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Thursday
12th August
We're
back, after driving 4 000kms around South Africa, from the south-west
corner of the country almost to its north-east tip in the Kruger
Park. We watched hippos gambolling in the bottom of our Sabie River
garden, and saw leopards each time we went into the Game Reserve. We
watched a giraffe scratching its balls on a pliant doubled-over young
tree, an elephant browsing prodigiously; two crocodiles vying for the
leg of antelope in one of their mouths; a hyena on the hunt (and
another looking for a warm place to give birth), and of course lots
of birds. I think I glimpsed the African Finfoot that was
frequenting our corner of the Sabie. . . but unfortunately could not
be certain.
At
the very start of our journey, just beyond the valley after Stanford,
we watched 18 Blue Cranes wheeling about the sky - as buck scattered
for the bush below.
We
enjoyed sunshine every day in every part of the land, but also
fortunately, some overcast skies,
giving
a different perspective to the Karroo, and especially to the green,
rollercoaster valleys between the coastal mountains It never
rained, wherever we travelled. Forunately, between July 12 and
August 10, it did rain at last in the Overberg. Our raingauge
records 83 mm. . . nice and damp for the folks at home, but not
nearly enough to break the weird Western Cape drought.
Yes,
we're back, and these
past 48 hours have produced beautiful, calm weather, with blue skies
and blue-and-white seas. As I look out into the blue I can see at
least two whales leaping about as if they are celebrating a new-born
member to their family. One of the giants sticks its head out of
the sea and towers there for half a minute. The other holds its tail
upright - taller than a flagpole - then creates a great white splash.
Then they cavort and blow.
I
went walking as soon as I could after we got back. The cliff path
would appear almost violently verdant were it not for all the flowers
that break up the aggressive greenness. Hard to remember even the
illusion of green of summer, compared with this.
Arum
lilies, despite the depredations of procupines, are everywhere. The
lilies seem to have reached their peak in our absence and are now
beginning to die back as the wild geraniums announce their turn to
show off with their first mauve buds opening into flowers. The pink
bonnets of the blombosssies are still dominant along the cliff
path, but each bush is now giving its effort to producing bright
green seedpods between the blossoms. What is quite new for me, is
the scattering of 'snow'
on the most memorable of fynbos - the biggest and most prolific
agathosma. . . the one with the minty, mountainous scent which
triggers memories of exalted high-climbing hikes. These prolific,
hardy tiny-leafed bushes (a close relative, surely, of the 'Climbers'
Friend) are producing
scatterings of buds far smaller than snowdrops - rather like snow
crystals, each with five tiny petals. Above them crowd the rhus
taaibos suddenly filling with daisy-like flowers each with
nine to twelve petals of a bright yellowness that stabs your eye
against the blue of the sea or the white of the towering spray.
I'd
forgotten, during just one month away, how deceptively powerful is
the winter sea. It advances in those typical three bands of great
rollers, and surges up the cliffs, effortlessly swallowing three
fathoms of rock before bursting into the sky in plumes of spray. The
still,green pool which I remembered as being high above the tides on
the ledge beside the 'secret
garden' is now a flurry
of white foam. Serenity Pool, at Kwaaiwater, has completely
disappeared beneath huge seas, as has its beach beneath the cliff.
In there places are a patch of grey sand, and an acre of tumbling
water that arrives in walls of white and rushes back to sea in side
torrents and frontal waterfalls.
The
waves are awe-inspiring today, though the sky is blue and the air
calm. At Siewerpunt, to the left of our house where the highest
columns of spray always occur, I went towards my usual vantage
point, but fouind it covered in water and too dangerous. I went
round to a safer view-point which was high and dry. . . but
immediately saw a monster of a wave, the middle of a three-some,
curling into parapets of white foam far out to sea. I retreated to
more elevated, dry ground and watched fascinated as the wall of
water swelled upwards to absorb its retreating forerunner, then
smash into the cliff. The column of spray rose, perhaps five or six
storeys high - but instead of falling back as all the others had
done, it careened into the very top of the cliff and went skywards
like a great firework, peaking and pausing, then cascading
downwards. As it fell it spread over the cliff path, drenching me.
14th
August, Saturday
The
sea was suddenly calm on Thursday. Big winds, but blue skies on
Friday the 13th, and today another fine, breezy day, with the great
winter seas back again, marching in long lines of graceful power,
glistening in the warm sunlight. Lying in bed this morning I
watched a bird wheeling over the blue sea. Suddenly it dawned on me
this bird was perhaps three times the size of a kelp gull, and not
flapping and gliding - but soaring! It had to be an albatross. At
last. I've waited all
winter for a glimpse. I rushed to put on some clothes before going
out on the balcony with my binos. I should have gone naked. By the
time I was able to sweep the horizon, from the mountains to the seas
to the west cliffs. . .there was no sign of any giant bird.
Instead,
when I looked down at the path just below me, and at the turbulent
white waters close by, this is what I saw:
-
a Large Grey Mongoose, with black-tipped nose and tail, came
trotting down the path. It froze as it saw me; sniffed, and trotted
a few metres before freezing again. Once passed our house, it
jogged merrily down the path until it heard a dog, then slipped
silently into the bushes.
-
five, six, or seven whales frolicking where the giant Atlantic
rollers began to crest. They were spread along the coast, and
difficult to count, for sometimes one looked like two as its tail,
its flipper or its head appeared on different sides of a wave, and
two looked like one cruising close together. The furthest out, all
alone, may have been a Bryde whale for it was identified in the
Bay earlier this week. An enormous Right Whale, with more
callosities under her chin than on her nose, was playing just
beyond 'the Barricades',
the rocks in front of our balcony. Then I saw what the game was
about. It was her baby, frolicking all around her; nudging her
side; swimming round her vast, waving tail; putting its
pink-and-black head on the mothers back. Was she trying to suckle?
I know so little about these gentle creatures with their great,
forlorn, down-turned mouths. Why do they stand on their heads and
smack the sea with their tails - creating great towers of foam? Why
do they stand straight up momentarily, with their eye about as far
out of the water as three people standing on each others shoulders?
Why, at a certain hour of the day between 11am and 4pm, do some of
them take to leaping through the biggest of the rollers as the waves
rear up in their approach to the beach half a mile away?- a Hyrax
(dassie, rock rabbit) crouched immobile on 'Sentinel
Rock', high above the
sea, just to the left of our balcony. Was it watching the whales?
More likely it was on look-out for Black Eagles.. . . Arlene and I
saw one hovering over Main Road recently, not fifty feet above the
houses. Perhaps it had spotted our dogs. Each might be a tastey
morsel, but I think their puffballs of hair would choke an eagle..
-
a young Cape Francolin, all by itself for once, was feeding in the
dew-covered grass of my tame fynbos garden outside the gate. It was
joined by
-
a Laughing Dove,
-
a Turtle Dove, and a red-eyed
-
Rock Pigeon, which seemed almost as big as the francolin.
Obviously our neighour had left food for them on her front wall.
-
A Speckled Mousebird, for once not in a flock, was attracted by the
bird party.
-
A White-eyed Bulbul came across the path from the bush beyond,
followed by
-
a Lessercollared Sunbird which flew into the great yellow Protea in
our garden.
-
A sparrow hopped along the path, almost bumping into
-
two Cape Robins, who think they own that path. A final glance
around from the balcony showed up
-
a flock of Hautlaub Gulls heading west along the seafront;
-
some Kelp Gulls, one of them wallowing in the water a few yards from
the whales
-
a Whitebreasted Cormorant, also flying west across the water, away
from the dazzling morning sun.
But
no albatross or anything that might be mistaken for one. Not even a
gannet.
Nonetheless,
not an uninteresting slice of life to see in about 60 seconds of
staring from ones
balcony.
Monday
16th August
While
I was shaving this beautiful, unlike-winter's
morn, the radio informed me that this is the anniversay of Elvis
Presley's death. I
remember it vividly because one of The Star's reporters, on secondment to an American newspaper at the time,
phoned me at 3.45am to tell me of it. There was nothing I could do,
or wanted to do about it, but in view of his enthusiasm for breaking
the news, I didn't have
the heart to tell him - or to point out that he had just startled us
awake at an ungodly hour for no practical reason. The radio also
informs me that, while it may be Elvis Presley's
death date, it is also Madonna's
birth-date. With such trivia is much of the privileged and educated
western world enthralled.
Beyond
our front windows all was blue-grey at 8am, and one couldn't
see much further than Sentinel Rock, about 30 paces away. But an
hour later the sun burnt through the mist, warming my back as I
walked the cliff, and revealing the spouts and great, glistening,
grey-black backs of some friendly whales. Some are over to the
west, near the village, showing off to non-existent tourists
(because this is winter). Some are playing beyond my window as I
type. I need to go and see how they are getting on. . .
Tuesday,
24th August
As
I look up from this computer screen to the sea outside, whales are
spouting all along my vista, their v-shaped spray reminding me of
wartime films of naval gunfire. Over towards Kwaaiwater on our
left, I watched while walking the dogs just now, four large whales
smacking the sea with their tails and flippers and rolling about not
30 paces from the rocks. I really ought to spend a day just
observing them while they are this active.
The
temperature has been dropping for three days, with snow on the
mountains yesterday, and 24 hours of welcome rain. We had
alternate sunshine and showers while playing golf yesterday, and
several fairways were covered in patches of water. Momentarily
there was sleet. I've
measured 43mm of rain in this period.
Today
the sun is back, and it is beginning to touch our front garden in
the early mornings as the solstice approaches. I calculate we shall
have front-garden sun all day from October to April. For seven
months. We shall see.
On
Saturday morning Nicky and I hiked up Fernkloof. I had promised John
he could come on this first venture over the mountains - but he was
so preoccupied with the van he has just bought that he preferred to
stay home to play with its gears. Nicky and I decided niot to
bundu-bash and to be back by lunch-time. We were fortunate to meet a
lovely whitehaired lady at the 'visitors
centre' in Fernkloof
where she was making the weekly change of fynbos samples. She gave
me a map and recommended a route. To the waterfall, then doubling
back round Kanonkop to its summit, then eastwards along the nek to
White Rock, 'then go left
or right and make the circular journey to Galpin's
Peak and back,' before
descending Adders Ladder to the waterfall's
forest fringe. The lower path brings you back to the Visitors Centre.
The
Reserve is well managed, the paths immaculate and protected from soil
erosion. So off we set with our six-foot aliminium sticks on a
gentle hike. Imagine my joy when we reached Kanonkop's
summit to find myself looking across the Hemel en Aarde Valley! This
zigzagging hikers' path
led to the very point I had planned to reach by heavy bundu-bashing
straight through the fynbos and over the rocks.
From
the Hemel en Aarde side 'The
Summit' is reached by a
white-stoned jeep-track which travels on into the mountains, skirting
the peak of Aasvoel's kop
and (presumably) leads on to 'The
Dam'. Looking in that
direction, and to the north-east, one sees only mist and green
mountain slopes, a wonderful wildness reminding one of the preserved
wildernesses of Scotland.
Looking
down from the Summit, one gazes at vineyards, meadows, and numbers of
sparkling stretches of water in the valley. Looking back from whence
we came, one sees the lagoon, the beaches, the cliffs, and Westcliff,
Hermanus, nestling under a few tall deodars. I think we could see
the roof of our house.
But 'The Summit'
is less than 400m high, and the path beyond the jeep track beckoned
us to Galpins Peak and the peak behind which is 800m high..
We walked fast up the zigzag to Galpins, reaching it just before the
mist closed down the view while we ate energy bars and donned our
weather jackets. After a visit to Galpins Hut, just below the rocky
outcrop, we descended along a path that ran beside a stream then
turned back towards Adders Ladder - a steep, zigzag into the
waterfall gorge.
We
were back in time for a shower, a beer, and lunch with the girls at
the Greek Tavern. No time on the fast walk to look at the flowers.
But we saw a Cape Rockjumper - that spectacular, rare, black-white
and russet red bird that bounces among the boulders in the mist. We
also saw several Orangebreasted Sunbirds, found nowhere in the world
except a narrow strip of the Western Province, but always to be seen
in Fernkloof (as it is on the top of Franschhoek's
mountains).
Unless
Arlene is prepared to walk with me to 'The
Summit', my next walk
surely must be to Aasvoelskop and/or The Dam.
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