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Sunday June 20
Early this morning, the
second shortest day of the year, three whales came to our doorstep.
We saw the first of the whales of their 1999/2000 visit a couple of
days ago. She (?) was one of the three cavorting sixty metres
beyond our little cove this morning. A very large whale - as were
the other two - and he/she was recognisable by the huge callosity on
its nose; at least the size of a large watermelon. If callosities
are sexually attractive to whales, this one is very sexy.
When you've
read a couple of books on whales you learn one thing:- people know
surprisingly little about the Right Whale, and possibly most of the
others. Much of what we are told is assumption or conjecture. But
according to the books, the whales we were watching this silvery
dawn may have been mating - although it is said they appear to favour
group sex rather than just three-somes.
Today is yet another
unusual day in Paradise - gentle sun, high thin clouds, sea-mist on
the cliffs, but no breath of wind. It's
been like that for weeks and weeks, with about two days of wind to
relieve the perfection, and one night of good rain. We ought to be
having continual rains, so these beautiful days are worrying. The
wheat crop behind the mountains is in serious jeopardy, and so are
the potential fruit blossoms. Some of the fynbos, particularly the
daisies, are shrivelling up. However, the cliff path is still
patched with red ericas and lined with blue flowers,. They are
joined now by tiny wild iris and by a new (to me) little yellow
flower which matches those on the rhus bushes two metres above their
heads. The sea is constantly restless, but remains blue more often
than green or grey.
This 'diary'
is about the cliff path, the seasons, and nature's
ways in the south Cape, rather than about Hermanus or our lives here,
which I have largely avoided writing about. However, it is worth
mentioning that my serenity was disturbed at golf the other day when
one of the players came up to me, stared at my nose, and said: 'You
don't know me - I'm
a retired oncologist (meaning nothing to me at the time) amd I must
tell you that you must get that nose treated immediately.'
'What on earth was that
about?' I asked Dr De
Villiers Marquard, the once eminent physician who was my playing
partner.
'He's
talking about that sun damage. Don't
wait another week. One patient around here has lost his nose because
he left it too late.'
My Gawd. I'm
losing my hearing - I don't
want to lose my sense of smell as well. I hurried to the nearest
dermatologist; have seen a specialist, and will be operated on (four
ulcers of different kinds) on Friday.
Arlene's
serenity has been even more violently disturbed. Last night she
found a large, very large, spider sitting on the wall in our
bedroom. She wants to move home, or seal it off with gauze. The
spider was so big I was able to squash it with a mop very easily. No
poison spray or frantic hunts; just one squish, and I could heave it
up and stagger with it in both hands (I lie) to drop in the loo. I
suggested to Arelene that she should think of such big, fluffy
non-poisonous spiders as a kind of bunny. It went down like the Doom
she uses to kill goggas with. In truth, her phobia is a major
problem in our lives.
June 26
Here we are, in the week
of precisely mid-winter, and the temperature is a sweltering 28 to 30
degrees! The sky is brassy, the sea deep blue with frilly white caps
and spouts of white spray created by diving gannets. As I type I can
see them hovering, twice the height of the cliffs, over the waves,
then plunging, neck outstretched into the flat sea. The 'fountains'
they cause rise as high as whale's
breath.
The season is out of
joint and every living thing seems confused. We saw Whitebreasted
cormorants gathered on 'our'
rock this morning, where they have never assembled before. The
dassie that suns itself on the cliff outcrop beyond our balcony
wasn't there this
morning. . . too hot perhaps. The doors of my upstairs study are
thrown wide to catch some breeze (it really is hot), and a moment
ago I heard a loud mewing - a seagull perhaps? - just below. It
turned out to be a Cape Francolin, with family. When I peered down
at them from the balcony they strutted off down the path.
Lots of birds are active
today, apart from the cormorants, seagulls and those fairly rare
visitors, the gannets. When I watered the wilting fynbos specimens
which I have planted beyond our gates, a robin bobbed up to watch.
It played about on the public pathway for ages. Just above it, two
Fiscal Flycatchers launched themselves from a dead protea branch to
catch insects which are flitting about, thinking it is mid-summer, I
suppose. A Cape Weaver, bright yellow and surprisingly large, came
and sat with the flycatchers. A Karoo Prinia arrived, and hopped up
and down the path, once nearly colliding with the Robin, who thinks
he owns it.
Yesterday - Sunday - was
a breathlessly beautiful day. Clear, crisp sky - with none of
todays heat or
suffocating wind. The sea unruffled, serene green at the shore, deep
glassy blue in the bay and beyond. Arlene and I set off for Danger
Point, stopping first at Maanskynbaai in the Hermanus Lagoon. A
dirt road tunnelled through thick laurel bushes to the water's
edge, where we looked straight across the lagoon to the nature
reserve opposite and the sand bar. On our left, to the east, was a
rocky outcrop falling into the lagoon, and on our right, a spread of
water, then acres of reeds, then trees, and finally the green,green
mountain looming over the scene. Not a house, a car, a person, in
sight. . . until a tiny boat with outboard motor puttered round the
outcrop and frightened the birds. But it was mainly the horde of
cormorants which flew off. Near the reeds we counted dozens of
Yellowbilled Ducks, a Grey Heron, a Dabchik and, I think, some
Shovellers. There were masses of other birds across the water, but
too far away to bother about.
We drove past Stanford
and turned south for Gansbaai. On the hills before Die Kelders we
could see the blue mountains of the western coast hanging over a
ribbon of sea-mist . .The Kogelberg, Hangklip, Steenbras Point and,
on the furtherest horizon, Cape Point itself.
Blackshouldered Kites,
with snow-white chests dazzling in the sun, perched on several
telephone poles, as did numbers of tawny little Rock Kestrels. We
parked beside a white-stoned inlet near Pearly Beach, finding some
sea-polished white stones for door-stoppers, and sat on a bench in
the soft sunshine, staring out to sea, drinking beer and eating our
lunch. The warehouses on Dyer Island, with their reflections
doubling their size on the water's
edge, looked like faraway white cliffs. The rest of the island and
its reefs were hidden in mist. The sea, a sparkling translucent
green, rattled the round pebbles at our feet. It was, as I said, a
breathlessly beautiful day.
My face is a bit swollen
today, from my nose-op. There is a sponge stitched onto the end of
my nose that make's life
difficult. I must look like that whale with the extra-large
callosity on its snout. Amusing thing is, when I meet strangers, and
speak to them in the bookshop, say, they don't
appear to notice the great white spongey protuberance stitched with
black cotton onto the tip of my face. It's
eerie. I suppose if I wore a monkey mask they would pretend that was
normal. People in Hermanus are, mostly, overly polite.
1st July, 1999
It's
a glorious, blustery grey,grey day. Grey curtains of rain scurry
across a grey sea, the darkening shades of grey relieved only by the
startling white of the waves as they break, or smash themselves
against the cliffs. A few wheeling seagulls enjoy the weather. So do
I, but I stand behind glass, watching the combers hurl themselves
over the normally dry rocks immediately below the house. These rocks
need a name. I shall call them The Barricades, for they hold back
the sea most of the time. Yesterday the waves swarmed all over The
Barricades, creating waterfalls down the side wall of the cove. It
was the first time I 'd
seen this happen, and I attributed the high seas to the spring tide
at its fullest, for it was a calm and sunny day with the elements at
rest. But this morning, in the bluster, the tide is relatively low,
and although the waves cannot reach over the side platform of rock,
they are still dowsing the tallest, furthest points of the
barricades.
A close watch reveals
that the waves are exceptionally strong. Sets of three to five
advance across a calm sea and, threatening to break far out, produce
broad white manes before throwing themselves at the cliffs, swarming
even over the top fishing spot on Die Gang to the east of us. These
sets of waves are strangely far apart, so that at times the sea to
the horizon seems totally calm.
Far across the bay, just
inside a curtain of drizzle, my eye caught sight of two huge
splashes just now. The two great gouts of foam, higher and longer
than any trawlers in these waters, occurred one after the other,
about fifty metres apart. Could it have been a whale breaching,
with its whole body falling flat on the water as it fell back into
the sea? I watched through binoculars for a long time, but it did
not occur again.
Yesterday, being so fine
a winter's day with no
wind and no clouds, Arlene and I cancelled our separate plans for
the day and set off to explore the village of Napier on the road to
Bredasdorp and Cape Agulhas. The broad, tarred almost empty road
snakes its way past the mountains beyond Stanford, then switchbacks
among the undulating wheatfields. The broadbacked downs are green
with new shoots of barley, oats and wheat - looking like fields of
lucerne stretching to the purple line of mountains to the north.
We stopped to see two
Secretary Birds striding near the road. Soon afterwards we saw an
edifice above us on the hill, so tall we thought it was one of the
telegraph poles looming over the crest of the hill. But the
structure moved - and revealed itself as another Secretary Bird, the
biggest we had ever seen. It must have been the angle of sight -
looking up to the crest of a steep little hillock of new wheat - so
that we could see daylight between the birds
legs. Even so, it was surely bigger than a Kori Bustard; bigger it
seemed than a young mother ostrich, as it strode down the hill to
stare at our stationary Jeep.
Napier, a few bends
further on, appeared like any other one-horse one-street platteland
village when we first drove through it. But it isn't
a one-street dorp, and among its large urban plots, there is not
one, but a fair number of horses. Napier appears to have some
sophistication when compared with currently more fashionable
villages such as Barrydale, De Rust, and perhaps even Grayton. But
comparisons are not really possible. Napier, founded in 1838, was
for a century and a half a typical farmers
village, accommodating the ou mense from the plaas; the Ko-op; the
village blacksmith (replaced by several garages) and a dominating
DRC church complex, built in the more tasteful way of the last
century. What has made Napier different in the last few years is an
influx of English-speaking artistic types and a change in culture.
The tiny village has several 'art
galleries', two 'antique
shops', a toy and arts
shop, coffee shops, and other products of people who are trying to
get away from the madding crowd and at the same time earn a living.
Napier may be the last place where people sleep with their
frontdoors open at night. . . or so they boast.
On our return journey,
where once we'd seen a
Forest Buzzard and not far from where we glimpsed what might have
been a Marsh Harrier - we came upon a magnificent raptor hovering
not half a metre above the grass on the side of the road. As we
reduced speed approaching it, the bird slid down the wind, keeping
its station and height alongside the road - and keeping our pace of
about 50kph. It dropped into the grass, and as we drove up beside
it, it flew onto the opposite hillside and ripped up and ate the
mouse, or shrew or whatever it had caught. The raptor was a large
Black Harrier.
Friday July 9 (or 10)
We leave in an hour for
Maajtiesfontein, then National Karoo Park - two days - then (Royal)
Johannesburg - 3 days - then Sabie River and Kruger Park -
three weeks - and then to Tonteldoos on the Mpumlanga escarpment for
a couple of days with Nicky and Lerie before getting back here. We
go to escape the depths of the Cape winter.
We leave on the most
beautiful day I can remember - after a week of blue skies, bluer
seas, seas and unruffled calm. But today's
air is purer still. On the cliff path it is vintage champagne,
without the noise of bursting bubles. The rollers march in silent,
understated grandeur, caressing the cliffs with great gouts of foam.
.The sea sparkles, and a myriad fynbos flowers - blues, yellows, reds
and the colours of the rainbow in between, pose with glistening
crystals of dew on their petals. The dogs and I stood like statues
with the sun behind us, watching half a dozen sunbirds flitting about
us like mobile, incandescent clusters of emeralds and rubies.
While walking back I
heard a recurring 'cheep'
from the bush beside the path, and noticed that a litte bird was
actually following us. When I stopped and whistled, it flew to
within an armslength of me, but staying just below the top of
the bushes, at eye level, and watching me through the foliage. When I
moved, it followed again for a brief while..
It's
hard to leave this place on so beautiful a day.
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