Babylonstoren: Why It's The Best Hotel In South Africa's Winelands
'Believe me, I know how lucky I am to be able to live here,' said Morné, as we jolted around another bend in the dirt road, the open-sided jeep catching speed as the slope steepened. Around us, the vineyards shimmered, all green-gold and honey-hued under the last stretch of afternoon light. In the back seat, a gaggle of jubilant, recently retired Belgians swayed in unison, breaking into a spontaneous Dutch folk song. I'd landed here, in the middle of South Africa's winelands, less than an hour ago.
We crested the hill just in time for the sun's grand finale. A long, rustic table had been set — cocktails, chilled champagne, and small plates of garden-grown veg whipped into clever tapas. As the last wisps of cloud evaporated, golden hour reached its peak.
This was Babylonstoren, a meticulously restored Cape Dutch farm-turned-hotel just outside Franschhoek. Owned by the same team behind The Newt in Somerset, England, it shares the same ethos: botanical beauty, slow living, and a touch of wry luxury. The property reads like a whitewashed village — geese flapping along brick paths, bicycles leaned against cottages, gardeners plucking edible flowers for the evening service.
By day, the estate bustles. Day-trippers from Cape Town picking up jars of jams and bottles of vinegar, soaps and handcreams all made onsite. But mornings and late evenings are something else entirely — hushed, dew-soft, and scented with rosemary and citrus.
I hadn't even unpacked yet, but I already felt the shift. The kind of place where you find yourself walking slower, eating better, noticing more. I sipped my cocktail and turned toward the view: vineyard rows tumbling down into the valley below. Morné smiled, already pouring the next glass. I believed him.
Morné had been working here for a few years. There was a spark in his eye as he surveyed the undulating hills around us, the kind of quiet pride that only comes from being deeply rooted in a place. He pointed out the contours of the land, tracing invisible lines with his hand, explaining how the team had been working to reforest sections of the property with indigenous trees. 'My house is just over that way,' he said, motioning to a low hill blanketed in fynbos, the local shrubland that gives this part of the Cape its unique character.
He and Christoff were in charge of the property tours — a task that, I gathered, was less about routine and more about storytelling. Together, they guided guests through the labyrinthine flower gardens, past rows of citrus and pomegranate trees, and into the expansive kitchen gardens where chefs wandered daily, baskets in hand. 'Everything you ate tonight came from just a few hundred metres from this table,' Morné said, almost offhandedly, as if that kind of self-sufficiency were commonplace.
But that was the thing about Babylonstoren — it wasn't just a hotel. And the word 'resort' would feel absurd here. It was a working farm first with a handful of rooms and a spa worth bookmarking. The kind of destination where your breakfast egg might have been laid that morning by a hen you passed on your way to coffee. A place that didn't just look sustainable, but was.
As the shadows grew longer and the last of the champagne was poured, I began to realize that Babylonstoren wasn't asking you to escape real life — it was inviting you to notice it more fully.
They make their own soaps, candles, olive oil, and vinegar too — each one neatly bottled and labeled in the farm's own design language: understated, tactile, elegant. The three restaurants — Babel, the Greenhouse, and the Bakery — all draw almost entirely from what the farm produces. It's not just farm-to-table; it's steps-to-plate.
But it's in the in-between hours — when the day visitors have left and the red earth dust has settled — that Babylonstoren reveals something more. The light stays sharp well into the evening, the sky a dusky purply blue that doesn't fade so much as deepen. You begin to see through the layers, past the curated beauty and into something older, more elemental. A glimpse of what life here must have once been.
The rooms are set within whitewashed houses — former workers' cottages that now hold freestanding bathtubs, thick linen, and antique wooden wardrobes. The layout of the farm village has been preserved, so each path and stoop still feels lived-in, storied. Mornings are silent but for the occasional crow of a rooster or the hum of a bicycle wheel on gravel.
At the end of the path, the spa is a generous, light-filled space, where time unspools. There's an indoor pool tiled in soft green, and an outdoor one framed by vines and fig trees. Scrubs are administered in open-air showers, the kind where you watch clouds drift over vineyards while your shoulders are massaged with apricot kernels.
I was staying in one of the houses tucked far from the action, right on the edge of the farm where the landscape opened up and the pace slowed even further. Guests out here were given their own golf carts to get around — half the fun. I spent my evenings puttering along the lake's edge, trying not to crash into the hedgerows while being utterly distracted by the views: jagged mountains rising in every direction, catching the last blush of daylight.
The villa itself felt more like a countryside retreat than a hotel suite — generous in size, with a proper living room and a glass-walled kitchen stocked with everything you'd need, from heavy cast-iron pans to boxes of locally blended rooibos tea. There was a rhythm to life here, dictated not by clocks but by the colour of the light.
But the real magic happened in the early mornings. That first one — still a little jet-lagged — I stepped out onto the back terrace just after dawn. Before me, a wide, glassy lake, its surface barely rippling, backed by mountains draped in purple mist.
I sat there, barefoot on the terrace, sun slowly warming the stone beneath me. Birds darted low across the water. Every so often, a fish would break the surface. The sunlight was so pure, so utterly uplifting, it felt almost sacred. I sat for what could've been hours — motionless, eyes fixed on the view — completely undone by it all.
There's plenty to see in the area, Morné tells me, leaning into the passenger window as Peter, the hotel driver, pulls up to take me into Franschhoek. The road winds past vineyard after vineyard — this corner of South Africa is known for its Chardonnay and Syrah, its crisp Cap Classiques, and a winemaking history that dates back to the French Huguenots who settled here centuries ago. Franschhoek itself is compact and postcard-like, a few walkable streets lined with saloon-style restaurants, wine boutiques, and art galleries that manage to feel more lived-in than curated.
But it was back at Babylonstoren that the story really stayed with me. On my final morning, Morné walked me through the gardens tended by head gardener Constance who flashed me the brightest of smiles — past the medicinal plants, through the rows of nasturtiums, into the cool, fragrant greenhouse. We passed chefs clipping herbs, gardeners waving from bicycles, staff setting up lunch in the shade of old oak trees. There was a rhythm, a gentleness to it all.
What struck me most was how full the place felt; not just in occupancy, but in spirit. Visitors strolled slowly, smiling, feeling lucky to be here. The food was unfussy and full-flavored, the service gracious, and the staff — from the spa therapists to the bakers — seemed genuinely happy to be here. And maybe that's the rarest luxury of all.
In a world where so many hotels talk about sustainability, community, and wellness, Babylonstoren somehow makes it all feel natural — like this is simply how things should be. I left it, hailed as the best hotel in South Africa, with mud on my shoes, a Waterblommetjie candle in my carry-on, and a renewed sense of hope: that a large, ambitious hotel can not only tread lightly on the land, but leave it — like its guests — better than it found it.
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Babylonstoren: Why It's The Best Hotel In South Africa's Winelands
'Believe me, I know how lucky I am to be able to live here,' said Morné, as we jolted around another bend in the dirt road, the open-sided jeep catching speed as the slope steepened. Around us, the vineyards shimmered, all green-gold and honey-hued under the last stretch of afternoon light. In the back seat, a gaggle of jubilant, recently retired Belgians swayed in unison, breaking into a spontaneous Dutch folk song. I'd landed here, in the middle of South Africa's winelands, less than an hour ago. We crested the hill just in time for the sun's grand finale. A long, rustic table had been set — cocktails, chilled champagne, and small plates of garden-grown veg whipped into clever tapas. As the last wisps of cloud evaporated, golden hour reached its peak. This was Babylonstoren, a meticulously restored Cape Dutch farm-turned-hotel just outside Franschhoek. Owned by the same team behind The Newt in Somerset, England, it shares the same ethos: botanical beauty, slow living, and a touch of wry luxury. The property reads like a whitewashed village — geese flapping along brick paths, bicycles leaned against cottages, gardeners plucking edible flowers for the evening service. By day, the estate bustles. Day-trippers from Cape Town picking up jars of jams and bottles of vinegar, soaps and handcreams all made onsite. But mornings and late evenings are something else entirely — hushed, dew-soft, and scented with rosemary and citrus. I hadn't even unpacked yet, but I already felt the shift. The kind of place where you find yourself walking slower, eating better, noticing more. I sipped my cocktail and turned toward the view: vineyard rows tumbling down into the valley below. Morné smiled, already pouring the next glass. I believed him. Morné had been working here for a few years. There was a spark in his eye as he surveyed the undulating hills around us, the kind of quiet pride that only comes from being deeply rooted in a place. He pointed out the contours of the land, tracing invisible lines with his hand, explaining how the team had been working to reforest sections of the property with indigenous trees. 'My house is just over that way,' he said, motioning to a low hill blanketed in fynbos, the local shrubland that gives this part of the Cape its unique character. He and Christoff were in charge of the property tours — a task that, I gathered, was less about routine and more about storytelling. Together, they guided guests through the labyrinthine flower gardens, past rows of citrus and pomegranate trees, and into the expansive kitchen gardens where chefs wandered daily, baskets in hand. 'Everything you ate tonight came from just a few hundred metres from this table,' Morné said, almost offhandedly, as if that kind of self-sufficiency were commonplace. But that was the thing about Babylonstoren — it wasn't just a hotel. And the word 'resort' would feel absurd here. It was a working farm first with a handful of rooms and a spa worth bookmarking. The kind of destination where your breakfast egg might have been laid that morning by a hen you passed on your way to coffee. A place that didn't just look sustainable, but was. As the shadows grew longer and the last of the champagne was poured, I began to realize that Babylonstoren wasn't asking you to escape real life — it was inviting you to notice it more fully. They make their own soaps, candles, olive oil, and vinegar too — each one neatly bottled and labeled in the farm's own design language: understated, tactile, elegant. The three restaurants — Babel, the Greenhouse, and the Bakery — all draw almost entirely from what the farm produces. It's not just farm-to-table; it's steps-to-plate. But it's in the in-between hours — when the day visitors have left and the red earth dust has settled — that Babylonstoren reveals something more. The light stays sharp well into the evening, the sky a dusky purply blue that doesn't fade so much as deepen. You begin to see through the layers, past the curated beauty and into something older, more elemental. A glimpse of what life here must have once been. The rooms are set within whitewashed houses — former workers' cottages that now hold freestanding bathtubs, thick linen, and antique wooden wardrobes. The layout of the farm village has been preserved, so each path and stoop still feels lived-in, storied. Mornings are silent but for the occasional crow of a rooster or the hum of a bicycle wheel on gravel. At the end of the path, the spa is a generous, light-filled space, where time unspools. There's an indoor pool tiled in soft green, and an outdoor one framed by vines and fig trees. Scrubs are administered in open-air showers, the kind where you watch clouds drift over vineyards while your shoulders are massaged with apricot kernels. I was staying in one of the houses tucked far from the action, right on the edge of the farm where the landscape opened up and the pace slowed even further. Guests out here were given their own golf carts to get around — half the fun. I spent my evenings puttering along the lake's edge, trying not to crash into the hedgerows while being utterly distracted by the views: jagged mountains rising in every direction, catching the last blush of daylight. The villa itself felt more like a countryside retreat than a hotel suite — generous in size, with a proper living room and a glass-walled kitchen stocked with everything you'd need, from heavy cast-iron pans to boxes of locally blended rooibos tea. There was a rhythm to life here, dictated not by clocks but by the colour of the light. But the real magic happened in the early mornings. That first one — still a little jet-lagged — I stepped out onto the back terrace just after dawn. Before me, a wide, glassy lake, its surface barely rippling, backed by mountains draped in purple mist. I sat there, barefoot on the terrace, sun slowly warming the stone beneath me. Birds darted low across the water. Every so often, a fish would break the surface. The sunlight was so pure, so utterly uplifting, it felt almost sacred. I sat for what could've been hours — motionless, eyes fixed on the view — completely undone by it all. There's plenty to see in the area, Morné tells me, leaning into the passenger window as Peter, the hotel driver, pulls up to take me into Franschhoek. The road winds past vineyard after vineyard — this corner of South Africa is known for its Chardonnay and Syrah, its crisp Cap Classiques, and a winemaking history that dates back to the French Huguenots who settled here centuries ago. Franschhoek itself is compact and postcard-like, a few walkable streets lined with saloon-style restaurants, wine boutiques, and art galleries that manage to feel more lived-in than curated. But it was back at Babylonstoren that the story really stayed with me. On my final morning, Morné walked me through the gardens tended by head gardener Constance who flashed me the brightest of smiles — past the medicinal plants, through the rows of nasturtiums, into the cool, fragrant greenhouse. We passed chefs clipping herbs, gardeners waving from bicycles, staff setting up lunch in the shade of old oak trees. There was a rhythm, a gentleness to it all. What struck me most was how full the place felt; not just in occupancy, but in spirit. Visitors strolled slowly, smiling, feeling lucky to be here. The food was unfussy and full-flavored, the service gracious, and the staff — from the spa therapists to the bakers — seemed genuinely happy to be here. And maybe that's the rarest luxury of all. In a world where so many hotels talk about sustainability, community, and wellness, Babylonstoren somehow makes it all feel natural — like this is simply how things should be. I left it, hailed as the best hotel in South Africa, with mud on my shoes, a Waterblommetjie candle in my carry-on, and a renewed sense of hope: that a large, ambitious hotel can not only tread lightly on the land, but leave it — like its guests — better than it found it.
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