HB Smith was the instigator and progenitor of the plan to rescue No. 7 from a dystopian future unless the house which he recognised as one of the oldest houses in Port Elizabeth was restored. He selflessly undertook this task in the twilight of his life. After writing an article on the role that HB had played in setting this house on its path to restoration, I was contacted by a member of the family, HB’s granddaughter, Angela Hidden (nee Smith). When she told me of her experiences of No. 7 during its final days as a home, I made a humble request that she write a blog of her experiences as a youngster to which she willingly agreed.

Angela Smith was born is 1955 and this blog relates to the period 1959 to 1962 when HB passed away. This is her story in her own words.

Main picture: No 7 Castle Hill in 1962

By the time I made an appearance on the Smith family stage in Port Elizabeth, my grandfather – Harold Bayldon Smith – had bought, and was stubbornly living at, No 7 Castle Hill. His mission was to save the old building from demolition. As an architect he saw the historic value in preserving this earliest remaining example of a private home in the city.

However, as a five year old, none of that mattered to me. No 7 was the fantastical other world that we three Smith girls escaped to when our Dad visited his Pop over the weekend. By this time Pop, at the wonderful age of 80 years, didn’t venture downstairs much. While Dad was visiting upstairs, we would invent games – starting in the large, airy entrance hall. There were interesting collections of objects on the floor to ceiling book shelves, among which were some pebbles – probably collected along with many other artefacts on Pop’s many travels years before. One of these pebbles would be selected, then  (while the other 2 of us counted to 100) the 3rd would sneak off to hide it somewhere on the ground floor. And so the hunt would begin – checking every nook and cranny of the glass fronted cabinets in the dining room, the bookshelves and desks in the drawing room, the pantry next to the kitchen …… until the pebble was discovered by the delighted daughter who would then have the honour of being the next to find a good hiding spot.

The one place the pebble was never hidden was the basement. That was an adventure only to be undertaken by the very brave, and never alone! As the door to the precipitous, dark stairway opened, the smell of damp, long neglected belongings escaped upwards as if being chased by the horrors below! Only the small comfort of a faint light bulb in the distance gave us the courage to gingerly descend. I always anticipated the flutter of bats’ wings or a falling rain spider, or the scratching of a scurrying rodent as I carefully negotiated the journey down those stairs! (How kitchen staff managed to carry large dishes of food up and down in bygone years escaped my imagination).

Having arrived safely (heart pounding) into the shadowy, dank, spiderweb filled space that had once been a bustling kitchen, there was a treasure trove of old boxes, filled with who-knows-what, and wonderful leather and wood trunks for travel at sea – many with stickers from far flung ports on journeys across the globe. The old ‘bak oond’ was a curiosity, an unimaginably complex way of coming by the daily loaf!

Not too much time was ever spent in the basement – it was a great relief to ascend to the light and to breathe fresh air – and without encountering any ghouls or ghosts!

To ascend the main staircase to the first floor was to enter yet another world, the world of Pop. Turning to the right at the top of the stairs was Pop’s large and airy bedroom which, in his last years, was his entire world. The distinct aroma of tobacco smoke from his pipe always announced his presence. He had a curious collection of pipes – some traditional with a polished wooden bowl, some made out of gnarled wood, and even one with a clay bowl (or was it the pipe that was clay?) – all neatly arranged on a wooden pipe stand. 

Apart from his bed, the room was furnished with countless books (many dating back to the 1800s) on diverse subjects, in a number of oak bookcases and, in the corner overlooking Castle Hill, he had a desk where he would spend most of his days. There, from the sea facing window, he would watch (through his old sea farers telescope) the comings and goings of ships in Algoa Bay, possibly remembering and reliving his earlier years of travel and exploration. Through the land facing window he could watch the aircraft approaching the landing strip at the recently opened Port Elizabeth Airport. It strikes me that his love of books and wide knowledge of so many subjects led to his bequeathing a Library to Newton Park, named in his honour.

On the windowsill of his room was a beautiful fuschia plant – its crimson and purple flowers dancing in the breeze. The plant took pride of place in my own little garden patch in Walmer after Pop’s passing, and the flowers have always reminded me of him.

The other upstairs rooms were of merely passing interest – although I knew the small room over the entrance hall had been my Dad’s, I somehow couldn’t relate to him living as a son in the house – he was my Dad and belonged in our home in Walmer! The larger, 3rd bedroom had been his brother Matthew’s, lost on the HMS Gloucester in May 1941 during WW2 – both rooms were now scantily furnished and unlived in.

Pop passed away soon after achieving his goal of having No 7 declared a National Monument. The PE Historical Society took on the responsibility of restoring the old house to its original state. As lifelong members of the Society our family was part of the dedicated and intrepid gang (led by Rex Rainier) who spent countless weekends stripping paint from wood (I can still imagine the smell of blowtorch flame on paint 60 years later), and peeling off layers of wallpaper – down to the 10th layer. The marvel was that the original producers of that wallpaper (in England) were able to reproduce enough to coat the walls of the dining room in a fresh layer of that earliest design! Finally the house was dressed with period furniture (even the basement was returned to an original, habitable state as a kitchen – not a spiderweb in sight) and was opened as a museum in 1965.

It was a strange mix of emotions when the ribbon was cut and the door opened to the public: pride at the part played by my Pop and family in saving and restoring No 7, but also a sense of loss of an intensely private and personal relationship with the house that held so many precious childhood memories as Jo Public was invited in.

I have visited on many occasions over the decades and still feel a sense of connection with No 7, but the lingering memories are of the fun and laughter, the adventure of exploring the many corners of the house and its little patio garden, and of Pop sitting at his window, watching the sea.