Birthday Reflections

There's a whole log available, but the terrapins all want the same space

I celebrated my birthday last Thursday at Umlani Bushcamp in the Timbavati Nature Reserve. One of the highlights was a chance to spend a couple of hours on my own in a treehouse hide overlooking Marco’s Dam.

There’s something about being alone in the wilds of Africa, something precious. Not another person around, not a single dwelling, no mechanical sounds or smells. Just nature. Just you.

From my elevated perch, I looked out across the landscape and waited. Gradually my eyes took in the greater picture on the far side of the dam: a pair of African hawk eagles and a juvenile bateleur scanning for prey, a grey heron stalking the edge of the dam, a flock of guineafowl hugging the bushes for shade, a crocodile soaking up the sun’s heat.

Impala mirrors

I turned to look behind me and realised that a herd of impala had magically appeared. Slowly they made their way around the dam, grazing the short grass before slaking their thirst and giving me a chance to admire their reflections in the water. 

On the far side, a giraffe with a wonky ear ambled up and bent down awkwardly to drink her fill. So ungainly when stooping low, so regal at full stretch. Again and again, she lowered her mouth to the water then raised it up to swallow and gaze around, droplets splashing between her contorted legs. 

So ungainly, so regal

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted more movement. A male steenbok picked his way across the grassy plain, his little pointed horns carried proudly upright. It gave me a thrill to know that this secretive little creature was completely oblivious to the fact that he was being watched.

What a way to mark a birthday, surrounded by Nature’s gifts.

Mountain Song for Judy

Yesterday, August 10, dawned with a clear sky, perfect for walking in the mountains of the Fairest Cape. We decided to walk for Judy, our dear friend who loves the mountain so and would be on the slopes herself if she weren’t recovering from a major operation. Afterwards, she would be writing about her experience and showing us her wonderful photographs.  

I can’t pretend to match your talent, Judy, but I offer this song to the mountain for you.

The Vlakkenberg stands sentry on the southern side of Constantia Nek. Following a path introduced to us by you and Jannie, we climbed steadily past graceful restios and up through a forest of silver trees, their soft leaves shimmering in the gentle light of a wintry sun.

The musty forest smell of fallen leaves and the clear call of the Southern boubou awakened my senses. The pinky-mauve blossoms of the September bush vied with the bright yellow of the Aspalathus, shyly opening up to the bumble bees and butterflies. Everywhere I looked, I found hints of the spring that was coiled and waiting to burst forth.

We left the forest and steadily climbed the steep slopes towards the rocky fringe just below the summit. Suddenly, the air above our heads came alive with feathery acrobats. A flock of alpine swifts, fresh from their long migration, swooped and soared above the rockface, effortlessly dodging the hungry crows, ravens and rock kestrels. Entranced, I stood and looked upwards for several long moments, delighting in the whoosh of the wind in their wings. And then they were gone.

At the top, we found a rocky outcrop with the most perfect view over the Cape Flats and out over False Bay.  Wisps of mist still hung low over the land, but the sun was warm and welcoming. Far below, we pinpointed the red roofs of Constantiaberg Hospital and sent our thoughts and our love down to you.  I like to think that it was at about that time that you spoke those few words to your beloved Jannie and gave him such joy.

Your mountain is patiently waiting for you, dressing herself in her finery. The sugarbirds are dancing above the black-bearded proteas, their impossibly long tails trailing like ribbons on the breeze. The orange-breasted sunbirds are jealously guarding their territories, scolding those bold enough to pass near. There is no rush; she will wait. And when you are ready, Judy, she will embrace you again. 

On Silent Wings

I was drifting off to sleep recently when I heard the unmistakable sound of an owl hooting. Not a single "hoo", but a soft dove-like series of notes, repeated several times.  “Did you hear the owl?” I asked Siegie the next morning.

Yes, he had and we agreed that it had been a wood owl. These melodious little owls frequent our area, but it's not often that we hear one and we've yet to actually see one.

In my book, owls are special. Because they are nocturnal and so silent on the wing, they are often missed – unless you happen to be using a spotlight. One night a couple of years ago, Siegie was parked out down near the river while out on a Neighbourhood Watch patrol. Shining the spotlight into the foliage, he caught the reflection of a pair of eyes and realised there was a barn owl sitting in a tree.

I was very envious when he told me the story. Many years ago we’d heard a barn owl giving its dreadful screech when we were living on the other side of Hout Bay, but this was the first time either of us had seen one. It doesn’t seem right that an owl with such a lovely face can produce a blood-curdling screech instead of a melodious hoot.

The spotted eagle owl, on the other hand, has the quintessential owl hoot and is more likely to be seen during the day. Over the years, I’ve had some wonderful encounters with these large “eared” owls. I once surprised one at the bottom of our garden, standing in the middle of the path leading down to the river. I wanted to sit down and watch it for a while, but our cat came along and disturbed it.

A few winters ago, another eagle owl spent several days roosting in the bare branches of the weeping willow above the washing line. I grew quite fond of him and even called him Ollie. He and I had some marvellous one-sided conversations when I hung out the washing.

I’ve also seen Ollie – or one of his cousins – down on the riverbank many times. Favourite roosts include a fence post, a large rock or the branch of another weeping willow.

But perhaps the most thrilling Ollie experience we’ve had happened early one evening. Siegie called me out on to the patio to hear an owl hooting from a tree right in front of our patio. It was around 7pm and was just getting dark. The owl was beautifully outlined against the dusky sky as it perched on a long bare branch.

We watched and listened for several long minutes. Finally, it flew away on silent wings.

A Snake in the Boot

It rained last Thursday night and the patio was still wet on Friday morning. I grabbed my gumboots, which reside just outside the sliding door, and slipped them on. “Yikes – what was that?” I asked Duma, my ridgeback shadow.

I knew something had taken up refuge in my boot as soon as my right foot touched the ground. I managed to withdraw it before putting any weight down and shook the boot out.

Countless books on the wide outdoors warn that you should shake your shoes out before putting them on. Once I crushed a creature in my boot – a snail that went “crunch” and spread slime over my socks. This time, I knew it wasn’t a snail but was certainly not expecting the tiny snake that dropped to the ground after I’d given the boot a hard knock.

It was brown, thin and around 20 centimetres long. Recognising it as a harmless common slug-eater, I picked it up by its tail to move it to a safer location. It didn’t like that and started to twist around, setting Duma on high alert. I told him not to be foolish and tossed the reptile into a nearby fern.

Many people back away from snakes in fear. Indeed, most snakes justify such a reaction, but slug-eaters are different. Up to 40 centimetres in length, they’re completely harmless. Except to slugs and snails, their only food source.

Naturally shy creatures, slug-eaters normally hide away under lawn edges or leaf litter. Not long ago I disturbed one when I was clearing fallen leaves off the path down to the river. It was tightly rolled in a messy tangle, which is why it’s called a “tabakrolletjie” in Afrikaans.

I picked it up, laid it on the palm of my hand and watched it unroll, head-first. There’s something beautiful about the way a snake moves. I let it slide sinuously through my fingers, playing it between my hands, marvelling at the cool and smooth feeling, watching its tiny forked tongue flick in and out. Eventually, I lowered my hand to the ground and it slithered off into the undergrowth.

Other creatures in our garden are not always so kind to slug-eaters. Once, I found one being attacked by Trixie, a little terrier I thought would never harm a fly. But a terrier is a terrier: she dealt a mortal blow before I could intervene.

Another time, Siegie and I were idly watching a group of hadedas aerating the lawn with their long bills in search of a tasty worm or caterpillar. One of them was probing along the edging when it suddenly pulled out a fully grown slug-eater. You could almost see the shock as it wondered what to do with the wriggling reptile. Fortunately, it dropped it and the snake beat a hasty retreat.

Yesterday was a perfect gardening day. Picking up my boots, and mindful of Friday’s experience, I knocked them against the wall and tipped them upside down. Blow me down – the same little snake spilled out. Silly little snake. You can’t hold me responsible if you get crushed.

Blistering Barnacles - It's Whale Season

My phone rang at 12.40. “You’ve got to get here right away,” said Mariette. “The whales are just three metres from the harbour wall.”

Mariette, who lives in Scott Estate and sees the sea, is my unofficial whale crier. Just the week before, she’d been telling me about the thrilling experience of looking almost straight down into a whale’s blowhole somewhere beyond Flora Bay. I was green with envy: it was well into the season and I had yet to see a whale. I pleaded with her to let me know the next time they visited the bay.

And now she had, but I was in the city centre. I jumped into my car, grumbling at the other drivers slowing me down, and arrived at the Mariner’s Wharf parking area half an hour later.

Walking out on the harbour wall, I noticed a crowd of people, but Mariette had already gone. The whales were still there, though. However, they’d moved out into the bay and were now at least 20 metres away. Mildly disappointed, I watched them wallowing in the swells for a while, tail flukes and fins rising now and then as they rolled lazily against each other. It looked like there were three of them together in a raft, with at least two others further away. Every now and then one of them blew, the sound hollow, Darth Vadarish.

The crowd started to thin out and I wondered if I should leave too. But I was enjoying the feel of the sun on my back and listening to the excited chatter around me. Two young girls sitting on the wall nearby became part of the show. “Look at those barnacles,” said one as a whale pushed its head up for a breather. “Blistering barnacles!”

Then the unbelievable happened. The raft of three whales started drifting closer and closer, until they were right up against the harbour wall. We looked down straight onto them as they gave us the most wonderful show for several minutes.

The closest one was on its side under the water, so clear that we could easily see the massive head and body gliding past. Were they mating? Was one of them being supported by the others because it was ill?

I like to think that they were mating: I thought I caught a glimpse of an appendage linking them, like the fuel line linking a giant aeroplane to a tanker refuelling in midair. But maybe it was wishful thinking.

Who needs Hermanus? I’ve experienced much better sightings of whales right here in Hout Bay. But to strike it lucky, it helps to have your own personal whale crier. Thanks, Mariette.

It's Enough to Send You Batty

It was dark by the time our friends arrived for dinner. They’d never been to our house before so we showed them around. “Do you get a good view from up here?” asked Judy when we got to the upstairs bedroom.

I opened the sliding door onto the deck and we walked out to stand at the edge of the railing, breathing in the fresh night air. Suddenly, with a whoosh, a large creature flew up and over our heads. “What on earth was that?” I wondered.

Its wingbeat was far too noisy for an owl, I reasoned. Then we saw more of them, twisting and turning up and around the trees, and realised they must have been bats. We’re used to seeing bats in the early evening, but they’re usually small ones that flit around chasing bugs. These were much bigger and the only flying animals I could think of to match that size would be fruit bats.

Checking my trusty field guide, I found that Egyptian fruit bats frequent our area, roosting in caves on Table Mountain during the day in large colonies. At night, they travel several kilometres in search of a suitable tree, where they no doubt gorge themselves silly.

I’d never been aware of their presence before, but it made sense that they were visiting our garden. At this time of year, our waterberry trees are bursting with plump, deep-red berries and we have unknowingly created Bat Paradise.

I had a chance to have a good look at fruit bats a couple of years ago, when we were in the Kruger Park. While entering a public loo at one of the bushveld camps, I disturbed a group of them roosting under the eaves in a secluded corner of what was obviously a little-visited facility. Most of them flew up into the nearby trees and settled on high branches to hang like dried out bunches of leaves. Annoyed that I’d left my binoculars in the car, I gave up trying to make out their features.

Then I turned back towards the eaves to see a lone bat hanging face-down and staring at me with unblinking eyes. I stood still for several minutes, mesmerised by a face that looked for all the world like that of a small dog. It reminded me of a miniature version of Rhea, our ridgeback, lying upside down with her long snout pointing out and watching my every move.

Now, when I open our bedroom curtains in the morning to reveal dark-red fruity splashes across our plate-glass windows, I can picture exactly what the culprits look like. I’m thankful they’re not as big as Rhea – and that our house is made of facebrick rather than plastered and painted. That sort of clean-up job would be guaranteed to send anyone batty.

Wanted: Lawn Order

I found a dead mole floating in the swimming pool recently. Good, I thought cruelly, as I scooped it out and threw it into the bushes. One less on the lawn.

Our lawn, you see, is pock-marked with earth and we’re fighting a losing battle. Actually, the problem is we’re not really fighting – we’re sitting back and allowing the mole terrorists to overrun our land. Siegie, who feels more deeply scarred by the incursion since he’s the mower, calls them “ghastly demons from the subterranean depths of hell” and suggests it may be time to get hold of The Moleman.

But we all know that if you want to rid your garden of moles your neighbours have to join in the fight. That’s because moles don’t respect walls and fences. They’ll be tunnelling back into your garden before you take that first celebratory sip of gin and tonic on the patio.

Besides, there’s your conscience to deal with. What we have in our garden are golden moles, not molerats. While the latter are rodents with large, ugly yellow teeth bent on destroying your plants, true moles are cute little insectivores that burrow under the surface looking for bugs and earthworms. They serve the vital function of helping to keep insect pests under control and aerating the soil. And here’s the crunch – they’re a protected species.

So although I celebrate when they commit suicide, my conscience won’t allow me to kill them. Instead, I’ve tried various remedies guaranteed to send them packing by desperate fellow-gardeners. Hearing that moles are very sensitive to smells, I’ve poked all sorts of smelly things into their tunnels. The dog-poo seemed to offend me more than the moles, while the mothballs were unceremoniously pushed right back out again.

I discussed the problem with my friend Binny the other day while we were walking the dogs. “What you need to do,” she said, “is to create a habitat somewhere else in the garden which will attract the moles.” But we couldn’t quite see all the earthworms and juicy grubs congregating in the flower beds. A better option, we finally agreed, might be to attract the moles’ natural enemies.

With moles more likely to exit their tunnels at night in search of insectivorous snacks, it seems that owls may be our best bet. So please, everyone, do your utmost to attract owls to your gardens – especially if you live in the Hout Bay area. We’d really like to give the grass a chance to grow back.

Survival of the Fittest

On Tuesday afternoon, I ambled down to feed the fish in the koi pond. Just as I was approaching the bridge, my eye was caught by a bright flash that disappeared into the water lilies. A baby had survived!

This is great news in the Morgenrood household. From October, a new cycle in a fierce battle for survival begins in our koi pond. That’s when the koi spawn and Siegie and I start to scan the edges of the pond looking for baby fish. Last season was our best season ever. We counted at least 20 fingerlings by the end of summer, but only two or three have survived the year.

When we first renovated our pond, friends and family used to give us small koi as birthday or Christmas presents. But it soon became obvious that they were throwing money down the drain. Of at least ten koi gifts we’ve received, only one has lived to adulthood.

Besides the frogs and the adult koi, there are three kinds of birds that find our “koilets” irresistible. As summer advances, they regularly visit our pond to gaze lovingly into the depths.

First, there’s the giant kingfisher, which gives a loud cackle of triumph when it spots our pond. But when it lands on the bridge railing, which is way too low for a diving board, it’s forced to fly away frustrated.

Then there’s the heron, which likes to stand motionless in the shallows waiting to stab a large fishy snack as it comes into range. It skirts the edges of our pond and generally flies away in disgust when it realises the water is too deep. This year, however, we had trouble with our pump and the water was low. At least two of our prized three-year-olds fell victim to the heron.

Finally, there’s the reed cormorant, a bird of a different feather, so to speak. Because it needs neither shallow water nor a diving board, it finds our pond a perfect place to hunt for a meal. Any koi smaller than 15 centimetres is fair game for this streamlined swimmer that seems to be able to dart around underwater for agonising minutes.

In the past five years or so, only around eight koi born in our pond have managed to survive into the second year. While most were predominately black with splashes of red, some were completely orange or white with large patches red and black. Desperately, we hoped one of these beauties would survive, but bright coloured fish are more visible. Sure enough, they were picked off one by one until only the darkest remained.

So, although I don’t hold out much hope for the five-centimetre-long light-coloured youngster I spotted the other day, I’m still keeping my fingers crossed.

“Why don’t you put a net over the pond?” a friend suggested. But it’s more important for us to keep our garden as natural as possible. And to be honest, we rather like being able to boast that herons and reed cormorants visit our garden. We just wish we could train them to be slightly less efficient.

The Bush Baby of the Reptile World

It was after dinner and I was reading the paper when something tickled my leg. I glanced down to see a tiny gecko and watched in fascination as it crawled over my thigh and onto the couch.

Then it disappeared. I went back to reading, too scared to move in case I crushed the little thing. A while later, Siegie noticed my gecko climbing up the opposite wall heading for the portrait of Aunt Rosamond.

I’m not sure how she would have felt about having a baby gecko take shelter behind her. I like to think she would have found it highly entertaining and poured another healthy glass of gin and tonic.

You’ve heard of lounge lizards. We have lounge geckos, which are much more appealing than lizards. I reckon one of the reasons is that lizards look like snakes with legs and you can almost imagine their rounded, shiny bodies slithering along the ground. I simply couldn’t watch a lizard crawling over my leg and think it looked cute.

Geckos, on the other hand, are flatter and duller, their mottled bodies looking much more comfortable running up a wall. Like all nocturnal hunters, they have big eyes, which may make them appear more appealing – the bush babies of the reptile world.

Amongst other inhabitants, our house provides a home to geckos. We see evidence of them behind the bar, where their droppings are often found clinging to the walls. Fortunately, a damp cloth is all that’s needed to rectify this problem.

I suspect geckos like that area because they can hide behind the wall unit during the warm light of day. There’s a nice gap between the unit and the wall, giving refuge to who knows how many creatures.

Mostly, we don’t see the geckos in the house, as they come out in search of their insect prey after we’ve gone to bed. We’re much more likely to see them in the garage or storeroom, where the murky surrounds mean they don’t need to find a place to hide.

Until a blundering human enters. Many times, I’ve opened the door to the storeroom in search of gardening tools only to have a gecko drop down to the ground. Then I have to take part in a juggling act to avoid stepping on it or jamming it in the door frame.

Not long ago, I was searching for a plant pot and came upon a black plastic potting bag. As I picked it up, a few eggs fell out and one broke on the concrete floor. That was minus one baby gecko.

It seems geckos face all sorts of monstrous enemies. Besides heavy-handed humans smashing their eggs or squashing their bodies, there are rain spiders waiting to feast on them.

Inevitably, there’s also the friendly neighbourhood cat, partial to pouncing on anything that wriggles so invitingly. And thereby hangs a tale – or tail.

Hadeda Hiatus

I was sitting reading the paper one late afternoon when a couple of hadedas flew in and made a clumsy landing on the lawn. Soon joined by two more, they started ambling in a slow procession, poking the grass with their large bills.

There’d been a rain shower the night before and the ground was nice and soft. Clearly there were rich pickings: every second prod evoked something juicy that was thrown back into gaping throats. It was a peaceful scene – but it wouldn’t last.

Whoever coined the phrase “let sleeping dogs lie”? As anyone with any sense knows, sleeping dogs keep their ears and eyes in standby mode and wake whenever anything vaguely exciting appears to be about to happen. Unless, of course, they’re about to be thrown out of the house for the night, in which case they pretend to be dead to the world.

At all other times, however, they react to triggers that they know promise reward – such as the food cupboard being opened or hiking boots appearing.

Or hadedas on the lawn. With no warning, there was a sudden explosion from the dog cushions under the stairs and a wild scrabbling of paws on the tiles. Bursting out the sliding door onto the patio, Rhea dashed across the lawn. Great brown birds scattered in all directions, raucously shouting “hah-dee-dah, hah-dee-dah”.

Caught up in the thrill of the chase, Rhea overran the edge of the lawn and collected herself rather ungracefully in the flower beds. Then she looked back over her shoulder and realised that the hadedas had merely flown up into the air and landed back on the lawn behind her. She ran back up the lawn, scattering them once more.

But the hadedas had played this game too often and now they’d landed back on the lawn further down. The dog joined me in the lounge, gathering the remnants of her ridgeback pride, and clunked herself down on the floor. Facing the lawn, she lay with her face on her paws, feigning indifference.

She was watching, however, and soon the temptation once more became too much and she exploded out the door to resume the chase. Sluggishly, they rose up from the lawn, leaving it almost to the last minute, wheeled round and landed again. Head down, Rhea ran at them, again and again. Finally, the hadedas had had enough and disappeared over the roof. Rhea retired to her cushion in triumph.

A few minutes later, Siegie came home. “There are a whole load of hadedas round the front,” he told me.

Rhea and I both knew the reason why. But hers was a fleeting victory: the hadedas would be back on the lawn and she’d have to start hounding them all over again.

Of Butterflies and Goodwill

Largely brown and yellow, with two colourful eye spots, there’s no mistaking the Christmas butterfly when it flutters by. More often called Citrus Swallowtails, they’re common in gardens during December and January.

But butterflies are like birds: if you want them to breed in your garden, you need the right plants. When we decided to make our garden indigenous, we checked up on what would attract the different species. We learned that other than citrus trees, the Cape chestnut was a good food source for the caterpillars of the Citrus Swallowtail.

So we bought a young sapling at the Kirstenbosch Plant Sale. We read up that we could expect our chestnut to flower after about eight years and so we waited patiently. The deadline came and went, and still we waited. Finally, after ten years, we were rewarded with a few flowers. 

Today I stand at the bottom of our garden and look back at the house. Arching over the roof on the right is a beautiful, strong tree covered in a pale pink flush of flowers. It has lived up to its botanical name, Calodendrum capense – beautiful tree from the cape. Maybe, in all its decoration, it should be called the Christmas tree.

In the meantime, we discovered what to plant in our garden for the caterpillars of other butterflies. We learned that Wild Peach trees are great for Garden Acraeas, those ubiquitous orange creatures with transparent wing tips. Arctotis and gazanias are for Painted Ladies, whose caterpillars are the only ones to spin themselves webs. Plumbago is good for the Common Blues, while carpet geranium, of course, attracts the Geranium Bronze.

Sometimes, the caterpillars do quite a lot of damage to our greenery. But once they’ve metamorphosed into their fragile alter egos, it’s all worthwhile. Often, I stand in front of the beds of scabiosa and Cape forget-me-nots, watching the butterflies flit from flower to flower. I once watched four Citrus Swallowtails put on a magnificent aerial ballet outlined against an azure sky. Well worth a few chomped up lemon trees, I reckon.

Don’t tell anyone, but I’m even starting to think that those prolific alien invaders, the European Cabbage Whites, can look rather appealing when dancing above the scabiosa.

Maybe it’s because I’m still basking in festive goodwill. Siegie and I wish you and your families a thrilling 2010, filled with joy, love, life's little essentials – and butterflies.

Snake Charmer

Just before 6 p.m. one Sunday, my friend Mariette was drinking tea with us on the patio. Suddenly the birds in the nearby tree started giving their alarm calls. Siegie and I looked at each other and both spoke at the same time: “Snake!” 

All three of us jumped up and dashed over to gaze up at the branches. A number of white eyes were hopping from perch to perch, flicking their wings and chirping in agitation. Somewhere in the background a batis joined in.

Clearly a major threat was nearby, but the foliage was too thick for us to see what it was. Then I stepped back from under the tree and looked up at it from further away. “There it is,” I cried excitedly. Gliding along a branch was the unmistakable underbelly of a boomslang.

Siegie and I left Mariette to keep an eye on the snake while we dashed inside to grab binoculars. Then all three of us went back under the tree and had a good close-up look. With a thick yellow belly and strong black markings, he was clearly a mature male in all his glory.

“He’s as long as my height,” said Siegie, but Mariette and I reckoned this was male posturing. We all agreed he was a big boy, though ­– certainly over a metre.

Binoculars glued to her eyes, Mariette edged around trying to get a good look. She was so enraptured that I feared she might fall into the goldfish pond.

After a few minutes, the snake slithered back into the foliage, the birds quietened down and we went back to our tea.

This isn’t the first time a boomslang has come to visit us. A couple of years ago, another large male hung around for three weeks or so, popping up in different trees every weekend. Always, the birds alerted us to his presence.

One day, while Siegie was away, I stepped out onto the patio to check on my feathered friends’ alarm calls and almost bumped into the boomslang entwined in a branch just above eye level. I’m not sure who got the bigger fright – we both beat a hasty retreat.

But the snake reappeared on the ground a while later, skirting around the pond. Then it suddenly lunged towards the pond, sending a frog leaping into the water. I watched, fascinated, as it stretched the front part of its body out over the water, its tongue flicking in and out as it swayed back and forth. But the frog was deeply submerged and wasn’t set to be a snake snack that day.

When I’d told Mariette about the experience she was sorry to have missed it, so I’m glad she was with us to share our latest “snack attack”. Who knows, maybe it’s the same big male that has claimed our garden as part of his private hunting preserve.

 

Crabby Feeling

Have you ever seen what happens to a crab if it has the misfortune to get sucked into a pool cleaner? Not a pretty sight. And if it’s been there a few days, not a pretty smell either. It gets wedged in so tightly that you have to throw the rubber thingamy away and buy a new one.

It’s happened to us a couple of times. Living near the river guarantees you crabs in your swimming pool now and then. My advice is to fish them out with a net as soon as possible and take them back down to the river. Of course, fishing them out can be quite fun, too: you can end up spending endless frustrating minutes chasing a recalcitrant crab as it scoots sideways around the bottom of the deep end.

It really is amazing how quickly these creatures can move. Once we found one in the kitchen and decided it shouldn’t remain there. Finally cornered, it raised its pincers in defence and I backed off. Even though my mind tells me a pincer on a five-centimetre-wide crab probably won’t inflict much pain I’d rather not find out.

Siegie came to the rescue with his tried-and-tested shrew-catching technique. He grabbed an empty plastic icecream tub, placed it over the crab and slipped a newspaper underneath. It works every time, so I can’t understand why I never think of doing it. Could it be a male thing?

My solutions are always far more complicated and have a high failure rate. Sometimes, though, I think it’s deliberate because I like to feel things. When I have managed to catch a crab and held it firmly around the carapace I’m amazed at how strong its legs are as they push at my fingers. I also get to look at it properly on my way down to the river, admiring its weird dark blobby eyes on their stalks and checking out those dangerous pincers.

Now here’s a thought: maybe we’re doing the crabs a disservice as they’re actually trying to escape the river. Frequent evidence of discarded crab shells on the banks show that they’re hunted mercilessly down there. I’ve always blamed the giant kingfisher, that great koi killer, but there are other predators patrolling the riverbed. A couple of times I’ve found big pellets on the ground composed largely of crab shells.

Then one summer a couple of years ago, I noticed a spotted eagle owl had taken to spending the day on a large rock. I refrained from disturbing him and we often spent time communing from our respective perches. Finally, I got to investigate his rock and found it covered in crab shells.

My owl book tells me that spotted eagle owls have a wide-ranging diet, including crustaceans. So that explains why there are now few crabs on our stretch of river and I haven’t seen an owl for a while. But they’ll be back – and I’ll be here to watch the cycle start again.

Praying for Survival

Climbing out of the shower one late autumn morning, I grabbed my towel and started to dry myself off. Thunk! Something fell to the ground and I immediately looked down. The culprit lay struggling on the tiles, a fat green praying mantid. “What were you doing there, you silly girl?” I asked as I took her to the bedroom and unceremoniously tipped her out of the window.

I knew she was a girl because she was so big and fat. Then suspicion set in and I investigated the towel. Sure enough, a half-finished nest clung to the edge. Without thinking, I started to scrape it off. Under the hardening shell was soft gooey yellow stuff and I realised these were probably the eggs. I hastily ran it under the tap in the basin, scraping until all of it was gone.

Despite the fact that the nest could not have been there very long, an ugly brown stain defied several washes. After a passing thought that I’d probably wiped out a generation of mantids, I soon forgot about it. A couple of months later, I was drawing the curtains in the bedroom to let in the beautiful spring morning light when I became aware of a horde of little creatures.

Everywhere I looked I saw tiny pale brown creepy crawlies. They littered the carpet, clung to the back of the curtains, hung on the wall and balanced precariously along the door frame. Curious, I leant closer to investigate one of them. Aha – a perfect little replica of that fat green giant. Its body was almost translucent and yet it still had the instinct the raise those front legs in the manner that gave it its name.

Was it praying I wouldn’t squash it? Well, its prayers got answered – but it was a close call. It’s easy to harm such a small body when you pick it up in clumsy fingers. As gently as possible I picked up bug after bug, collecting them in the palm of my left hand. With four or five of them threatening to crawl up my arm, I stepped outside and shook them off over the budding wisteria that covered the pergola.

I felt a certain sense of justice having taken place. While I’d ruined one nest of baby mantids, I’d saved another. But what is it that makes praying mantid mothers enter a house to lay their eggs? Most often, I’ve found them in our bedroom and adjoining bathroom. Could it be because the basic colour scheme is green?

I like my light green walls and I’m not about to redecorate. Those mantids foolish enough to enter will just have to keep praying for their survival.

Raptor Magic

I heard a really loud bird call on Monday afternoon that didn’t quite sound like a hadeda but what else could it have been? There was a rather distorted “ha” but no “de da”. So I went out down to the pond to investigate. Sure enough, a hadeda flew off so I decided that that’s what it must have been.

About 20 minutes later, I left to take the dogs for a walk and stopped dead in my tracks just outside the gate. An avian acrobat was at work on the thatched roof of our neighbours’ house – and it certainly wasn’t a hadeda.

Large grey body, black and white bands across the tail, long yellow legs, yellow face. There was no mistaking the African harrier-hawk flapping its large wings as it balanced on the angled roof. I watched with curiosity for a few minutes and guessed it was either on a kill or was stripping the thatch.

Not having my binoculars, I couldn’t really see what it was doing, though. And so the mystery would have remained if I hadn’t seen the damage to the thatch when I returned an hour and a half later. Poor neighbours. It’s wonderful to have wildlife on your roof, but not if it’s going to cost you a few thousand to repair the damage.

We’ve seen this beautiful bird of prey a few times lately. One recent Sunday, after a heavy lunch with Siegie’s mother, the three of us walked down to the pond to check out the koi. I threw some pellets on to the water and we watched idly as the fish lazily rose to the surface. With no algae in the water, we marvelled at its crystal clarity.

And so it was that all of us saw it at the same time. The reflection of an African harrier-hawk floated across the water, spreading its magnificent barred tail as it turned on the gentle breeze. 

We looked up and there it was, just metres above our heads. “Gymnogene!” Siegie and I both exclaimed, before remembering that this is one of the victims of South Africa’s recent fascination with name changes. It turned its big grey body and we clearly saw the bare yellow facial skin that is diagnostic.

It passed just above the trees on our boundary and landed in our neighbour’s palm tree. “Maybe it’s nesting there,” said Siegie hopefully, “like the one we saw in Kruger.”

Ah yes. We were in the Kruger National Park in January and spent a day up in the far north along the Luvhuvhu River. An African harrier-hawk on a nest in a palm tree was one of our treasured spots.

But this bird was more than likely scouting out nesting material rather than nesting in our neighbours’ garden. After a few minutes, it took off, skimmed the rooftop and headed off towards Constantia Nek.

And that is more than likely where it’s nesting, in one of the tall pines of Cecilia Plantation. Indeed, a week or so later Siegie and I saw a couple soaring just above the treetops at the start of the footpath leading up to the Back Table.

According to our bird book, September-October is peak breeding season for the African harrier-hawk, a bird that’s more likely to be found in the Cedarberg. Is it possible that we might have a breeding pair at the top of our beautiful valley? It would be a real treat to see more of these big raptors in our skies.

Prickly Customers

We were driving along the M3 towards the city centre around 11 o’clock one night a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly, something ran across the road in the distance just before UCT. “What’s that?” Siegie asked.

It was too big to be a cat and had a strange shuffling gait. As we drew alongside, we both saw the animal’s spiky backside and knew immediately what it was. “Porcupine!” we cried in unison.

Strangely, this is the very first time we’ve seen a porcupine in the Cape peninsula. It’s strange because we know that they thrive on the mountain slopes and have even adapted to the greener edges of suburbia.

The evidence of their activity is often to be seen in the form of scraped out holes and the empty husks of dug up bulbs. But at this time of year, when the winter rains plump up the arums lilies, they shamelessly raid gardens such as the one we nurture on the banks of the Hout Bay River.

And that’s why I’m always facing a conflict of interest. I love the thought of wildlife in my garden and go out of my way to attract creatures through planting tasty indigenous fare. But porcupines and I both love arum lilies and I wish they wouldn’t be quite so destructive.

The morning after a night when porcupines come up from the river to dine in our garden looks like tiny landmines have gone off all over the flower beds. Arum leaves and flowers lie discarded in the mounds of earth – it’s only the juicy stuff below ground that makes a porcupine meal. Often an isolated quill points to the culprit.

You’d think a big dog that sleeps outside at night would scare them off. But Rhea, our ridgeback, learned the hard way to leave well alone.

Early one morning, when she was about a year old, Siegie was in the kitchen putting the kettle on when he noticed her walk past outside. Even in the half light something looked odd, so he opened the door and discovered three quills in her back legs.

We called our vet, who suggested we not try to remove the quills ourselves but rather to cut them off with pliers. And since it wasn’t life-threatening, we could bring her in when the surgery opened.

Rhea and I were at the clinic at 8.15. The vet took one look at the quill embedded at a nasty angle in her thigh muscle and said he’d need to knock her out. It’s no wonder she now gives porcupines a wide berth – and she’d avoid the vet too if she could.

So these prickly customers have free rein in our garden, even venturing right up to the patio. We found a quill there the other day and know they’re staking out the juiciest plants. The War of the Arums is about to begin.

 

Goose Bumps

Late one afternoon I was crossing the lawn when I was distracted by a high-pitched piping call. A lost gosling appeared from the undergrowth, calling for help but receiving no response. I picked it up and searched the garden for an adult Egyptian goose in vain. 

Resolving to take it to the World of Birds first thing the next morning, I tried feeding it a mushy cereal, but it wasn’t interested. I put it in a cardboard box lined with a towel and closed it in the spare bedroom so that our cat couldn’t get at it.

I left it there with a saucer of water – foolishly. In the morning, the poor little thing was cold and wet and barely alive. Rushing to the car, I cursed myself for not thinking of the importance of keeping it warm and dry. Sadly, it died before I reached the end of the road.

Yes, many goslings do die, but Egyptian geese are still one of the most abundant birds around. Give them a patch of water with grassy fields nearby and they’ll thrive. What could be better than the Hout Bay River, flanked with grassy open spaces and bodies of water like the holding pond above Longkloof Weir.

Peak breeding season is approaching and there’s no peace in our valley these days. At first light the cacophony starts up, rises to a haggling crescendo, then drops down to a steady, monotonous “kaah, kaah, kaah, kaah.”

The other morning we were idly watching two geese involved in an aerial dogfight and I wondered aloud why they don’t land on our roof. “Probably don’t like corrugated iron,” said Siegie. “There’s no grip for their feet.”

Instead, they land on our neighbour’s nice tiled roof. One does just that around 8am and soon starts advertising her presence. Honking loudly, she marches along the top edge, stopping now and then to cock her head and listen, shaking her tail. Shameless hussy.

Both male and female geese look alike, but I know it’s a “she” because of her loud mouth. Like a fishwife, she shouts out and others shout back at her from the pine trees on the other side of the river.

If our mother goose is lucky, her mate will land beside her to join her rooftop patrol. Stretching out his neck, his rasping hiss is a far more genteel style of communication.

Once the goslings appear and the geese settle into being attentive parents, I know I’ll forget all about those annoying wake-up calls. If I’m lucky, I’ll watch in wonder as mum and dad herd their brood of tiny fluffy brown creatures towards our koi pond.

Such vulnerable babes need vigilant parents’ in order to survive the rough ride to adulthood. Goshawks and other birds of prey can’t wait to get their talons into them, not to mention the threat posed by domestic pets.

You really can’t blame Mr and Mrs Goose for honking and hissing then. After all, we get in a flap too if our kids are threatened. It’s enough to give you goose bumps …

A Nest of Trouble

Sociable wasps are decidedly unsociable. Like overgrown winged ants, these creatures get their name from their communal nests segmented rather like the honeycombs that bees build. They’re obviously very nice to their own kind, but let a mere human get too close and they respond with intense hostility.

I love pottering in my garden, losing myself in the flower beds for hours on end. I go out to feed the koi and stop to pull out a weed on the way. Before I know it, I’ve pulled out dozens, the sun has raced across the sky and the koi are still hungry.

There’s a rock in one section of the garden, placed there as a feature. One flatish side is perfect for building a sociable wasp nest. I found this out one day as I was pulling weeds and ventured too close. An angry monster flew at my hand, resulting in several minutes of throbbing pain.

Over the next few weeks, I kept forgetting about these hostile inhabitants. Again and again, deep in thought, I’d wander too close and get stung. They’re remarkably effective at banishing intruders.

Indeed, Nic, one of our neighbours, believes we should encourage them to set up home around the house. When I went to visit him to discuss Neighbourhood Watch issues, he took great delight in pointing out the sociable wasp nest above an outside door. Great deterrents against burglars, he reckons.

The problem, though, is that these unsociable dive-bombers won’t discriminate between friend and foe. And the last thing you want is to deter your friends.

A couple of years ago, I watched with trepidation as a nest started to develop on the decking above our entertainment area. I left it because nature reigns supreme in our corner of paradise – and also because I was intrigued to see what would happen.

Fortunately, as time has shown, the wasps are far enough above our heads to not feel threatened by us. I keep a wary eye on them, nevertheless – and refrain from mentioning them to our friends. 

Nature in All Her Glory

So there I was lying in bed on Sunday morning reading and writing and watching the rain come down. By mid-afternoon, it was still coming down – although I was, I hasten to say, out of bed.

I stuck my head out of the patio door and heard the sound of rushing waters and grinding rocks. “I’m going to check the river,” I shouted to Sieg.

Bundled up against the cold, I set out under a huge golf umbrella. The soggy ground squelched under my over-sized royal blue Wellies as I made my way across the lawn, faithful Duma at my side.

Duma is a ridgeback. At 14 months old, he looks like an adult dog but he’s just a small boy in a big body. He never wants to be far from his human mother, even if it means braving the cold and wet. Foolish creature.

Together we made our way down the path to the river, sweeping aside the wet branches. And there was our normally placid mountain stream, an unrecognisable raging torrent.

Gone were the large rocks that stand guard in the middle and provide precarious stepping stones to our neighbours.

 The tree that normally stands on the bank opposite our bench was now surrounded by water, its branches sweeping in the gusting wind.

Of course, the rocks weren't really gone. They were just submerged, their positions marked by standing waves thrown up as the waters pushed against them.

I rushed back to the house to get my camera and to call Siegie to join me. Back down on the river bank, we took some photos and video clips for posterity and agreed that this was about the highest we’d ever seen the water.

Then I went back to the warmth of the fire in the sitting room while Siegie decided he ought to clear the gutters of leaves. In the pouring rain. Foolish creature.

At the same time, he emptied the rain gauge. We normally read it at 8am, but it only holds 100 millimetres. By the end of the afternoon, we’d already had 95 and still the rain came down.

As I write this on Tuesday morning, the sun is shining and there’s a huge mopping-up operation taking place around Cape Town. We ended up measuring 129 millimetres in 24 hours here in our garden and thanked God we had good drainage.

Others were not so blessed. My heart goes out to those who live in shacks. The lucky ones only had to deal with leaking roofs. But hundreds of impoverished Capetonians were forced to flee their homes, with everything they own soaked in flood waters. They can’t afford the luxury of being able to step back and admire the power of Nature in all her glory.

 

Lazy Sunday

It’s Sunday morning and I’m lying in bed.  Here, under the duvet, I’m feeling warm and lazy.

But outside the rain beats down and mist hangs over the mountain. It takes my mind back three years to when my sister, Anne, and I were training to climb Mount Kilimanjaro.

It had been an impulsive decision to take on Africa’s highest peak, spurred on by my adventurous friend Binny. I’d idly been building my “bucket list” – all those things I want to do before I die. When I mentioned Kilimanjaro, she jumped in and offered to join me.

I asked Anne along because it seemed right to journey together back to East Africa. We’d grown up on a farm in Kenya and once glimpsed that iconic snowy outline of Kili’s summit while on a family holiday. It had never seriously entered my mind to climb it, but suddenly the plan was in place.

We had five months to prepare ourselves, so Anne and I set aside every Saturday for a long mountain walk together. The thing about living in Cape Town is that we’re surrounded by mountains and spoilt for choice.

Many times we chose to climb our beloved Table Mountain. Those Saturdays became adventures in themselves, for we set ourselves to discover as many paths across the back table as possible.

It was like reliving our childhood on a grand scale. Instead of roaming our garden, climbing trees and playing hide-and-seek among the canna lilies, we were roaming mountains. More than 40 years melted away and we delighted in our companionship.

As winter set in, the weather became more unpredictable. We learned the special joy of walking in the rain, when few ventured out and we could go for hours without seeing another soul. Then we’d find a small cave or overhang where we could shelter and eat lunch.

Food somehow tastes so much better when you’ve worked for it. We’d scoff our wholewheat sandwiches like they were a royal feast and follow up with crunchy Cape apples that filled our mouths with sweet tanginess. But the very best we saved till last.

Hot chocolate. Oh my. If you’ve never sipped hot chocolate in a dripping cave in the mountains and watched the rain driving down on a gusty wintry wind, you haven’t lived.

One day we were hunched in a tiny cave just off the path on the Twelve Apostles savouring mugs of hot chocolate. Suddenly, out of the mist four poncho-covered figures appeared, walking in single file. Heads down against the rain, they silently walked past without even realising that we were there.

I was telling my husband, Siegie, that story and how special we had felt when we walked in the mountains in the rain. “Come on then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Mmmmm. It’s so warm here, under my duvet, and it looks so cold and so wet outside. Part of me wants to go, but another part wants to stay exactly where she is.

The latter part wins – for now.