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October's
rainfall was 12,8mm,
well
below the average of 54,1mm
Tuesday
November 2
Another
beautiful morning, just like all the days of the past week. Blue
seas, castles of white clouds on the horizon, and the smallest of
flecks of white in the waves, heralding a south-easter.
I've
just counted nine whales lolling and puffing in the waters
below our window. The count of whales in Walker Bay last week, with
the arrival of the males for the mating season, was 82! If it goes on
like this, the bay is going to be overcrowded. Can't
wait for the debate on culling the whales.
It's
been a hectic week. . . dinner parties on three successive nights . .
. two days of hard work folding, inserting, stamping and posting
hundreds of newsletters to ratepayers - a job which I would not have
even contemplated in the past 50 years. . . golf matches (my handicap
has come down from 21 to 17, at long last) . . . and, in between the
sensational World Cup rugby mnatches, some visits along our coast.
On
Friday Arlene and I took Colleen Knudsen to the Elgin Rose Festival.
It was preview day, so we avoided the masses that come there over the
week-end, apparently. First we visited a private garden on the farm
Fresh Wood. I expected to trail along reluctantly as one might on a
shopping expedition - but Fresh Wood proved to be a magic place. It
is filled with old-style roses, the largest collection in Africa, or
whatever, with perfumes that make your head sing. Among the rambling
roses are rambling paths that weave in and out of miniature forests,
through clumps of old-fashioned English flowers, across sunlit lawns
and round dark, muddy pools filled with lilies, irises and giant
fronds. It is impossible not to set off down hidden, winding walks
that take you to dramatically blooming rhododendrons and other
delights among the pine trees. Birds flit among the flowers. Fresh
Wood leaves calm, graceful pictures in your head, and the
simultaneous scents of sharp pine, and voluptuous red roses.
Our
next visit, to a grand house and formal garden at Whitehall, high in
the Elgin Valley, was a a disappointment by comparison. But only by
comparison. We drove back to the Elgin Country Club where the final
touches were being put to the Rose Show. We walked among the
marquees, across a cricket field to the refreshment tent which looks
onto a scene from Norway or North Dakota . . . blue lake water framed
by pine forests, and mountain peaks. The flower exhibitions were
stunning, even for a non-gardening birder and golfer like me. My
overall impression is of thousands - literally thousands - of rose
blooms, each a delicate, perfect specimen, squashed into giant
columns and bunches and patterns resembling anything from butterflies
to christmas cakes. Then there was the 'underwater
garden' of a hundred
species of flower arranged to resemble coral, sea anemonies and. . .
A
whale is jumping out of the sea and crashing back in great fountains
of white water as I type. It's
impossible trying to write while sitting here behind glass doors,
staring straight into the ocean. Thar she jumps again. Now the whale
is waving its tail . . the epitome of exuberant youth.
On
Sunday we drove to Napier and Bredasdorp. Inspected Nickey's
property where the grass is knee-high and the the vines, apricots,
pears and plum trees, and roses, are needing attention. Lots of
sparrows and other birds, again, including a noisy Cape Batis. Next
door, at the farm stall, we had a memorable breakfast; one worth
travelling 75kms for.
Bredasdorp
is a big town. Well, compared with Napier it is a big town,
boasting banks and real shops, show grounds, hotles and things.
Bredasdorp must be nearly as big as Cradock. Certainly bigger than
Aberdeen in the karoo. In our quick drive-around we noticed a
marvellous suburb of modern thatched homes on the hill, all neatly
imitating the original thatched national monument on the highest
site. A model suburb, with pretty gardens, tucked away courtyards,
and views of distant wheatfields, and possibly the whole coastline
which was lost in mist while we were there. We saw a fiscal shrike 'wrestling'
with a rolled up snake on a steep tarred road. The shrike could fly
only a few metres with the coiled snake. But when it returned to
earth to get a better grip, the snake, coiled like a cylinder, set
off down the steep tarred street, gathering speed like a rubber
ball. We hadn't time to
watch the outcome., But several interested birds of other species
did.
Today
I have to attend the Exco meeting of the Hermanus Ratepayers
Association. I was drafted onto the committee as a non-voluntary,
non-elected member. Not sure how long I can keep it up, but I feel I
ought to put something into the community.
Protecting
this unique, precious, special environment is an incentive.
Protecting the village from exploding crime is another. But I am
trying to persuade some of the committee (others already committed)
that 'the over-riding
priority in all civic affairs in Greater Hermanus and beyond is the
creation of a stable community, with reasonable governance, among
the lowest income group. All other projects are threatened unless
this is somehow achieved in the foreseeable future.'
Fortunately I have bumped into Jan Kuhn, old contact from
Johannesburg newspaper days, who has been working on this priority
through the Ratepyarers Association for five years. Little has
happened, of course, and he wants 'out'
to have time to enjoy his retirement.
Tomorrow
we drive to Knysna for the Seniors Triangular golf tournament
(Western Cape, Southern Cape, Eastern Cape). Next week we go to
stay in Cape Town for the Annual Championships. I think that, after
a killing medal round at Mowbray, I shall be forced to give up golf.
But even if I do. When shall I find time to attempt to write?
.
Wednesday
November 10
The
cliff top is filled with floating spray and dancing grasses.
High
seas continue to pound the cliff on a still, hazy morning. And tall
grasses have suddenly 'blossomed',
their bells and sheaves and puffballs of seed bowing and waving,
even on this calmest of days.
I
was reminded again of the ease with which land and sea meet here, as
a Blackheaded Heron landed on a tall rock on Kwaaiwater beach. It's
a place one would think would be reserved for oyster catchers and
cormorants. Candy and Susie yapped around in the sea-sand near the
base of the rock, running to fetch the sticks I threw. The heron
bent its long neck and looked down on them with a cold eye.
But
the memory of today's
walk is the sudden dominance of a wild variety of grasses which I
did not know existed. They flourish wherever the fynbos allows
room, and their different shaped heads bob thickly beside the cliff
path. Knowing less about grasses than I do about fynbos, I am at a
loss to identify them. But as I really must find out sometime, I
shall try to describe the varieties I saw. As no-one
has ever suggested that grass stems should not be picked, I brought
specimens to my desk - more than a dozen varieties, but theres
no guarantee I have not collected a very young and very old specimen
of the same species.
Here
goes at an attempt to describe each in the language of a compete
ignoramus:
1.
White puffball. This is the most prevalent and most spectacular
grass on the path at the moment. It stands knee-high in serried
ranks, with leaves less than a centimetre wide reaching about ten
centimetres from the base from which tall thin stems rise, holding a
single 'puffball'
on each. The 'puffball'
is a thin cone-shape, green to white in colour, with pollen-like
white seeds scattered among the base of the 'hairs'
that stretch upward from the puffball. (Try and picture that!)
2.
Puff tubes.(i) I have two very different specimens, but they
could be the same species at different ages. The more perfect
specimen stands on a strong, thin stem - with leaves that are
slimmer than those supporting the 'puffball'.
The head is about the same width as the puffball, but at least
twice as long and less delicate; more spikey.
(ii) The second (older?) version has curling heads and slim shards of
green/brown seed speckling the white tube.
4.
Grass bells (i) Delicate little stems with several light
bell-like cones hanging from each. The stems, holding light, dry
husks, are about 10 centimetres high.
(ii) The same 'bells' on
stems half a metre high. Each stem is strengthened by long green
leaves, and carries up to a dozen 'bells'
of seed. The seed-bells are shaped like little boats with a platted
cluster of about 16 seeds.
6.
Hairy ears (i) Dry stems, about a foot high, with light, hairy,
cockscomb heads (Heavens, I really am going to be forced to learn
the correct terminology)
(ii) Stems supported by a few thin leaves reaching nearly three feet
high with a dozen fronds on top, each shaped like.. Er...um...like a
dart with five thin hair-like 'feathers'.
8.
Rocket pods I'm
running out of images. This grass has a stem about half a metre
high - say knee high - with one long thin branch at the top from
which hang five to ten slender pods, each the shape of a green
rocket with a tail almost twice its own length.
9.
Restios. No doubt about it. I picked by mistake, a fynbos
restos (or whatever) grass beside the path.
10.
Tick grass. You know, the kind of grass that hangs over paths
with a long, slender seed pod that looks the hiding place of a
hundred baby ticks, waiting for you or your dog to brush against the
head.
11.
Coarse tick grass. Quite unlike the former, I suppose, for it
has well defined, large 'shoots'
forming the long, slender seed-head. More like a sheaf of wheat.
12.
Bullrush grass Long stem, with five ridges in it (wots the
term?) Standing thigh-high or perhaps a metre, with a bulllrush-like
pod, but with litte knobs of white seed on the ends of 'hairs'
on the pod.. . .. (Can this go on?!)
13.
No Name. Stem as strong and tall as the 'bullrush
grass' but round,
without ridges, and a seed pod at the top that is shaped like the 'coarse tick grass
shoots' mentioned
albove. But not quite,
or
nothing like it.
I
give up.
November
16
Though
there are purple rain clouds approaching from the west - and the
glass is dropping fast - the green,green grass-heads I have been
describing have turned - in a single week - scratchy grey-white.
Though the stems remain green, tthe seed-heads appear as dry as the
everlasters remain fresh. The main event on the cliff-top at the
moment are the button-sized butter-yellow blooms in tightly-packed
bouquets among the fynbos. Their scent is somewhere between
lavender and honey (that's
the best I can do) and there are at least a hundred yellow
button-blossoms in every plate-sized shrub. The plant grows to
about knee-high, a typical modest little fynbos, until it suddenly
bursts into colour. There's
one in my rockery which I must have bought last summer, so I ought
to know its name. . . . as I don't,
this is an apt moment to remind myself to spend a few moments each
week through next year's
seasons at Fernkloof, where I can see the specimens on display
there, and identify them as they take their turns to bloom through
the seasons..
The
chincherchees have popped out on the very edge of the cliff, in
reach of the salt spray of really high seas. Their stems are
shorter than I remember them - perhaps as a defence against wind in
their exposed positions.
The
arum lilies are finally dying back, at least where there are no
natural streams. Beside a streamlet in a small kloof near the 'secret cliff
garden', they still
stand proud in ivory splendour.
There
was a moment of deja vu on my walk today when I reached the
point above the edge of Kwaaiwater which I once called 'Serenity
Pool'. The pool has been
partly submerged and constantly under seige all winter. This evening,
though a storm was brewing, the sea lay flat and low; swelling up
onto the weed and shell-encrusted rock wall, but falling back in
myriad waterfalls without reaching the pool. The pool lay, serene
and still and open to the skies exactly as I first saw it. Seven or
eight Black Oystercatchers were poking around in it with their long
red bills, and a couple of seagulls paddled among them. The scene
was a precise repeat of last November - a reminder that we have been
here just a year. A reminder of the near-infallibility of solar
time.
November
28
Much
wind has blown during the past ten days. Not the regular old
south-easter, strangely enough, but strong stuff from the south-west
- which seems to bring the high seas - and from the north-west, which
seems to bring rain. Only there has been much wind and very little
rain.
The
robins are busy. The Sugarbirds are almost frantic. I see one
sometimes sitting in our 'yellow'
protea (must remember the name) beside the verandah, and it is so
intent on sipping the flowers that I can reach out and almost touch
it before it flies off.l Yesterday I saw my first Paradise Flycatcher
this year, flitting from reed to reed above the water on the 12th
hole on the golf course. Also saw a startled buck bounding across
the second fairway. The cause of its fright was a large brown dog on
the loose - and it ought to be shot! Fortunately the dog lost the
scent. Unfortunately we lost the dog before we could give it a
fright.
There
are still whales about, though less numeroous and less active.
Mainly I see a mother and calf playing about just beyond the rocks
along Eastcliff, between our window and Kwaaiwater. A new sight for
me was the giant mother lying on her back - her white belly above the
surface, as the calf played around her. Occasionally she stood on
her head and slapped her tail on the sea. . Since the brief
flourishing of grasses among the fynbos, the vegetation on the cliff
has appeared dry and less colourful than it was a month ago. No
dramatic seasonal performances by the flowers. But there are signs
of the next wave of red and yellow and blue flowers preparing to
blossom.
The
big event, of course, has nothing to do with this cliff-diary. . .
but I'm hoping that in
time it will. It is Helen's
new baby - Lucy May is her proposed name - and she was born on
Friday, 26th November, 1999 - a true child of the twenty-first
century . . . just as her great grandmother, Olive Mossop/Tyson was a
child of the twentieth century, born in the late days of the 19th
century. Welcome Lucy-May. My wish is that your world will be
wiser, less vicious, less frantic than ours . . . and that places
like our Walker Bay Cliffs and your Uncle Barry's
wild farm will be as beautiful when you are 40 as they try to be
today.
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