Bathurst

Yellow-billed kite

This was published on August 30, 2003, in Leisure, under the heading, “Stunning vistas in Settler country”.

IT was literally the high point of a weekend visit to Bathurst last summer.

Friends who put us up at the Drostdy, the oldest residence in the village, had given us no prior warning.

Generously, they had simply packed a hamper of evening snacks and drinks, and off we set.

As the sun sank slowly in the west, we drove through the gates of the Waters Meeting Nature Reserve, a few kilometres outside the historic Settler hamlet.

The terrain at Bathurst is gently undulating, the abundant trees and hedges somehow concealing most of the homesteads which comprise this mysterious retreat, about 12km inland from Port Alfred.

Indeed, when you think Bathurst, you have to think Port Alfred as well.

We arrived in Port Alfred from Port Elizabeth on a blustery day, the wind sandblasting our car as we took in the view at the Kowie River mouth.

After a quick stop at the local tourist information office (characterised by superb and friendly service), we popped in to the Coelacanth Brewery to see how the area’s local brew, Old Four Legs, is made. The brewery is housed in an early building on the riverside – and is clearly a treasured asset in this thirsty part of the country.

Once in Bathurst, it was time to get acquainted with the village’s major attraction – its 1820 Settler heritage.

I’m one of those South Africans who happens to have developed a passion for our colonial history. There is something rather admirable about the stoicism of the approximately 5000 British settlers who arrived by sailing ship in Algoa Bay in 1820 – and were then dispatched to “the frontier”.

A taste of their ordeal can be imagined from the tall standing stone on the west bank of the Kowie in Port Alfred. It was here, a plaque tells you, that the settlers crossed the river. How? one might ask. The river is deep and fairly wide, for many years having been used as a working harbour. Black-and-white 19th century photographs in the tourism office show large sailing ships moored along its banks. Perhaps the settlers’ wagons (hired from the Boers) were ferried across. Whatever the mechanics for crossing the river, this would have been but one part of an arduous 160km-odd journey through rugged bushveld.

Exploring the Toposcope at Bathurst, which was made from the stones of original Settler homes.

Once in Bathurst, they were taken to a high point where the Toposcope memorial has been erected – and shown to their demarcated parts of the Albany district, ironically called “locations”, where they had to start a new life from scratch. A visit to the Toposcope can be an emotional pilgrimage – even if your ancestors weren’t among those on the ships. There is a 360-degree panoramic view of the rolling hills of the area. And on the low circular wall (built with stones from original settler houses) are affixed 57 plaques indicating which party settled where, who their leaders were, which ship they came on, and where they hailed from. (NOTE: Some plaques were subsequently stolen for their bronze and plans were set in motion to replace the remainder with less valuable replicas.)

On another hilltop, beside a long-gone earth fort, we encountered a stone building, erected in 1821, which served as the gunpowder magazine for the garrison. It is uncannily similar in design and construction to the magazine inside the walls of Fort Frederick (1799) in Port Elizabeth.

Another popular place of pilgrimage, particularly among those doing genealogical research, is the 1834 to 1837 St John’s Church, the oldest unaltered Anglican church in South Africa. The building regularly served as a refuge during the Frontier Wars.

Outside is a tall marble cenotaph on which are listed the names of all the settlers who died in those wars.

The weathered surfaces of the 19th century gravestones in the surrounding cemetery contain some interesting stories within their epitaphs. They are also emblematic of the virtual permanent state of hostility at the time. One, from the 1840s, notes that the young man was “treacherously killed by kaffirs during a time of peace”. Which, I suppose, was far worse than being treacherously killed during a time of war. Also bearing testimony to the ongoing security problems the early settlers faced are the many gun slits to be found in the older buildings. The bedroom we stayed in at the Drostdy had two such recesses, which have since been closed off with slivers of glass. These now provide display areas for ceramic pottery, tiles and coloured bottles.

The stone-built pub/restaurant at the Protea Hotel Bathurst at Summerhill (famous for its massive pineapple), besides its wonderful woodwork also features these gun slits, or loopholes.

But the charming Xhosa men working in the pub – once an 1825 barn – on the day we visited are ample proof that those days of inter-racial conflict are thankfully over. All are on the same side, and tourism is the goose that now lays the golden egg.

Tourism, and pineapples. When in Bathurst, buy pineapple juice. Bottled or canned by the local co-op, it is to die for.

But if you really want to get into the laid-back Bathurst way of life, then order a couple of pints of Old Four Legs from the pub inside the legendary Pig and Whistle Hotel, the oldest licensed inn in South Africa, which was built in 1831, with accommodation added in 1852. Then take your drinks out onto the shady stoep, and watch the world go by. You may even spot one of the village’s many reputed eccentrics.

If not, then just visit a couple of its little businesses, from the corner shop, to various book-shops, bric-a-brac stores and nurseries. We also got to meet a few locals when we visited a small farmers’ market, which is a regular feature on Sunday mornings. Items on sale included goats’ cheeses, crafts, home-made marmalades and garden produce.

And so on our last evening we headed through the nature reserve gates and pulled up next to a wooden camp table on the side of the gravel road. We were ushered to a nearby observation deck.

And then we were gobsmacked.

The view of the Kowie River at the Waters Meet Nature Reserve near Bathurst.

Stretched out way below us was a long and magnificent valley sheltering a horseshoe bend of the Kowie River, its surface shining silver amidst the thick indigenous valley forest. More of a hairpin than a horseshoe, this is but one of the many meanders of this amazing river as it snakes its way seaward.

The salt water finally becomes fresh at about this point, hence the name of the reserve.

Jackal buzzard

As we gazed out in wonder, we heard the distinctive call of an African fish eagle, while other raptors seen gliding on the thermals included yellow-billed kites and jackal buzzards.

All in all, it was a perfect way to end a delightful weekend.

Cape Town's two-foot-tall tourist attractions

African penguins are the star attractions at Boulders on the Cape Peninsula.

An abridged version of this was published in Leisure in September 2002.

CAPE Town is undeniably South Africa’s premier tourist destination. And among its many attractions are some which stand just two feet tall.

Last spring, my family and I paid our entry fee (R10 for adults and R5 for children) and headed along a pathway amidst dense indigenous bush. Bending down, we got our first sightings – in deep burrows and under bushes – of our quarry: the African penguin.

African penguin

Then we heard the unmistakable donkey-like braying which led to the birds previously being named jackass penguins – until it was discovered that several other species of South American penguins make the same sound.

There is always a steady flow of visitors, most of them foreign tourists, at Boulders.

Amid a steady flow of foreign tourists, we reached the start of the two boardwalks which have recently been constructed at Boulders, a sheltered series of coves between Simon’s Town and Cape Point.

The expertly produced pamphlet that comes free with your admission notes that from just two breeding pairs in 1982, the penguin colony at Boulders has grown to about 3000 in recent years.

This is thanks largely to the reduction in commercial pelagic trawling in False Bay, which has increased the supply of pilchards and anchovies, a major part of the penguins’ diet.

But the key to this magnificent tourist attraction is the fact that the Cape Peninsula National Park has provided a protected natural environment within which this vulnerable bird species can wander around and breed freely, while at the same time being observed at close quarters by bird lovers.

Cold and wet, maybe, but Luke and Douglas nevertheless enjoyed the passing penguin parade.

However, no amount of pre-publicity adequately prepared me for what was in store when I finally reached the lookout point at Foxy Beach.

It was like chancing upon a Lilliputian world of two-foot-tall, beaked manikins wearing dapper black tuxedos over their little white bodies. Waddling about on the beach must have been well over 100 penguins, with at least as many frolicking in the nearby crystal-clear waves of False Bay as they broke on the white sands of the Boulders beach.

On one of the many enormous 540-million-year-old granite boulders which give the area its name, another 100 or so penguins stood sentinel, while out at sea, on a small flat island of rock, dozens of cormorants sunned themselves

Even the odd drenching squall, so typical of the Cape at that time of year, failed to dampen the penguins’ spirits, and in fact only added to the sense of drama.

We retraced our footsteps then took the second boardwalk, where we got an even better view of this unique penguins-only beach from the other side. Above the high-water mark we could spot hundreds more birds in and around their burrows under the trees, while all the time they kept up a steady braying.

And to think that these wonderful creatures – so much more impressive in the wild than in an oceanarium or zoo – came very close to being decimated.

African penguin 'flying'

Of the 1,5-million population estimated in 1910, only some 10 per cent remained at the end of the 20th century. The uncontrolled harvesting of penguin eggs (as a source of food) and guano scrapings nearly drove the species to extinction.

The only penguins that breed in Africa, they remain on the Red Data Book as a vulnerable species.

Cape Point

Luke, 11, prepares for the climb to the lighthouse at Cape Point.

No visit to Cape Town is complete, however, without a trip to Cape Point.

From Boulders we headed out along the ridge of mountains on the eastern side of the peninsula. We encountered the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve with its fynbos species in full and colourful bloom.

Examples of fynbos

Earlier, we had taken a walk along the contour path above Kirstenbosch Gardens and seen a coach-load of young tourists (they looked Italian) ecstatically photographing and videoing close-up the many varieties of protea to be found there.

This experience was repeated on the high plateau within the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve. Having paid our entrance fee (R25 for adults and R10 for children), we encountered several other groups of tourists snapping pictures of the proteas and other plants.

If anyone doubted the importance of keeping places such as the Van Stadens Wild Flower Reserve outside Port Elizabeth pristine and uninhabited, then this sort of experience should quash all such doubts. People travel from around the world to see our unique fauna and flora, especially our fynbos. The Cape floristic kingdom is the smallest but richest of the world’s six floral kingdoms. It comprises a treasure trove of 1100 species of indigenous plants, of which a number are endemic (occurring naturally nowhere else on Earth).

Cape Point

But as much as the fynbos and some 150 species of birds are an attraction, it is the geographical location of Cape Point itself which draws tourists like a magnet to the tip of Africa. Sure some would argue, correctly, that the southern-most point of Africa is actually Cape Agulhas, but it is that delicate finger of land at Cape Point which is popularly perceived as the tip of the continent.

We stopped at the large but unobtrusive parking area and bought a cup of hot coffee at a well-stocked fast-food outlet, as a throng of tourists milled around. I have visited several of the world’s biggest tourist attractions in Britain and Europe, and have rarely observed the same sense of awe and expectation as I witnessed that day among visitors from around the globe.

We decided against taking the funicular railway (the only one in Africa) up to the lighthouse, instead opting for the steep path to the summit of this narrow promontory at the southern tip of a huge and imposing continent, which today is recognised scientifically as having been the cradle of mankind.

There are other sites around the world which have a strong spiritual, or mystical, presence. Many of them are ancient Christian centres of pilgrimage, which are considered “thin places” because you feel so much closer to your creator there.

Iona

I have taken a ferry from Oban on the west coast of Scotland to the island of Mull, and driven around the island from Craignure to Fionphort, from where a smaller people-only ferry took me to the little island of Iona, an ancient Christian site dating back to the Irish monk, St Columba, in the sixth century.

Glendalough

Similarly, in Ireland, I have experienced the sixth century monastic site founded by St Kevin at Glendalough with its 1000-year-old, 34m-high round tower, just south of Dublin in the Wicklow Mountains.

Holy Island

Off the north-east coast of Northumbria, in northern England, I have visited the ancient Christian monastery of Lindisfarne on Holy Island, founded in the seventh century by St Aidan, an Irish monk from Iona. The island can only be accessed by car along a narrow road at low tide.

While not a religious site, I sensed a similar sort of pilgrimage was under way as a steady flow of people – young and old, black and white – took the meandering pathway up to the small lighthouse viewing platform 678 metres above the sea at Cape Point. As the Cape of Storms lived up to its reputation, interspersing warm sunshine with sudden showers of rain, we reached the top.

Southern right whale breaching

But initially we could see nothing – except a throng of decidedly excited foreign tourists. They not only took in the magnificent view of two oceans – the warm Indian and cold Atlantic – merging their currents in the great expanse of water beneath those craggy slopes. But – the cherry on the top – at least three southern right whales were cavorting a few hundred metres off-shore. Clearly visible with the naked eye, through binoculars I watched at close quarters as they regularly breached, often leaving their huge tails suspended above the surface for several seconds at a time.

Table Mountain

Back in the warm embrace of Table Mountain we visited the Two Oceans Aquarium, one of the major attractions at the beautifully appointed Victoria and Alfred Waterfront. Packed with numerous interesting features, including the new boarding point for boat trips to Robben Island, the waterfront is yet another reason why Cape Town has become one of the world’s great tourist destinations.

And the aquarium itself is world class, cementing the city’s long and close association with the sea and its creatures.

Here in the Eastern Cape we need to gear our attractions – and there are many – to meeting the expectations of foreign tourists in particular. There are levels of safety and service excellence which overseas visitors expect for the thousands of rands they have paid, and if a city cannot provide these at each site, it will lose out. We can’t hope to compete with Cape Town (I haven’t mentioned the cable car up the mountain, the wine route, the museums and art galleries, the plethora of historic buildings, and so on), but we can offer a uniquely Eastern Cape experience.

And to do that we have to accept and celebrate all the positives that arose with the first meetings in this area of Boer, Khoi, San, Xhosa and, in 1820, the British settlers.

We cannot do so, however, if the white component which brought Western-style towns and cities, business and agriculture, roads and other infrastructure, continues to be dismissed as colonialist and exploitative.

In the new South Africa, in order to boost tourism and our own sense of self worth, we need to accentuate the positive and build on our common history as joint developers and protectors of our environment.

Cape Town is an object lesson in how that can successfully be done.

Cape Recife

African darter

This was written in August, 2002. The published version was not kept and I have been unable to track it down.

ONE of the great bird-watching experiences is to visit a hide on the edge of a dam or pond, where you can get a magnificent view of waterbirds, both large and small.

And Port Elizabeth is fortunate to have just such a place, at the Cape Recife reclamation ponds.

In mid-August, with a cool sea breeze taking the edge off the mid-morning heat, we arrived at the reserve’s car park. As we crested the last speed bump, I saw a large bird fly into the bushes – judging by its red wings almost certainly a Knysna lourie, though it seemed an unlikely place to spot one.

We eschewed taking the path through the largely rooikrans-covered dunes due to the amount of standing water about, but followed the tar road along the coast till we found the path leading to the hide. Our first treat along this approximately 100-metre path was a delightful spotted prinia (about 12cm), which kept up a jolly, piercing call just a few metres away from us – and seemed totally unfazed by our presence.

Luke surveys the grassy bank of one of the reclamation ponds from the hide at Cape Recife.

Black crake

But we had come for the waterbirds, and the hide was to live up to its reputation. Scanning the edges, we were rewarded with a short but treasured sighting of a black crake, its long thin red legs and yellow bill conspicuous as it scurried among the reeds.

Common moorhen

My son Luke, 11, after a break from birding of several months, quickly identified a common moorhen on the water, along with a fairly large number of red-knobbed coots. This is a black duck-like bird with two red knobs on the forehead above its white beak. We were surprised to spot several without the knobs, but our bird book confirmed they were juveniles of the species.

African shelduck pair

Cape teal

Cape shoveller

Yellow-billed duck

To our right, a couple of dabchicks (just 20cm long) ducked and dived, while we also spotted a beautiful pair of shelducks (the male with a grey head, the female white), Cape teals (red bills), Cape shovellers and yellow-billed ducks. Just metres from the hide, on an outjutting piece of dead wood, we had a perfect view of a pied kingfisher.

Then, in one of the more unusual sightings, a huge African darter (80cm) started “fishing” in the middle of the pond. Also known as a snake bird, the darter submerged its entire body as it paddled along, holding erect its long, orange-streaked, egret-like neck with a slender head and long, pointed bill.

It looked like a snake defying gravity, before it darted its beak into the water and caught a tiny fish, which it tossed down its throat.

As if this wasn’t dramatic enough, we were also provided with another avian spectacle – in the sky above us. As usual, the pond boasted a number of kelp gulls, along with a few grey-headed gulls. But suddenly above us we saw about a dozen gulls, with what looked like a larger gull in their midst. Through the binoculars, however, we discovered that the gulls were in the process of chasing a juvenile African fish eagle. Luke, ever observant, identified the eagle’s unique call. It was no match for the flock of gulls, and beat a hasty retreat, which was sad, since it would have been great to see the eagle at closer quarters.

In 2002 an invasive water lettuce covered the top pond at Cape Recife, driving water birds away.

But when we got to the second, upper pond, which is considerably larger than the lower one, we saw the possible reason for this battle for water territory. The entire pond is now covered with the water lettuce which first made its invasive appearance earlier this year. Instead of a pond, it looks more like a rugby field.

I later spoke to Dr Paul Martin, nature conservation manager for the Nelson Mandela metropole municipality, about the water lettuce (pistia stratiotes). The good news is that in early July they released 240 snout weevils (nedhy-dronomus assinis) into the upper pond. While relieved that the lettuce hasn’t spread to the lower pond, he said it would take about a year before there was a noticeable reduction of the plant in the top pond.

The weevil population is expected to grow rapidly in the spring, and will eventually start eating up the invasive weed. But the bad news is it won’t destroy it completely. Dr Martin said based on a similar situation at Sunset Dam in the Kruger Park, a cycle will develop whereby the weed will regrow rapidly, and then the weevil population will increase to consume it.

Asked whether the water lettuce had affected fish stocks in the pond, he said there had been no evidence of fish dying from lack of oxygen. While the open water bird species, like coots and moorhens, had either moved to the lower pond or to other habitats such as North End Lake or the Swartkops ponds, he said birds which lived among the reeds seemed to have stayed put.

Sacred ibis

After the shock of seeing the top pond in such a bad way, we walked back past the hide as a flock of sacred ibises – with their long black bills and black-outlined white wings – flew overhead.

Then we headed for the sea.

That is the beauty of Cape Recife. You get seabirds right alongside freshwater birds. And there were a few other surprises in store as well. Like the pair of black-collared barbets we saw, sitting openly on a telephone line, after Luke had identified their call. With bright crimson throats and thick bills, these are among the most spectacular birds around.

African black oystercatcher

Ruddy turnstone

It was low tide, and as we walked along the rocks, with Luke and brother Douglas, 9, seeking out anemones and starfish, we spotted several African black oystercatchers and a couple of turnstones and whimbrels among the gulls.

Cape gannet

Looking with the binoculars out to sea, as the offshore wind blew the spray back off the crests of waves, a pelagic feast was under way. Scores of Cape gannets, the black tips of their wings clearly visible, plummeted headlong into the sea. Closer to shore, various species of tern added to the spectacle.

We returned to the sandy beach where we saw a tall, elegant, grey heron wading through the dune scrub in search of tasty morsels. But mostly it just stood there, perfectly still, like a graceful, living statue.

Walking back to the car, we could see evidence of how areas of the original Cape St Francis dune-scrub fynbos mosaic, endemic to a 100km coastal strip including Cape Recife, is gradually taking back areas where the exotic rooikrans – planted in 1899 to stabilise the vast dune system on the peninsular – has been cleared.

Cape Recife is a treasure, and it is hoped that its best feature – its undeveloped, natural simplicity – will be respected and retained should the planned Madiba Bay project ever come to fruition.

Heard but not seen

Southern boubou

This appeared in Leisure on March 2, 2002, under the headline, Heard but not seen.

HEARD but not seen. That is the conundrum for many bird watchers, who often hear the calls of various species but fail to spot them in the forest canopy, dense reed bed or thicket.

The key is to know what you’re hearing. To do so it is essential to make a study of the various calls – or ensure you are accompanied on your outing by someone who has.

As an amateur birder for several years now, I’ve been lucky to rely on the expertise of my East London-based nephew, Dylan Weyer, 19, who has an extensive knowledge of the sounds and “jizz” (appearance and behaviour) of a large percentage of the 900 or so birds of southern Africa.

He in turn has inspired my son, Luke, 10, who has already seen and identified more than 250 species. Their knowledge and memory of calls are a godsend to an ageing rookie like me.

The fundamental importance of recognising bird calls was first underlined for me a few years back when Dylan took Luke and I on our debut trip through the Dassie Trail on the Nahoon River estuary in East London, and several calls kept stumping us.

We coped with the more obvious calls, such as that of the sombre bulbul, among the loudest and most insistent of the bushveld. “Willie! Why don’t you come out and fight? You’re scared,” it seems to say.

Black-eyed bulbul

The Cape bulbul, with its white eye-rings and yellow rump, has a call which I hear as “I’m not Willie!”. It is a common species in Port Elizabeth, but not found in East London, just 300km away. Yet in that area you get the black-eyed bulbul (not found in Port Elizabeth) which is a virtual replica of the Cape bulbul (call and all) except that it has a black eye-ring instead of a white one.

Red-fronted tinker barbet

Another common call heard on the Dassie Trail is that of the red-fronted tinker barbet. This delightful bird with a bright red blob on its forehead and yellow, black and white plumage, is fairly common in East London, but is also more often heard than seen.

Natal robin

The Natal robin makes a call like a watch being wound up – first a slow, wobbly high note, then a low one, repeated. It, too, given the robin’s secretive tendencies, is very rarely seen, but often heard. However, during the recent summer holidays, Luke and I were fortunate to spot our first Natal robin early one morning on a gate near the weir on the Bonza Bay (Qinerha) River. It has an orange head and breast, with a blue-grey back.

Chorister robin

Coincidentally, a few days later, in the riverine forest of the Dassie Trail, we saw (but ironically never heard) the chorister robin. Both are great imitators of other birds.

A bird whose call seems to carry for kilometers is the black-collared barbet. Sometimes heard in Settlers Park, it is fairly common in Eat London, where it is also more conspicuous. Here, too, it takes the expertise of a Dylan or Luke to know immediately which bird is being heard.

Indeed, the same applies when it comes to other less visible species, such as the woodpeckers. Many a time Luke has heard the olive woodpecker in Settlers Park. Following its call, or its tap-tapping, we have then spotted it, or usually a pair.

He has also often identified the call of the Knysna woodpecker, but we have only seen it a few times. So, too, with the cuckoos. Luke knows the calls of, among others, the black, Diederik’s and Klaas’s cuckoos, and we’ve heard all three in Settlers Park, but have only had a few sightings of the latter two.

Anyone who spends time in Settlers Park will have heard the distinctive sounds of the Knysna lourie.

Its throaty song is probably the least melodic of all the birds, but its alarm call is even harsher – a rasping sound which we’ve often mistaken for a wild animal. Yet it is arguably the most beautiful of southern Africa’s birds – and happily is often seen.

Cape weaver

Southern masked weaver

Spotted-backed weaver

Another call heard deep in the forest is that of the forest weaver. Cape and spotted-backed weavers are regularly seen along rivers in East London. As with the bulbuls, the spotted-backed is a regional, slightly larger, variation on the southern masked weaver. The former you find in East London, but not in Port Elizabeth, and vice versa with the latter.

Thick-billed weaver

Also seen among the reeds, but less often, is the thick-billed weaver. This bird is brown, as opposed to the yellow of the others, with white blobs on its forehead and a far thicker bill.

While most people are probably familiar with the raucous screeches of the Cape and masked weavers, less familiar will be the call of the forest weaver.

On a walk down the Bonza Bay River, Luke and I saw several in a free-standing tree. Normally they stick to thick canopies, where their long, funnel-like nests are more visible than they are. Anyway, this group entertained us with their unusually high-pitched musical calls, interspersed with typical weaver rasping.

Spectacled weaver

The importance of call-recognition also applies to the spectacled weaver, which has a Batman-like black mask over its eyes, and the red-faced mousebird, a far prettier bird than the common speckled variety. All have distinctive songs which are automatic guides to their identity.

But what of birds whose calls haunt you with their presence, but which very rarely reveal themselves? Classic examples are several dove species. The du-du-du of the green-spotted dove often dominates the bushveld, and we’ve been lucky to spot this bird at the Addo National Elephant Park and at Kariega.

Tambourine dove

Similarly, forest areas will often resonate to the low du-du-du-ing of the tambourine dove. Here, again, it is only good fortune which has allowed us to see this beautiful specimen on a few occasions in Settlers Park.

Spotted eagle owl

The most obvious heard-but-not-seen birds are the nocturnal species – especially the owls.

Dylan once took us to a point on the Gonubie River across from a large cliff as evening approached. Cupping his hands, he blew into them and created the call of the spotted eagle owl – a long, low series of hoots. Lo and behold, it wasn’t long before a reply was heard from across the river. In the fading light, we then saw the blurred shape of a large spotted eagle owl (50cm) flying silently about the cliff face.

Fiery-necked nightjar

The same night, in a nearby thicket, we heard the plaintive call of the fiery-necked nightjar – often remembered as sounding like “Good Lord, deliver us”.

Buff-spotted flufftail

One of the most unexpected calls is that of the buff-spotted flufftail. During a recent walk on the Dassie Trail, as Luke and Dylan identified the various calls, both mentioned that they could hear this creature. Now besides several of the above-mentioned species, there was nothing else I could discern, apart from a low, steady, almost subliminal hum, like a distant foghorn. This totally unbird-like call, I was assured, was that of the flufftail. While he has often heard it, not even Dylan has seen this 16cm long, almost tailless bird.

Walk past the reed beds of any river in the Eastern Cape and you’ll hear the calls of the warblers. But you’ll seldom see one. The African sedge warbler has the most obvious call – like a train accelerating. The Cape reed warbler we used to mistake for a robin, until Dylan corrected us. We’ve been lucky to see both species. Many others defy observation – like the green-backed bleating warbler, which inhabits thornveld and evergreen forests. Its loud, snapping call is unmistakable – but you’ll be very lucky to spot this tiny (10cm) fellow.

Top of my heard-but-not-seen list must be the narina trogon. I first heard it (again thanks to Dylan and Luke) on a walk through the Umtiza Forest, outside East London. The call – a soft, hoarse hoot – followed us along the 1,5km walk, but despite Dylan’s valiant attempts to “call it up”, we never saw it.

But what about those many different calls which kept us guessing on that first Dassie Trail outing? Each time we were stumped Dylan told us the call was that of the southern boubou.

It seems this ubiquitous species has numerous calls. But because the bird – like a larger version of the fiscal shrike – favours undergrowth areas, it, too, is not often seen.

Terrestrial bulbul

The same applies to several other forest floor-favouring species, such as the aptly named terrestrial bulbul, which keeps up a constant low-pitched chattering as it forages among the dead leaves.

Southern tchagra

Were it not for Luke’s expertise – gleaned from his Roberts CD-Rom – I would not have got my first sighting of the magnificent southern tchagra in Settlers Park. Upon hearing it, Luke and I set off for a bushy thicket, wherein it fed furtively.

I could go on, of course. Thrushes, honeyguides, hornbills, larks, orioles, chats, pipits, starlings, sparrows. The list is almost endless. A wealth of bird species, each with their own unique song to sing.

Nahoon Mouth and Inkwenkwezi

Dylan Weyer, left, and his younger cousins Luke and Douglas Bentley, get a slanted view of Nahoon Mouth.

This was published on August 18, 2001, in Leisure under the headline “Magical, mystical Nahoon River – a birder’s paradise”.

ONCE you have acquired a reasonable knowledge of the most common wild bird species, it is the new, or surprise, sightings which keep your interest up.

And I had several of those during a recent visit to the East London area which, with its more sub-tropical climate and vegetation, seems to be that much richer in bird-life than Port Elizabeth.

Our most memorable new sighting was in the heart of the dense riverine forest on the banks of the Nahoon River estuary. The forest forms part of the Dassie Trail, which never fails to provide birders with joyful experiences.

Its name may seem unexciting, but I can assure you the first time I spotted a brown robin, it was a magical moment.

Forest weaver

My son Luke, 10, and I had ventured out early on a cold, winter’s morning and were soon rewarded when we spotted a forest weaver, close-up in dense thicket, its black upper parts contrasting starkly with the bright yellow under sections.

Whimbrel

Despite the cold weather, a group of sacred ibises and a pair of whimbrels were spotted wading on the water’s edge, while the flapping of a large set of dark brown wings above the forest canopy alerted us to the early morning machinations of a crowned eagle.

African fish eagle

Then, perusing the Nahoon side of the river through binoculars, we spotted an African fish eagle in a tree, soaking up the first rays of sunshine. Pied kingfishers were plentiful, too, either perched on strategic bits of driftwood or hovering in the air above the water, from which position they would make regular plunges in a bid to secure their breakfast.

Once in the adjacent forest, however, the mood changed. All was still.

Brown robin

Then, alerted by the faintest of sounds, Luke scoured the thick, leaf-laden undergrowth for the source of the rustling sounds we were hearing, and we were overjoyed when we saw a pair of brown robins with their distinctive white eyebrow lines and splashes of white on the wings of their otherwise plain brown bodies.

They were tossing leaves into the air with their beaks as they pursued their prey, oblivious to our presence a few metres away.

With the Cape robin a common sight in the Eastern Cape, it was great to see this far-less familiar member of the robin family at such close quarters.

The brief, startled appearance of a pair of blue duikers, just 35cm tall, confirmed the forest’s allure as a small but important wildlife haven.

Luke and his older cousin and mentor, Dylan Weyer, at Inkwenkwezi, near East London.

I had seen the olive bush shrike a few times before, but only at a distance, or fleetingly.

However, a few days later, on a visit to the Inkwenkwezi Game Reserve, about 30km north-east of East London, another surprise was in store for us.

An initial walk through a forested section of the park yielded plenty of bird sounds – including the tu-tu-tu-ing of green-spotted and tambourine doves and the tapping of woodpeckers – but few sightings.

However, back in the more open bushveld, Luke and I encountered a tree which proved to be an avian cornucopia.

First, I saw one of the most beautiful birds around, the small (12cm) but brilliantly coloured red-fronted tinker barbet, with its distinctive bright red patch on the forehead. This is one bird, fairly rare in urban areas, which I’ll never tire of seeing.

Chinspot batis

Olive bush shrike

I was unable to confirm with Luke a sighting of a chinspot batis, which was in the same tree, but we both enjoyed a lengthy view of an olive bush shrike, just a few metres above us.

What I hadn’t appreciated before was just how beautiful the bird is, with its bold black collar accentuating the tones of the grey head, olive back and, in its ruddy form, slightly rufous breast.

But it wasn’t all plain sailing. We had been warned before setting off to be wary of a family of ostriches in the area.

They were far away at the time, so we happily headed into a clearing. Suddenly a pair of female ostriches came towards us from around a bushy thicket.

I didn’t know how to respond, so we both stood perfectly still (apart from a slight shaking), as they inspected us with their large, limpid eyes beneath long flickering eye-lashes. We heaved a huge sigh of relief when they finally sidled off, only to be plunged into further fear when the male appeared – and he didn’t seem to like the fact that we had been spending time with his mistresses!

He eyed us belligerently for a while before moving a few paces away, where he then proceeded to crouch and flap his white-tipped black wings – as if trying to fly.

At last, presumably having made his point, he set off in pursuit of his women.