellow breeze, and casually stay forever.

“What surprises you the most about what happens here?”

“What surprises me is that people come,” says Florian. “And that is such a pleasure. It is a journey. Plants, and their essences, their memories, their function – they become your own. I like to see the bigger picture, and to take more into account than just the perfume. To look at the ‘why, how, when, and for what reason’? And I like to ask people, ‘How is your mother?’

Perhaps this says it all. The point of connection. The intimacy that can be created between strangers that soon become friends.

We are standing outside now, looking in. A girl comes to the door. She’s ridden her bicycle here. Her name is Fran. She greets Florian warmly and goes in. A new scent journey is about to begin.

“Another surprise is that whenever I am cutting soap I get a lot of people crowded around me, and they say, ‘Oh, that’s amazing! Is that a big bar of soap? I never thought that’s how it’s made.’”

But of course. So little process happens in plain sight. The same recognition that happens here, happens in the Mungo Mill. Faces turn in wonder. Shifts happen. Thoughts tick in time with the looms.

“Flo’s background is in biology,” David tells me. “He holds a scientific approach to formulation. He also trained as a chef at Silwood in Cape Town. So there’s that unique combination of gastronomy, textures, taste and smell, with the understanding of plants and their function. I would say the dance with us is that every product has both our hands. Florian brings a sense of compassionate craftsmanship; logic and thoroughness. I feel we really inspire each other and lead each other to new places of expression in the way that we co-create. We work to our strengths, and allow a space for the other to step into.”

We move inside. Now we are standing before a lineage of scents. Different batches of ‘Nefertūm.’ There are notes of lime, Amyris and blue lotus. Subtle variances in each.

“Try this one, Fran. The new batch.”

“What is interesting is that the new Nefertum lasts so long,” she says. “It’s so good. I sprayed it the other day, then I went for a bath and when I woke up I still had this scent – it was still there but it had changed. The batch that I get from your town shop is amazing. It has more of a floral base.”

We’re on to something here. The threads draw closer together. It’s about the nature of change. The changes in nature. It’s a reminder of the perfectly imperfect natural rhythms we should rest in.

“If I follow the cycles, some batches are very different from the others. The immortelle, for example, that grows out at Hemel-en-Aarde, is always different. The last batch is from a new field. The previous batch from a 3-year-old field. And so the oil is very different. But then I explain to the customers that this is the natural world, and it should be so. Once that is communicated, it actually becomes a quality unsurpassed.”

The understanding of seasonal shifts. The awareness of change. The sense of harmony. It’s a refreshing exhale in a world where uniformity has become the standard. A world obsessed with an illusion of perfection. David and Florian are small-batch, craft producers. Much like we are. They understand cycles and variances and the importance of flow. Of the mark of the maker. The mark of the material.

Another scent is introduced.

“What do you see?”

“It’s the forest.”

“Another layer to Florian is his understanding of the mind. The mechanisms of thinking. He formulates, creating an image, and then builds a scent from that place.”

“It’s wet, like the forest. Like moss, and deep, rich greens. And ferns.”

“Your words, they give me inspiration. Because now I see that I have permission to go deeper into the underground and maybe make it a little more soily too. Because you seem comfortable there, you see? So now I have direction for my next batch. That’s how seasons happen, how cycles come about. And that is my greatest freedom. So the next time you come, I’ll say, ‘Smell this – now it’s like wet terracotta.”

“This is one of my favourites,” says David, picking up Savon à Barbe. It’s a play of organic tea tree from Zimbabwe, Pure Bergamot, Virginian Cedarwood, lots of Patchouli and a touch of Sandalwood. It’s very clean – there’s a lightness. I get an image of a day at the beach – being sun kissed and salty. A little bit of suncream.”

“White shells.”

“Mmmm.”

“An aspect of the work is in living in receptivity to not only our needs, or nature’s, but someone else’s. That takes it up to their depth – from their perspective. It’s listening, in the way we formulate.”

More people come, and go, and play. Apprehensive, reserved at first. And then the lessening. The loosening. The easing into peace. The quiet healing.

“Matching scent to personality is another layer of experience. Flo has become very good at this – reading people and matching them to a scent. Perhaps something on the playful side; fruity and floral. Or we might talk about the intention of the scent, and see if that is an energy they want to step into.”

It is the closing of the light now. Three hours have passed quietly. The mountain grows its purple shadow.

“There are mornings here where the aloes are full of dew. They look like the cosmos is resting inside of them. Luminous. And that energy, that vitality, that bit of freshness that doesn’t get tiring. That’s uplifting, and happy, and very medicinal – that is Hildegard. For me Hildegard’s image is like the first light of a new day.”

And what a perfect end. As the light of this one closes. It’s in the art of looking, isn’t it?

“There is that growing sense of consciousness. People are awakening to it. Becoming conscious of your surroundings, of your actions, of your feelings. There’s the practical side – turning around the bottle, looking at the label. Thinking about what I put on my skin, the cloth I use. They say that where attention goes, energy flows. What you look at, what you seek, is seeking you.”

A last look at that wise mountain. The glowing aloes. The magic is complete.

Find Très Nagual at their stores in Cape Point and Gardens. 

Or pay a visit to one of our stores in Cape Town, Joburg or Plettenberg Bay, South Africa to discover one of their unique liquid hand soaps, custom made for Mungo using all-natural botanicals. 

 

“Such is my love, that I made him a syrup.”

We’d been on a hike in Newlands Forest. There was a coffee truck parked at the bottom of the hill. “The young kids ask for flavoured syrup,” the barrister had said. We come home. I’m standing in an emerald green kitchen. Doors open to a courtyard where a wall of basil is growing abundantly. Karen is preparing possibly the most luxurious thing I’ve ever eaten. A cardamom bun. Now being toasted to heavenly scented perfection. With a knife she works the cold butter (salted only). And then her son enters the kitchen. She tells him about the coffee stand in the forest. The barrister’s remark. “Oh really? He asks. “I made him one, you know? A syrup.” Her voice sounds like a wink.

It is 11:30 and I am laughing now. Laughing because it is not even noon and somehow I have had the profuse luck of being served three breakfasts by Karen Dudley. This has all happened spontaneously. I lucked in when I found out she needed a ride from the car service station while we were drinking our forest coffees the day before. She had a gap. I took it. Sliding through her front door, sneaking through a winding edible garden, and into her home. Speaking of.

“This is Willy Wonka’s paradise of the eclectic,” I tell her, placing my things on her kitchen countertop, eyes on stalks. There is a large mural of geese in front of me. A taxidermied peacock next to the fridge. And shelves laden with all manner of crockery – gravy boats, egg cups, milk jugs, and a mug for whatever mood you might find yourself in (the Mad Hatter would keel over). And a pink wall. “Everybody looks good against that wall,” she says.

“In another life would you be incarnated as an interior designer?” The words are instantly redundant. “Oh yes. “I’d like to think I’d be an interior designer just like I am as a chef. In the same way I help people to find their food identity, I’d want them to find their own sense of expression – through the pictures that they choose and the things that make them happy.”

“You know what I think it is?” Now she’s getting the coffee machine going. It’s very noisy but in a good way; this isn’t your run of the mill brew. And the conversation between sips will be good. “I think that life is too short to not be with the things that make you happy, and that are beautiful. I find it’s one of those things that people think they need permission for. They’re like, ‘Can I really try that? What if it doesn’t look like this person’s house?’ No. When you acknowledge what makes you happy, it all works together. Style is about knowing what you love.”

The coffee grinder continues to shout at us.
“You know what I do have? A bun.”
Now she is rustling in her freezer. I’m watching. So is the peacock. And I have this kind of tingly feeling. Something is happening here. The Karen Dudley thing is happening.
“Let me put these cardamom buns in the airfryer.” Soon the kitchen fills with a sweet, spicy scent.
“Did you get those from The Local Baker at the OZCF market?”
“Yes, on Saturday. You must go in the morning. Here. Have some of this while you wait.”
She presents me with a plate of green melon. It’s cold and sweet. It needs no dressing up. And it reminds me of a conversation we’d had the day before.
“One thing must sing.”
We were walking uphill and I was a little out of breath. The forest cracked open into a gravelly path. I thought about my notebook in the car. Instead, I mentally banked this perfectly formed pearl. She was wearing a silky red neck scarf and I thought, ‘I could never.’

I’m beginning to see it in action. Looking at this cold melon on a china blue plate. Karen’s food language does just this. In the way she heroes the simple ingredient. The everyday vegetable. She’s the champion of the humble broccoli stem. Transforming dishes not by overdoing them – by giving them voice. “You must go deep into what the thing was always meant to be, and wanted to be.” I know this melon wants to be eaten by me.

So I need to know. Where does this come from? Who is Karen Dudley?

“It began when I realised that if you make a warm loaf of bread and you serve it with cold slabs of butter that you would always have friends. I realised that I had some kind of skill in taking people somewhere with food – on a journey. And although I haven’t been to cooking school, that actually gave me a kind of freedom. I wasn’t tethered to anybody’s expectations. I also always had a huge genuine curiosity and interest in anything that was different, anything unusual – a new texture, a new flavour.”

The smell of cardamom is now dizzying.
“I’m going open the Langbaken cheese.”

“I’d been working in Washington DC with a chef who’d trained at the Culinary Institute of America.”
“So the lesser known CIA?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
She pierces a knife into the corner of the cheese wrapper.
“He’d taken me under his wing and kind of baptised me. He’d say, “The President of Uganda is coming for lunch. We’re going to poach this salmon now.” And then he’d say, “Goodbye!” and I’d have to figure out how that was going to go. So I reached into my memory of all the things my mother was trying to teach me years back.

I combined what I was learning there, and came back to South Africa. I ran a little stream here for a while, persuading the YMCA, who had a large property in Constantia, that they needed a retreat. At that time we were a brand new country – it was ‘94, ‘95 – and there was this need for people to come together around a table. So I began to cook, with the idea to create a space where people could meet and connect.

Then one day a friend called me and asked me to come and help for the season in London – for all the schmancy people who collect their food on the King’s Road and go to the country. I stayed for two and half years, free as a bird. Beholden to no one. Cooking with everything that was presented to me. People were just coming out of Tikka Chicken and Coronation Chicken and a little bit of salad. And there I kind of registered, ‘Oh I can do the catering thing,’ realising that we didn’t have much of this going on in South Africa.

I came back and was doing people’s rugby boxes and 80th birthdays and their 21sts… My business was growing, and people were starting to understand that such freshness and deliciousness was possible. We were working from my kitchen, but soon realised we needed to find our place. We found a burnt out old fish shop on Woodstock Main Road. It was completely grody but perfect. And then we started up a stall at the Neighbourgoods Market, realising that we could do retail.”

This is my first memory of Karen. Iconic curls. The best dangly earrings on the block. Signature silver bangles and an energy, and a laugh, that was magnetic. Making ‘Love Sandwiches’. A name that needs no explaining. 17 years later and my mouth still waters, thinking about the sight of large bowls of pesto and honey mustard sausages and slabs of creamy white Danish feta. I’d take the pocket money from working at my mother’s cheese stand and ask for a panini with all the best bits.

“We had the shop in Woodstock. We thought no one would walk past the window and want to buy salad and beef fillet and sliced chicken. But before we’d even opened people were going, ‘What is this place?’ And suddenly I needed five staff to serve in the day and there were queues outside. People embraced our food. They embraced our vibe, and the fun. It was really quite magical. And it stayed like that for 11 years.”

The coffee is ready. The buns come out of the airfryer. They’re toasted and crispy on top. Karen works some cold butter on the plate. It’s the simplest thing really. Bread. Butter. But somehow it alchemizes into something more.

Somewhere in this genesis story, there’s mention of her mother. So I want to know: is the cult of deliciousness hereditary?

“My mom was a very good cook. Of just kind of ordinary things. But my parents travelled quite a bit in the 70s, which is quite unusual for coloured folks. But everytime they came back, they came with new ideas, which totally inspired and kind of enlightened us. And so we learnt that there could be white garbage collectors, and that people of different colours could be together. And about paella. With my folks there was very much an acknowledgement of deliciousness. Whether that meant hot rolls out of the bakery on a Sunday or slap chips from the right place. It was more about pursuing what was delicious and simple, as opposed to very pretentious, or what you think is supposed to be good.”

Which makes me think about this weird transition that happens – somewhere in your late 20s or 30s – where you’re suddenly supposed to prefer dark chocolate. Milk chocolate becomes unsophisticated. Pedestrian.

What she’s learnt – this concept of deliciousness – runs deep. Unadulterated. And so does the sense of family. I notice the large dining room table. Laid with a homely sort of cloth. I wonder what meals are being had around that table. I fantasise about being invited in (or locking myself in her pantry until dinnertime). “What are you eating here?” I ask, biting into the bun at last. Cracking off a piece of salty cheese.

“Supper is usually a layered one. My family likes a starch, so often it starts with a roast potato. One that’s either boiled or microwaved, and then smooshed and put in the airfryer so that it’s all crispy. And then we layer vegetables on top. You have some dressing at the bottom, some potatoes, some fine beans, some fried up brussel sprouts. We don’t eat a lot of meat. And when we do, we eat just a little. The night before we roasted eggplant with tahini ranch and tomato smoor and crispy onions. That’s kind of typical.”

I love how this is her’ typical’. I think of the years of unseasoned spag bol served up in my own home.

“Sadly nothing traditional like lasagna.”
“Oh why? That’s so boring.”
“It’s not that it’s boring; it’s sooo delicious. But there are too many stages. It’s too much love. I love lasagna but somebody else must make it.”

Karen’s dinner table scene seems to conjure up something emotional in her. Her eyes are shining.

“I speak about this in my new book, Onwards. A lot of the story is about me coming home. I would spend my days, and all my creativity energy, making food for strangers and a few friends. I poured all of this energy on people I didn’t know. And then I began transferring all of this loving attention, this creative energy, to my family. It was a most humble and beautiful thing to me.”

“Hang on. I have something else.”
She digs around in a drawer behind the counter. Now the toaster is going on.
“I only have white bread. How embarrassing.”
“Oh no, Karen, why not a sourdough?” I tease.
“Come with me.”
We go to yet another fridge. She takes out a large jar. You need to try this.”
It’s an orange-red-white concoction. I know exactly what this is.
The toast is popped. She butters it. Delicately layers some of the pickled cabbage on top. Slices it in four and hands it over.
“Here.”
The crunch of the toast. The tangy topping.
I’ve lived in South Korea. I’ve eaten more kimchi than most Saffers. I’m a snob, I admit. But this… This is eye-rolling-ly good.
“I put a Table Mountain stone in the jar.”
“Noted. The recipe calls for one Table Mountain stone.”
Ottolenghi might have his za’atar or rose harissa, but Karen Dudley has her Table Mountain stone.
“You know what? The humble government bread is actually perfect. It doesn’t overpower. It heroes the kimchi.”

I tell her about the years I spent living in South Korea. And how food – like this piece of toast – transforms and transports you. “It’s the ultimate nostalgia. A smell, a flavour – it instantly takes you back to a time or a place.”

“It’s so interesting that you say that, because food has this way of becoming an articulate of culture. How people clutch things to their bosoms – those memories and those evocations that become part of the fabric of culture; of the way we live and choose to live. Similarly, you have a Mungo towel that you may be lucky enough to have for 20 or more years. And that fabric, that feel, becomes part of the culture of your life. Becomes part of the culture of your family.”

“One more.”
Another toast goes in. Another jar is plucked from the pantry.
“Try this.” She turns my palm over, pouring out an hourglass trickle of sesame seeds. Gomashio. Sesame seeds and salt.
She comes back to the counter. Swipes the toast with butter. Deftly places a few small boat-shaped lettuce leaves on top.
“The other thing that people always underestimate is how generous plants are with us. In that they create opportunities to catch flavour. Look at these leaves. Pockets of opportunity, I call it.”
She plucks a few sprigs of dill. A crack of salt
“Here my friend. Have a try of that.”
Lush. Of course it is.

“I think my thing is to kind of reach for what is truly delicious. And then bring it into the world to share. And to present it in a way that feels free and accessible, but also beautiful. It’s not a fusion. It’s about how flavours sit beside each other and make each other happy.”

Yip. Yip. The fact that I’ve been called her friend makes me feel part of a secret club.

“Some chefs are very caught up in their recipes and in their techniques. I’m more interested in the ones caught up in flavour – which is a very sensuous thing. The ones going for the jugular.”

I can’t waste any of it. Now I’m mopping up the fallen sesame seeds with my fingers.
“You see? I’m leaving my DNA here. So that I can be buried with your basil.”

Life would be immeasurably more pleasurable if I could eat like this all the time.
“How can the home cook up their everyday dinner game?” I ask for myself. For anyone reading whose mouth is watering.

“Don’t underestimate the importance of a dressing. A dressing or a sauce can really pull things together at the last minute, and save you from boredom and monotony. You have a plate of broccoli? Sauce. Piece of fish? Nước chấm. And then the other thing that is so worth exploring is a crunchy topping. Like seasoned bread crumbs sprinkled on a pasta – pangrattato, they call it. Or coconut flakes and mint to make a gremolata. It totally elevates the game.

Watching her put this together, I’m reminded of how creativity can’t be constrained to the canvas. Or to the kitchen. Looking around, listening to her speak, I’m reminded that all of it is a creative act. Your life is your work of art.

“Every minute the energy is flowing. From every minute new is created, and new is created, and new is created. We’re in perpetual creation, you know?”

I nod. Take another bite.

“Do you want some pomegranate with that?” She sprinkles a few of the ruby gems on my toast.

“You know what? I’m going to crush this pomegranate aril into my notebook. A memory of love.”

Cooking is just that for Karen. An act of love. Whether it’s around the dinner table, or for the lucky guests who are welcomed into the warmth of her kitchen. Who join her for a cup of coffee or a walk in the forest. She can’t even seem to help it. It flows out of her, much the same way as everything else. A natural extension of the inside out.

If you’d like to feel it too, listen to her podcast – Toast.

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Read next: In the Studio | A Conversation with Textile Designer, Lucie Panis-Jones

A bird’s eye view of Poortjies lagoon in Plettenberg Bay mid-March would have afforded an interesting sight. Starfish bodies, floating on the water’s surface. Each connected at the centre, and slowly drawn down the line of the beach by a guide, donned in bright blue. You’d spot the telltale sign of a snorkel. A small face, coming up for air. A peal of laughter carried on the wind, rippling across the slow-moving tide.

At the end of 2023, we hosted our third annual Mungo Swim Club. A five-day challenge with the shared goal to reconnect, revive and raise funds for a worthy cause. We held clubs across Cape Town, Knysna and Plettenberg Bay, asking swimmers to join us for a consecutive series of early morning dips. We encouraged swimmers to extend their good will, by each donating towards I AM WATER to secure their spot. And in the end we rewarded each who saw it through – rain, wind or shine – with a custom Mungo Swim Club towel.

665 of you participated. Driven by a collective sense of good feeling – and perhaps the shared self-possession that you never regret a swim.

Through this we were able to raise over R100,000 for I AM WATER. A contribution supporting their incredible and vital work – one that tackles ocean conservation and issues of accessibility, by offering transformative water experiences for youths in under-resourced communities.

“IAW has helped me overcome my fear of not being able to swim, and helped me bridge the gap between my community and the ocean, making conservation accessible to those who, like me, yearn to be part of something greater. Now, as I teach the next generation about their connection to the oceans, I see the same spark of wonder in their eyes that I felt. It’s a reminder that no matter where we come from, the ocean is a part of us all, and it’s our duty to protect it.”

– Marlin van Sensie, IAW coach.

It was a pleasure to see the funds materialising into action, with the IAW team visiting the Garden Route to host a 2-day Ocean Guardians Workshop. The event began with a talk at the Crags Primary School, where IAW staff brought home the need to protect our oceans, against the real and present threats of overfishing, pollution, and habitat destruction. The enthusiastic and engaged responses from the students were a testament to the passion of the IAW team.

Then the Ocean Guardians Workshop was underway. Day 1 unfolded at Poortjies Lagoon in Plettenberg Bay, with a programme that included mindfulness and breathwork activities, educational presentations, nature walks and beach clean ups, explorations of the shore and team work activities, before getting into gear – wetsuits, masks and snorkels donned for the first dip. Guided by the team, the students were put at ease in the water, mastering their new gear before exploring the world of wonder below. Lunch on the beach followed, with an opportunity to share feedback and reflect on the day’s learnings.

“Hosting the Ocean Guardians Workshop in Plettenberg Bay and Knysna was a first-time endeavour for us… but the serene beauty of these locations offered a refreshing change of scenery, with new marine life to discover. The estuary and lagoon ecosystems presented a distinctive environment, teeming with seagrass, sea hares, hermit crabs, and nudibranchs.”

Day 2 saw the students building on their confidence from the previous day, with a trip to the Knysna Lagoon. Exploration of the rocky shores revealed an abundance of sea treasures – gem-toned anemones, starfish and even a shy octopus, before a dip into deeper waters of the Knysna Lagoon.

The afternoon ended off with a certificate ceremony, bringing home the students’ newfound roles as future ocean guardians.

“The most fulfilling aspect of conducting these workshops is witnessing the joy reflected in the students’ smiles at the conclusion of each session, helping them overcome their fears regarding the oceanic environment and its organisms. It’s a testament to the effort invested in educating, mentoring, and nurturing the upcoming generation. By equipping them with the necessary knowledge and skills I hope to inspire them to become stewards… perpetuating a legacy of ocean conservation.”

To mark the event, we presented each student with a Mungo Scout Towel, a sea-spired kids towel woven with 100% organic cotton, and designed with the next generation of in mind.

A towel we like to say was designed for the sea swimmers, oceanographers, avid explorers… for the rockpool-finders, sandcastle builders and first-time snorkellers of the future…

Looking around at the faces, and hearing the feedback at close of day, drove it all home.
The importance of hopefulness. The power of possibility. The value of inspired collective action.
What a pleasure it has been to work with this incredible team.
Here’s to Swim Club 2024.

 

Want to get involved? Sign up to our mailing list to join one of our upcoming Swim Clubs.

IAW was founded by South African freediver and ocean conservationist, Hanli Prinsloo. Read our conversation with her, The Art of Being Optimistic, next on our blog.

Family rituals with Mungo.

Simple joys. Shared moments.
Warm light and cozy linens.

A short video.

Summer series:

Family Gathering | Linen Love | Holiday Reminiscing

Read more about our linen:

The lineage of our linen.

Ending off the year on a high with our Swim Club finale.

This December, 655 early morning swimmers dove into the sea, across 6 clubs in Cape Town, Plettenberg Bay, and Knysna. Together, we’ve raised over R100,000. All the proceeds will be donated to the I AM WATER foundation, a registered NPO committed to using environmental education to ignite the passion for conservation in the next generation. We celebrated this accomplishment by awarding every participant with a custom woven Mungo towel.

Read more about our previous Swim Clubs, and how it all began, here.

“You never regret a swim.”
A friend once told you this. You were hiking in a forest and the trees broke open into a quiet stream.
“Wanna get in?”
“Sure.”
The water was cool and dark. Little beams of sunlight cracked their way between the leaves.

You’ve remembered this. Put it in your pocket like a personal mission statement.
Yes.
You’re the kind of girl that always says yes to a swim.
So then,
Surely,
You could never say no to the Mungo Swim Club.
But.
It’s early.
And you live in Plett and you’re used to rolling out of bed at 8am.
But.
You’re true to your word,
If anything.

So you get up early.
Resist the alarm clock at first, but then kick your legs off the bed and wipe your eyes
And when you’re up
And in the car
And on your way
You’re in it –
There’s no going back.

You get to the beach.
You’re still half asleep and the water looks pretty cold.
You dip a toe in and confirm: freezing.
But there’s a big group of people around you that are here too.
And you’re in it together.
You’ve made this commitment to yourself.
And to them, in a way.
A silent pact.

And once your head’s beneath the waves
Something happens
Especially if you linger a little
To let the water seep into your bones
And behind your toes
And wash away the mental cobwebs.
And then you get out.
And chat to the person next to you.
You find out they live just up the road
Or like the same secret coffee spot as you
Or drove here with their dog.

Maybe by the end of the five days
You’ve learnt these people’s names
Or said
“Hey, are you getting a coffee at that secret spot? Cool, I am too.”

And for the rest of the day
The smell of the sea salt lingered on your skin
Or in your hair.
You had that little shiver of cold water about you
And you carried around with you a secret smile –
That you’d seen the dawn
You’d danced beneath the sea
You’d felt a little more connected
To something,
Somehow
To the water
Or the waves
Or perhaps
Just
Yourself.

A special shout-out to our dedicated ambassadors who were there every morning to register your swims. Thank you @lilla_ae, @sunnyshelbs, @coldwatersocialclub, @chloewallacejewellery, @conoreastment, @jaybonemusic and @amy_theresa_murgatroyd. And huge appreciation to the Plett lifeguards.

Thank you to @mattie_lennon and angus_tongs_and_photo_blogging for joining us for the swims, and sharing the photos used in this blog.

There’s a kind of magic in an early morning swim…
To dip into the salty sea before the day begins
Before office hours and computers and well-worded emails
To refresh. To revive.
To connect more – to the sea. To ourselves. And to each other…

It was from this idea that the first Mungo Swim Club was born.

Swim Club 2021

We launched the Mungo Swim Club in 2021 – a 5-day challenge with the idea to help us all feel good, and give back something whilst doing so.

We sent a newsletter on a Thursday afternoon at the end of November. Made nervous jokes about whether anyone would join us. 12 was one guess. ’15 people?’ was Tessa’s. And in the morning we came into the office with a full mailbox – and an incredibly enthusiastic response.

In the end, 231 swimmers completed this first challenge – meeting us every morning for a sunrise dip at Hobie Beach, Clifton and Dalebrook. Through Swim Club 1.0 we awarded 231 swimmers a Mungo towel, and sponsored 231 Surf Therapy lessons with Waves for Change.

Waves for Changes is a registered South African NPO who work with youths from stressed environments to develop a community-based, child-friendly mental health service through Surf Therapy.

Swim Club 2022

With our newly launched European site, based in Northern Ireland, in 2022 year we thought to take our Swim Club to foreign shores… In October 2022, we held a Swim Club in the Lake District – a five-day cold water challenge, hosted by Monique Rodgers. 15 swimmers completed the five days, and on their behalf we sponsored 15 Rivers Guardians workshops with I AM WATER foundation.

Two months later we launched our second South African Swim Club. Again the popularity took us by surprise – with over 300 people registering within the first two hours. We hosted 3 pods at Hobie Beach, Clifton 4th and Water’s Edge from the 5th to the 9th of December. We had 292 swimmers complete the challenge. For every person to stick it out, we donated R100 towards an I AM WATER foundation River Guardians workshop. By the end of the week, we were pleased to hand over R29,200 to I AM WATER.

2022’s Swim Club had an incredible response – and so for all those who missed out, we decided to open two more pods to round out the year – one in Knysna, and another in Plett. With 164 swimmers in 2022, we were able to raise an extra R16,400 for I AM WATER.

Clifton 4th images supplied by Angus Mackenzie and Tremayne Ward-Smith.

Swim Club 2023

This year we expanded our Swim Club across 5 locations in Cape Town, Plettenberg Bay and Knysna.

655 swimmers swimmers joined us this year helping us to to collectively raise our biggest sum yet – over R100,000 for I AM WATER foundation.⁠

A shout-out to all those who joined us to swim rain or shine, to our ambassadors who were there to register the swimmers, and to the Plett lifeguards.⁠

⁠Swim Club 2023 images supplied by Matt Lennon.

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I AM WATER

This year’s Swim Club beneficiary is I AM WATER foundation, for their incredible work using environmental education as a tool to inspire the next generation of conservationists. They work with under-resourced coastal communities who, despite their proximity to the shoreline, have often never explored the world beneath the waves. Those who have opened their eyes underwater, those who have seen the beauty, the majesty, and the great marine creatures of this world, will learn to love and to protect it.