Hiking at Harold Porter

Yesterday we took a hike in the Harold Porter National Botanical Garden in Betty's Bay, which was devastated by fire from a flare irresponsibly set off on New Year's Eve. The damage to the gardens was limited to the upper section where nothing remains but blackened trunks of an important natural forest and fynbos. Having not been there since 1968, I can't give a personal assessment, but can only imagine what it once looked like.
We took the Leopard trail up towards the waterfall, an easy walk in the kloof with spectacular rocky cliffs revealing the forces that shaped this land millions of years ago. The river is running strongly after recent rains and for us water-deprived Capetonians, it was a joy to hear and see the pristine mountain water tumbling over the rock-strewn valley. A very strong northerly wind was blasting as it funnelled down the kloof and we had to lean into it, taking care not to be blown off the narrow and rather dangerous trail with a steep drop. The protective barriers were all burned in the fire and have yet to be replaced.
We eventually came to a river crossing where we agreed it would not be worth risking a slip and returned to take the Fynbos Trail up to another waterfall. Quite a few trees had survived here but there was little to see in the way of flowers or birds. A troop of baboons against the skyline was a welcome sign of life returning to the wasteland.
We were unable to reach the waterfall as the walkways were destroyed and one can only hope it won't  be too long before they are rebuilt. The fynbos will return in all its splendour over the next few years, as much of it requires fire for regeneration,  but perhaps a little less devastation next time?
Despite the fierce wind and lack of vegetation, a pleasant walk overall in a usually beautiful area.

Dawn on the deck

How lucky am I? I step out onto my deck overlooking an albeit limited sea view, long before sunrise, and all I can hear is the crashing of the waves as they break across the mouth of the little bay just on the other side of the milkwoods that have managed to survive the onslaught of 'progress'. These twisted and gnarled marvels of nature have survived for hundreds of years, providing shelter for birds and people alike under their thick umbrella-like canopies. Those closest to the sea are stunted and sparser than the magnificent specimens that line the road leading down to the lighthouse, and it is only because they are protected trees, and also not on private land, that they are still there. A little judicious pruning is allowed on private property, and in general people who are lucky enough to have these trees in their gardens adhere to the conservation requirements, but fairly recently a contractor decided to improve the chances of the sale of a beachfront property and within less than a day had destroyed an entire grove of ancient trees to allow an unobstructed view of the sea. The ignorance and selfishness of some people know no bounds, and of course nothing can be done to reverse the dirty deed except wait for the pathetic stumps to regrow. But I digress. Back to the early dawn on my deck.
Overhead, the stars are fading as the sky changes from inky black to indigo, but Jupiter and Venus remain bright on each end of the ecliptic even as the sky lightens before the chasing dawn. There is something restorative to the soul when looking up and out into infinity, a knowing that this earthly life is not all that awaits us. A soft swoosh draws my eye to the flock of sacred ibis winging overhead and a few minutes later, the straggler who has always been left behind for as long as I can remember (both outward and inward bound) follows silently and determinedly.
Birds stir in the branches, calling cheerfully to the new day, never deterred by the weather. We could take a lesson from them. The early bird no longer has to catch the worm, at least not if it is a seedeater, as bird feeders are in almost every garden, and they start before sunrise before the competition arrives. They have worked out a system whereby the smaller birds peck at the seed and suet ball, creating a mess on the deck which the Cape Robin-Chats and Southern Boubous make short work of, being bold and unafraid of my presence if I stand still. Birdwatching at its best!

A tale of two lighthouses and a beach

Two years ago, the climb up the hill from the carpark to the original Cape Point lighthouse was my nemesis. Having shunned exercise for much of my life, I found I was unable to manage more than about 30 paces on the uphill before having to rest and catch my breath, with my heart beating against my ribcage from exertion. After my pathetic performance, I immediately joined a few hiking groups and over two years have increased my fitness so that I barely get a raised heartbeat, although a lack of oxygen does cause me to pause sometimes.
Today I walked up to the lighthouse with pauses only to take in the magnificent views across the Peninsula, as far as Table Mountain and beyond, or to admire the orange-breasted sunbirds chasing each other in the sunlit branches of the aloes in their striking winter bloom. An icy wind blew in from the Atlantic, matching the temperature of the snow-covered peaks of the Western Cape, and we were all well wrapped up despite the bright sunshine and almost cloudless sky. A band of clouds lurking along the western horizon drew closer as the morning advanced, the reason for the strengthening wind and a tentative promise of a little rain later. I wore two down jackets and a scarf for the entire hike, something quite unheard of, which is further testament to the biting cold.
We were the first visitors to arrive at Cape Point and it was a pleasure to have the viewing area to ourselves even though we didn't stay long. The wind kept all signs of wildlife well hidden in the shelter of the bushes, and the dassies, baboons and small reptiles that dart among the rocks were entirely absent. In fact, I don't know of anyone who has seen a baboon at Cape Point for some months now, and one has to wonder what has happened to them.
Not content with a climb to the original lighthouse, we then made our way along the narrow path clinging to the eastern side of the promontory to the lookout above the new lighthouse, which was built after they discovered that the original lighthouse was covered by cloud so often as to be rendered totally useless. It transpired that the highest point was not necessarily the most visible point.
The Peninsula ends in a narrow strip of sheer, rocky cliffs that gradually step down into the sea, and only the very narrow cliff top provides access to the lighthouse, but not to the general public as it is too dangerous, and a wrong step will send you to a certain death way below. It is a place of spectacular grandeur and rugged beauty that should be on a bucket list, if you have one.
We toiled up a not inconsiderable height to rejoin the path back to the carpark, and found the place filled with tourists despite it being the winter season, and engaged in pleasantries with many of them, mostly American or Canadian. It's always great to have an opportunity to interact with visitors to this country and help them identify birds or places or just generally answer their questions.
After a coffee break on the terrace overlooking False Bay, where we were literally divebombed by fearless and apparently hungry redwinged starlings, we continued our hike over to Dias Beach. A fairly long way along an easy boardwalk, we took the steps down to the beach itself. This pristine beach, possibly kept clean of jetsam by a fierce rip tide, is not easily accessible except via the wooden steps that wind steeply down the cliff, past the most interesting geology one could wish to see, and even less easy to leave, as the daunting climb back up had us resting frequently, and I doubt I would do it again. But still another good one for a bucket list. It is pretty much the last beach before Antarctica, bar a few volcanic islands on the way.
Although it wasn't a particularly long hike at just under 5km, the buffeting wind added to the effort, and we gained an overall ascension of around 1 000 feet over that distance. And barely a raised heart rate. Not bad for someone who could barely put one foot in front of the other two years ago.

A little lipstick

It has always been a given that women carry their lives in their handbags and cannot go anywhere without them. No matter what the size of the bag, everything except the kitchen sink can be found inside, with bigger bags just holding a little more of what you may never need. Yesterday I had to take my laptop with me for a training session squeezed in between two medical appointments, so my hands were full when I left the house. An hour later, I arrived at the first appointment: parked the car, reached out for my handbag - nothing! I looked on the floor at the back and under my feet, even inside my laptop bag although it could never have fitted. The unthinkable had happened! I had left home without my handbag.
I have been known to go on a birding safari for 8 days and leave the following behind: binoculars, bird book, hat, face cream and comb. How unprepared was that? But to leave my entire bag at home, with purse, bank cards and cash (not to mention all those coffee shop loyalty cards), appeared at first to be a disaster. How would I pay the doctors (pay before you leave, these days) - would I have to scrub the surgery, or sterilise the instrument bowl, or make tea for everyone? No cash for coffee anywhere, either! And would the car guards believe me?
But wait, I had my cellphone in my pocket. I had mobile data. Access to my banking apps. I could pay by EFT before their very eyes. All would be well. And it was.
There was one fly in the ointment when I tried the cardless service so proudly offered at the ATM. Completely useless if you haven't been fully instructed in how to use it, and don't have your OTP sent to your cellphone, but rather the tablet you left at home. So still no cash, but so far managing fine without my handbag.
I duly attended my physiotherapy appointment, which was prescribed as a hopeful solution to the deafness I have experienced for the last 9 months, and is possibly caused by my long-term clenching of the jaw in stressful situations. When I look at my life, I can understand it completely. It was fascinating to learn about the physiology of the neck and ears and I bravely endured the massaging of my jaw muscles inside, followed by dry needling (!) to release the tension, and can say it did feel better immediately. I will have to have a few more sessions with homework, but one cannot expect miracles.
I successfully completed my round of appointments without a handbag, and it is true that it isn't an absolute necessity. But it would have been nice to have a little lipstick.

A Karoo birding safari 2017

It's nearly a year since I last wrote a blog. Much has happened since then, and life has changed in many ways. Yet life continues after death, both for those who have left us and we who are left behind. And so I went on the Karoo birding safari that Dad had booked for the first week in August, way back in March. I suspect even he thought he was planning too far ahead!
I am not a birder. This became my middle name on the first day. I used the phrase as an excuse for having left the following 'birding' essentials behind: binoculars, bird book, hat, gloves and face cream. This meant that: I couldn't see most of the little brown jobs, couldn't mark them off in the book, had to wear a scarf in the bitterly cold Karoo wind, kept my hands in my pockets a lot and had to use a friend's incredibly expensive face cream that came in at about R100 a dab (but I do look a lot younger now). 
Despite my nickname, it turns out that 61 years with Dad had taught me more than I thought, and the tour guide, who knew Dad from many trips, told me that I was definitely my father's daughter, which I took as a huge compliment. I climbed in and out of the 4x4 at every stop, dutifully observing to the best of my ability and occasionally using my friend's binoculars. Unfortunately she only has sight in one eye and so, by the time I had readjusted the eyepieces, the bird had flown! We saw 140 species of birds, an aardvark (in broad daylight) and the most spectacular Karoo landscapes the heart could desire. The tiny Karoo flora, battling it out in the harshest environment, were fascinating, as were the different rocks to be added to my collection.
The other birders were knowledgeable in different fields and the entire trip proved to be educational, inspirational, a feast for the eyes and hugely entertaining. Pitstops at the side of the road were a source of great hilarity and entirely without risk as, if we passed three cars in a day, we thought the traffic was heavy.
We stayed on farms where traditional food was prepared in vast quantities and consumed with gusto. Tree trunks were burned through the night in fireplaces big enough to braai an ox, and no water pipes froze in the week we were there.
The pleasures of life are made up from experiences and I can state unequivocally that such an excursion should be on a bucket list even if one is 'not a birder'.  I will certainly never forget the binoculars again, and a new camera is looming into view.

Six years ago, sleet.

My newsfeed reminded me of this extraordinary event on this day in 2013 - sleet in Cape Town. The weather pattern has changed so much since this day, perhaps it was a forerunner of the chaotic conditions we now face, with rain forecasts so often wrong and winters becoming warmer, it seems. 
Here is my short blog of the event, as apparently it was too cold to sit at my computer. Today I am in summer clothes.

2 June 2013

If this is winter in Cape Town, I'm flying Coconut Airways to Barbados!

Today has brought hail like we have never seen before. It looks like snow - not something we are used to in the streets of Cape Town. The wind is coming straight from Antarctica and it is only 11 degrees inside the house, which is normally very warm. We don't have a fireplace or a heater, as a wooden house seems to be much warmer than brick, or at least this one is. In winter the sun streams into all the rooms and the garages underneath keep a warm pocket of air underneath us. But the hail or sleet that has just come down is not even melting!

It is as though the cold front is coming in bands, as each downpour is followed by bright sunshine, which makes it slightly easier to cope with. My hands are frozen as I type this, so will have to give up now...

Elephant's Eye cave

A moderate southwest breeze threatened to put a patch of cloud over the Elephant's Eye cave on Constantiaberg as we set off from the upper Silvermine car park, but it hovered overhead and obligingly kept the sun off us for most of the hike. We took the easy route today, not climbing up onto the ridge, but rather taking the jeep track - a long and winding but steady ascent to the trail leading up to the lookout and then the cave higher up.
Parts of the reserve were sheltered from the wind, and the dam cast a mirror-smooth reflection before the surface was shattered by two dogs leaping into the water after a stick. The path round the dam is the only part of Silvermine where dogs are not allowed, but evidently some dogs are more equal than others, or their owners are. I have no idea why the restriction, but perhaps it has something to do with what they leave behind!
The fynbos is still at its quietest time of year, with a few protea cynaroides providing splashes of grandeur on the cooler slopes, in shades of pink and green, but the beautiful pink ericas (which I can never identify but will find out) are in profusion and in more than one variety, together with minute versions in white. My photography was poor as I didn't take enough time with focusing and had to concentrate on my footing due to numerous hazards on the rocky path. One of our group had a bad fall and was accompanied back to the cars - it can happen to anyone, as I well know, and particular care has to be taken with roots and long grasses that lie in the path to trip the unwary.
The stream that we crossed at the lowest point was little more than that, a reminder that winter rains have been slow in coming and how desperately we need them. Hopefully it will be a torrent next time we pass that way. A strange sight on the path - a pair of shorts draped on a rock. We looked for the owner, who would no doubt have been easy to identify, but the only other person we saw ran past us in a similar pair, so it was unlikely to have been his. It did cause a great deal of laughter as we speculated on various aspects of the pant-less person.
A further group stayed at the lookout point to enjoy the view which was no less splendid than that from the Elephant's Eye cave, but the majority soldiered on up the only section that I would call strenuous and were rewarded with a panorama that made it all so  worthwhile. Looking down on the Southern Suburbs from Wynberg to Muizenberg, with shiny dots of traffic snaking along the roads like Dinky cars on a play mat, we marvelled once again at the extreme beauty of the Peninsula and how privileged we are to be able to hike in the reserve where only the rustle of the wind in the leaves and the occasional call of a bird interrupts the silence.