The Provenance of a B W van Dyk Chair

This is the story of Burger Wynand van Dyk, the carpenter of Barry Street in Robertson, the Western Cape of South Africa. His craft reflects a legacy stretching back more than two centuries to the earliest days of European settlement at the Cape of Good Hope. He was the great-great-great-great-grandson of Joost Pietersz van Dyk (1666–1718).

The familiar stamp of BW van Dyk on one of his stinkwood chairs

Joost Pietersz van Dyk and his brother Burgert Pietersz van Dyk (1665-1720) left their home in Izenberg, Netherlands, to serve the Dutch East India Company at the distant Cape of Good Hope in 1686. Joost and his brother Burgert, sailed aboard the Huis te Zilverstein¹, trading the familiar landscapes of Europe for the rugged, unfamiliar coasts beneath Table Mountain. Together they would lay the foundations of a family whose name and its trades, would persist for centuries. Though both arrived as soldiers, the harsh realities and opportunities of the Cape soon drew them into civilian life.

222: Record of Joost Pieterzs in the Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein', in 1686

The brothers Joost and Burgert van Dyk arrived at a Cape Colony still raw and precarious, bound by the discipline of the VOC yet granted the freedom to carve out a life on foreign soil. Joost would marry and settle as a free burgher, while Burgert, though often recorded as a woodcutter, left behind an estate inventory filled with carpenter’s tools², revealing a skill that would echo down the centuries. Their children and grandchildren and their descendants in turn, inherited both the family names and the practical knowledge of woodworking, establishing a tradition in which trade and lineage were inseparable.

223: Record of Burgert Pieterzs in the Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein', in 1686

Over the generations, the van Dyks spread inland, moving from the timber and tools of Cape Town into farms around Robertson, Caledon, and beyond. Names repeated across decades, Joost, Burgert, Wessel, Burger Wynand, each carrying the weight of heritage, each learning, teaching, and adapting the skills of their forebears. By the time Burger Wynand van Dyk (1867–1938) took up the carpenter’s tools in Barry Street, the rhythm of wood and handwork was not merely a trade, but a living testament to a family story begun 250 years earlier, linking soldiers, settlers, and craftsmen across the generations. His work, careful, deliberate, and rooted in tradition, reminded all who saw it, that family craft is more than skill. It is memory, identity, and legacy both in wood and hand.

A drawing of a BW van Dyk stinkwood carver chair

By 1690, after completing his military service, Joost chose to remain as a free burgher, marrying Helena Siebers and beginning a family that would carry the van Dyk name forward. That same spirit of independence and resourcefulness extended to Burgert, who, while often recorded as a woodcutter, clearly possessed the skills of a carpenter. A fact underscored by the list of carpenter's tools in the inventory of his estate in 1721, as referenced above. In 1691, the VOC officially permitted the brothers to cut timber for the purposes of re-sale, a rare opportunity that allowed them to build not only livelihoods but a lasting presence in the Cape Colony³. For a time, the two families lived together on property located in what is now St. George’s Street, Cape Town, expanding their holdings as their households grew.

A drawing of BW van Dyk dining chairs

From these humble beginnings, the van Dyk’s established a pattern that would echo for generations. Names and skills passed from father to son, uncle to nephew, each learning the trades of their forebears. Carpentry, woodworking, and later farming became part of the family’s identity, handed down alongside family names like Joost, Burgert, and Wessel. This continuity of skill and tradition would eventually be inherited by Burger Wynand van Dyk, the carpenter of Barry Street. Whose work not only reflected inherited craftsmanship but preserved a living connection to the ingenuity and resilience of the men who first arrived at the Cape over 250 years earlier.

Front and side view of a BW van Dyk carver, and dining chair

Joost Pietersz van Dyk and Helena Siebers raised several children, embedding the family in the growing settlement at the Cape. Among them was Andries van Dyk (1714–1782), who married Elisabeth Radÿn, and continued the family’s tradition of resilience and enterprise. Their children bore the familiar names of the family, Joost, Burgert, and Andries, many facing the harsh realities of colonial life, disease and hardship claiming several in infancy. Yet the surviving children, including Burgert van Dyk (1756–1842) and Petrus Johannes van Dyk (1758–1835), carried forward both the family name and practical skills, cementing the van Dyk’s as part of the fabric of the Cape’s settler society.

Traditional carpentry tools, Drostdy museum, Swellendam

Burgert van Dyk married Maria Margaretha Wessels, and their children, Wessel Jurie (1790–1832) and others, expanded the family further into the interior, farming in districts like Caledon and Robertson. The pattern of repeating names and trades continued. Sons learned the work of their fathers, whether farming or woodworking, and the skills of early settlers adapted to new landscapes. Wessel Jurie’s son, Burgert Wynand van Dyk (1822–1892), would farm at Klaasvoogdsrivier near Robertson and later at Kloppersbosch near Nuy, bridging the rural and artisanal traditions of the family. His marriage to Anna Catharina Johanna van Graan, produced children who grew up immersed in both the land and the legacy of craftsmanship.

A carpenter's tools and toolbox, Drostdy museum, Swellendam

Among these children was Wessel Jurie van Dyk (1843–1890), who maintained the family’s connection to woodworking while managing farms near Robertson. He married Elsje Catharina Petronella Fouché, linking two established settler families, and their children included Burger Wynand van Dyk (1867–1938), the carpenter of Barry Street. It was Burger Wynand who most fully embodied the enduring craft of the van Dyks. Though by his time the family had spread across the Western Cape, and many had turned to farming or other trades, Burger Wynand preserved the hands-on skill that had begun with Burgert Pietersz van Dyk centuries earlier.

A collection of saws, Drostdy museum, Swellendam 

Burger Wynand’s life was defined by his workbench, planes, and chisels, tools that represented not only his livelihood but a connection to his forebears, Joost and Burgert, soldiers turned settlers, who first brought timber and skill to the Cape. In 1934, he made a careful will to ensure that his carpenter’s tools would pass to his son and grandson, specifying that they could not be sold and would remain in the family. In doing so, he safeguarded a tangible piece of heritage, echoing the generations of van Dyks who had learned, adapted, and passed down both names and skills.

Excerpt from the will of Burger Wynand van Dyk, 8 September 1934

Though Burger Wynand’s son, Burger Wynand van Dyk (1908–1966), chose the trade of butchery, the story of the van Dyks’ craft lives on in the chairs he made and, in the tools, quietly awaiting a future generation. From soldiers of the VOC to free burghers, farmers, and carpenters, the van Dyk family exemplifies the enduring power of familial skill, memory, and legacy, each generation shaping the land and the craft of their ancestors into a living history.

Traditional glues, stains, and carpenter's tools, Drostdy museum, Swellendam 

Today, in the rooms of Towerwater, a collection of eight BW van Dyk chairs, two carvers and six dining chairs, stand not merely as furnishings, but as quiet custodians of this long and unbroken lineage. Their worn arms and steady frames carry the imprint of Burger Wynand’s hand, itself guided by generations before him, from the timber yards of early Cape Town to the farms and workshops of Robertson. 

Set of the eight BW van Dyk chairs in the Towerwater collection

In their presence, the past is neither distant nor abstract, but intimately felt, a continuity of craft, of family, and of place. These chairs gather more than people around a table, they gather stories, binding the present to a heritage shaped in wood, patience, and memory, echoing the enduring traditions that define both the van Dyk name and the spirit of Towerwater itself.

Reference:

¹ Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein,
   https://www.nationaalarchief.nl/onderzoeken/archief/1.04.02/invnr/5342
² MOOC8/4.59, Inventaris der goederen van Burgert Pietersz: van Dijk, 17 Januarij 1721
³ Resolutions of the Council of Policy of the Cape of Good Hope between 1651 and 1795,
  C. 21, pp. 17-23. 3 April 1691

Sources:

Crew Listing for Ship 'Huis te Zilwerstein - National Archives Netherlands
Information regarding the ship 'Huis te Silwerstein' - The VOCsite
VOC Employment Record - National Archives Netherlands
Van Dyk genealogy - Familysearch.org
VOC Resolutions of the Council of Policy of the Cape of Good Hope between 1651 and 1795
VOC Master of the Orphan Chamber (MOOC) Inventories
First Fifty Years - a project collating Cape of Good Hope records

Click on the link to read the related posts:

BW van Dyk - 19th Century furniture maker, Robertson

The anatomy of a BW van Dyk dining chair

The anatomy of a BW van Dyk dining carver

Finding Cape Country chairs in Pretoria

The BW van Dyk chairs that found us

The lure of danger in the Towerwater kitchen

With an abundant harvest of sun-ripened apricots from the Towerwater orchard, not even the December heat could deter us from making our 100-apricot chutney. Looking at the bowl of apricot pits, I decided to find out how one can use the apricot pits instead of just throwing them away.

De White Industries in Montagu, where we buy our broken apricot pits for surfacing our pathways, must produce large quantities of apricot kernels, and I am sure that it does not go to waste.

Broken apricot pits at De White Industries in Montagu

The kernels from broken pits can be repurposed into high-value products rather than wasted. They can be processed to create oils for cosmetics and cooking and used as a marzipan-like flavouring in liqueurs.

A marzipan-flavoured liqueur is what attracted my attention. I discovered that liqueur made from apricot kernels is called Noyaux (pronounced nwoy-oh), and the word comes from the French term for “kernel” or “pit.”

Crème de Noyaux is a traditional French liqueur where fruit pits impart a distinctive almond-like flavour to the alcohol due to compounds also found in bitter almonds. Even though it comes from fruit pits, noyaux tastes like almond. This is because both contain benzaldehyde, the compound responsible for that flavour.

It seems that throughout the centuries, we humans lived a dangerous and experimental life, discovering what can be eaten and what should be avoided. I prefer to learn from other people's mistakes where dangerous foods are concerned. Apricot kernels can be dangerous because they naturally contain compounds that can release cyanide in one’s body. Apricot kernels contain a substance called amygdalin. When you chew or digest the kernel, your body breaks down the amygdalin and produces hydrogen cyanide, a highly toxic chemical.

This process is a classic example of a natural plant defence mechanism. Inside an apricot kernel lies a quiet but powerful defence. The seed stores amygdalin and enzymes separately, harmless on their own. But when an animal bites into the kernel, these components mix and trigger a reaction that releases hydrogen cyanide. This toxin quickly interferes with the body’s ability to use oxygen, discouraging the predator from eating more. This clever system, known as cyanogenic glycoside defence, allows the plant to protect its seed only when it is under threat, ensuring its survival in the next generation.

The rule is that one never consumes Noyaux or Crème de Noyaux in large quantities. Always use it sparingly to add that seductive almond-like marzipan flavour to cocktails, drizzle over vanilla ice cream, add to whipped cream, or incorporate a small amount into custards, panna cotta, or almond-flavoured pastries for added depth.

To add to the living-on-the-edge feel of making noyaux, it was historically coloured pink with cochineal, a natural red dye derived from the dried bodies of female scale insects that live on prickly pear cacti in South and North America. The insects produce carminic acid to deter predators, which is harvested to create brilliant red, crimson, or scarlet shades for food, cosmetics, and textiles.

One would think that if plants and insects produce toxins to deter predators, humans will take notice and say, “Thanks, we got the memo; we will leave you in peace.” Instead, we rush to make extracts and liqueurs containing cyanide-producing kernels and then look around for some other deterrent to colour the liqueur with.

Finding a reliable recipe for noyaux was not easy. It seems everyone uses a recipe that suits their available number of apricot kernels. After cracking the 100 pips, I had the generous amount of 100 apricot kernels. The kernels did not look dangerous at all, but being forewarned is to be forearmed, I believe, and I needed to find the right ratio of pips to alcohol.

Most recipes I found used 80-proof alcohol. Proof is calculated as exactly double the alcohol by volume (ABV) percentage (e.g., 40 x 2 = 80). I decided to use a local witblits with 55% alcohol by volume; 55% alcohol by volume (ABV) is 110 proof in the United States. Apparently, using 110-proof (55% ABV) alcohol to make noyaux (apricot kernel liqueur) can produce a better, more robust extract compared to standard 80-proof (40% ABV) vodka, as it is a more effective solvent for extracting the essential oils, aroma, and volatile compounds from the kernels.

The charm of traditional French homemade noyaux lies in its "snout-to-tail," no-waste philosophy, transforming discarded stone fruit pits (apricot, peach, or cherry) into a sophisticated, almond-scented liqueur. This old-fashioned, rustic process evokes a sense of country living, where patience, foraging, and artisan techniques create a deeply fragrant product far superior to commercial alternatives.

A popular, charming method in French households was not just to make one batch, but to keep a jar of alcohol on the counter, adding fresh kernels as they became available throughout the season, creating a continuous supply of liqueur.

Despite noyaux being made in households all over the world for centuries without recorded fatalities, modern food safety authorities advise extreme caution. Because the concentration of amygdalin varies significantly between different fruits and even individual pits, it is difficult to ensure safety in a home kitchen environment.

Scared half to death by visions of my homemade noyaux dispatching most of my family and friends and, on the other hand, seduced by the nostalgia and tradition of this loved ingredient for food and drinks, I allowed myself to be seduced by the prospect of the flavour of almonds and marzipan filling the Towerwater kitchen.

 

Towerwater Crème de Noyaux or (Nou-ja laat ek maar die kans vat)

Ingredients:
80 apricot kernels (the inside of the pips)
750 ml witblits (55% alcohol by volume)
1/2 to 1 cup simple syrup, to taste.

Instructions:

Crack open the hard outer shells of the stone fruit pits to remove the soft inner seed (the kernel). I also crushed some of the kernels, as suggested by some recipes.

Some recipes also recommend roasting the kernels to reduce the amygdalin. You can give the kernels a light to medium roasting (300°F–350°F / 150°C–180°C) for 10–15 minutes to avoid burning.

Place the crushed/whole kernels in a large, clean glass jar and cover with the witblits or vodka. Seal the jar tightly and store in a cool, dark place for 2 to 3 months. Shake the jar every few days.

After maceration, strain the liquid through a coffee filter or fine muslin (chinois). Add simple syrup (sugar dissolved in water) to reach the desired sweetness.

Bottle the strained liqueur and let it rest for another month before use to allow the flavors to mellow.

Note: To make a simple syrup, mix 1 cup of water and 1 cup of granulated white sugar in a small saucepan. Heat over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar completely dissolves. You do not need to bring it to a rolling boil; just make sure the liquid is clear. Remove from heat and allow it to cool before adding it to the noyaux.

If it seems as if I like living dangerously by venturing into making potions containing cyanide, rest assured that I have done extensive research about the safety of homemade noyaux. I would probably not recommend it to an overcautious food lover, but the secret is to use it moderately; a small amount of homemade noyaux can go a long way.

After waiting three months for the kernels to macerate in the witblits, I could bottle my own Towerwater Noyaux, or as I would say in Afrikaans, Nou-ja, laat ek maar die kans vat. The homemade noyaux possesses a seductive, complex flavour profile often described as a "forgotten" luxury, balancing intense sweetness with a sophisticated bitter edge. It is characterized by an intoxicating marzipan aroma and a rich, velvety texture, making it an essential, yet assertive, addition to cocktails and desserts.

Now I only need to let it rest for a month before using it, and it is killing me not to use it immediately (nudge-nudge, wink-wink).

Towerwater and the art of Cooperage

Old houses often reveal their histories in small and unexpected ways. Sometimes it is not the grand architectural features that speak the loudest, but rather the quiet details that have survived the passing of time.

During a family visit one weekend, such a detail revealed itself on the kitchen door at Towerwater. Beneath several layers of old paint, an oval brass plaque slowly emerged. Its inscription was simple: “FB Bruwer Maker.”

The plaque was left exactly where it was found. It had clearly been there for many years, quietly witnessing the daily rhythms of the kitchen. Yet the identity of the man behind the name remained a mystery.

The answer would only appear many years later.

The "FB Bruwer waterbalie" on auction 

Nearly twenty-five years passed before another reference to the name surfaced. At the October 2016 auction of Strauss & Co, lot number 351 caught my attention. The catalogue described it as “A Cape teak brass-bound waterbalie and stand, F B Bruwer, Robertson, late 19th/early 20th century.”

Another example of a FB Bruwer made "waterbalie" with his name plaque on the front

In that moment, the small brass plaque on the Towerwater kitchen door began to make sense.

For the first time we knew what F.B. Bruwer had made. He was a cooper from Robertson — a craftsman whose trade was to shape wood into the barrels, tubs and vessels essential to daily life in the Breede River valley.

A collection of antique brass bound containers made by a cooper

The discovery raised another question: why would a cooper’s maker’s plaque appear on the kitchen door at Towerwater? Was there perhaps a deeper historical connection between F.B. Bruwer and the property?

To explore that possibility, I turned to the genealogy of Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer.

 A Dutch ship entering Table Bay circa 1700

The Bruwer story in South Africa reaches back to the late seventeenth century. The family’s progenitor, Estienne Bruere, boarded the VOC ship Voorschoten on 31 December 1687 at Delftshaven in the Netherlands. The vessel reached Saldanha Bay on 13 April 1688, after which the Huguenot settlers were escorted to Table Bay by the ship Jupiter.

Estienne was originally a wagon-maker by trade but, like many Huguenot arrivals encouraged by the Dutch East India Company, he soon turned to farming. In 1692 he was granted the loan farm Rust-en-Werk in Daljosafat in the Drakenstein valley. By 1712 he had moved his family to the farm Voorkeyker near present-day Wolseley in the Land van Waveren region.

A water brass bound water container made for wagons

Over time the family also received grazing licences along the Breede River, firmly linking the Bruwers to the region that would eventually include Robertson.

The generations that followed continued this agricultural tradition. Johannes (Jean) Bruire, later known as Bruwer (1722–1767), settled in the Drakenstein region and married Johanna Maria van der Merwe. Their son Daniel Bruwer (1765–1852) lived during a formative period in the Cape Colony as the descendants of the Huguenots gradually integrated into Dutch colonial society.

From this lineage came Herculaas Philippus Johannes Bruwer (1824–1898) and eventually Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer (1856–1932).

On his marriage record, Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer is described as a “Kuiper” — the Dutch word for cooper. A cooper was a highly skilled woodworker who crafted staved wooden vessels bound with iron or wooden hoops so that they remained tight and durable. In rural agricultural communities these containers were indispensable. Wine, brandy, grain, water and dairy products all relied on barrels and tubs for storage and transport.

The marriage record of FB Bruwer recording his profession as cooper

In wine-producing districts such as Robertson, coopers played an important role in the rural economy. A cooper’s workshop in the late nineteenth century would have produced a wide range of vessels: wine barrels for fermentation and storage, large casks for shipping, smaller kegs for spirits, buckets and pails for water, washing tubs and troughs, butter churns and the sturdy waterbalies used in households and on farms.

Making wine barrels - David Teniers the Younger (1610–90), The Wine Harvest

It is one of these waterbalies that appeared in the 2016 Strauss & Co auction catalogue. The vessel was made in Robertson and carried the brass maker’s plaque of F.B. Bruwer — a later example of the one discovered on the Towerwater kitchen door.

The remaining question was how his name became attached to Towerwater.

The answer may lie in the intertwined histories of local families. The first clear references to buildings on the property appear in the title deeds of the farm Bosjesmansdrift. On 13 June 1873 the six portions of the farm were finally transferred in full and freehold title. Portion 4 — the section that includes the core of the farm and its cluster of buildings — was transferred to the Steyn brothers on 30 June 1873.

An 18th century "teebalie", brass bound water bucket and a pickle barrel

Although it might seem modest on paper, the property measured an impressive 1290 morgen and 211 square roods. Interestingly, the deed specifically excluded two houses that remained in the possession of Jacobus Le Roux.

The Le Roux connection becomes significant when the family history is considered.

A member of the Le Roux family had already held a portion of the farm under perpetual quitrent lease in 1843. After several subdivisions, the land eventually became Lot 75 and was transferred in 1928 from the church council to Gabriel Petrus Jacobus le Roux as Erf 608 — land that today forms part of Towerwater.

Gabriël Petrus Jacobus le Roux, born in 1872 in the Robertson district, was himself a wagon-maker — a respected rural craft at the turn of the twentieth century. He married Anna Elizabet le Roux and lived most of his life in the area, passing away in 1962.

"Botterkarrings"or brass bound butter churns

His older sister, Aletta Johanna le Roux, born around 1860, married Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer on 18 October 1881.

Through this marriage two long-established Breede River families became linked — the Le Roux wagon-makers and the Bruwer coopers. In a rural economy shaped by farming and craft, these trades were closely connected.

It is therefore quite possible that Francois Bartholomeus Bruwer was already associated with the Le Roux household before the marriage in 1881. A vessel he produced — perhaps a water barrel or waterbalie — may have found its way onto the property. The small brass maker’s plaque attached to it may later have been fixed to the kitchen door, where successive coats of paint quietly preserved it for more than a century.

In this way, a modest oval plaque connects Towerwater not only to a local craftsman but also to the intertwined histories of families, trades and farms along the Breede River. The mystery of the words “FB Bruwer Maker” was finally resolved.

The buyer of the waterbalie at Strauss & Co in 2016 acquired not only a fine piece of Cape craftsmanship, but a piece of provenance that reaches back through generations to the Breede River valley.

The Kitchen door at Towerwater and the plaque seen through an original screen door

And so the brass nameplate on our kitchen door, once a gentle mystery, now speaks of continuity: of Huguenot roots, of skilled hands shaping wood and metal, and of the quiet ways families and trades wove themselves into the fabric of this old place.

Note: Some images of cooperage sourced online as examples of Cape Cooperage 

Related blogpost: Listening to Buildings