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.

Maden Dam

African pied wagtail.

This was published in Leisure on June 16, 2001, under the headline, “Of near misses and little wagtails”.

I HAVE a theory about the Cape wagtail. We all know the little bird with the black breast band which will land nonchalantly on the lawn near you – after all the other birds have fled the garden on your arrival to hang out the washing.

With its tail bobbing up and down, while issuing a shrill, squeaky call, it will set about foraging in the grass for worms and mites.

And my theory is that it is taking advantage of the human presence. Its apparent tameness is a ploy. It knows it is too quick to be in any real danger from a person – in the rare likelihood that anyone would want to do it any harm.

So, while the doves, sparrows and starlings are away, it makes hay.

But this isn’t an article about the Cape wagtail.

As a relative newcomer to bird-watching, I recently had my first sighting of its close relation, which I had not known existed: the pied wagtail.

Rarely, if ever, seen in Port Elizabeth and environs, I encountered the pied version during a trip to the picturesque Maden Dam, about 40km outside King William’s Town.

Setting off from East London over the Easter weekend, we were initially on the look-out for Cape parrots, which are known to feed on the cashew nut plantations near King, but actually live in the indigenous forest which runs along the edge of the Amatola Mountains.

Cape parrot

Sadly, we were a bit late and never spotted any parrots heading home after an early morning binge. About 20km inland of King, on the Stutterheim road, you turn left onto gravel and, before long, you are at the Rooikrantz Dam. A little upstream lies the stately old Maden Dam, which was built in 1910 and was full to overflowing when we were there. After spotting some yellow-eyed canaries near the car park – plentiful in the East London area but rarely seen in Port Elizabeth – we set off on a walk along the edge of the lake.

Cape otter

And our first sighting had me thinking Loch Ness Monster thoughts. Except, the curved brown shape playing in the water a few metres from the shore was small – and soon identified as a Cape clawless otter.

Our walk along the edge of the dam was punctuated by near misses. At one point a flourish of big wings indicated a giant kingfisher, but the bird was seen only fleetingly, so there was no certainty there.

Further on, a possible green-backed heron or dwarf bittern – according to my knowledgeable nephew and guide, Dylan Weyer – flew out of a thicket of reeds to our right, and disappeared in the forest a few metres away – again unidentified. A little later, two raptors were heard and fleetingly seen through the thick canopy, but disappeared before we could determine what they were, although Dylan said they may have been black sparrow-hawks. A chattering of vervet monkeys had earlier alerted us to the presence of these raptors, which are among their main predators.

But we did get lucky a few times. A brilliant-yellow forest weaver was seen for some time from across a narrow stream that feeds the dam. This was at a point where the six-day, 105km Amatola Trail begins (it ends at Hogsback), as well as a separate three-hour walk to Sandile’s cave.

Cape batis

We did not have that sort of time available, but on our return walk struck it lucky when a mini-bird party yielded, well, many mini-birds. These included a couple of delightful brown, white and black Cape batises, along with yellow-throated warblers and yellow-breasted apalises.

Back at the carpark, we set out to explore the area below the dam wall, and were rewarded when a magnificent crowned eagle hove majestically into view.

Then, back at the car, as we were about to set off, a shrill, insistent call from the roof of a little building on the dam wall caught our attention.

It was a wagtail, but not the grey and white Cape version. No this species was stark black and white – a pied wagtail – which is apparently highly territorial, hence the loud chirping from such a small (20cm) bird.

Golden-breasted bunting

As so often happens, some of our best sightings occurred on the gravel stretch while travelling back to the main road. Bringing back memories of a recent trip to the Addo Elephant Park, we spotted the conspicuous black and white lines on the head of a golden-breasted bunting.

Red-throated wryneck

On the ground beside the road, several swee waxbills busied themselves in the long grass. And then, to cap it all, a red-throated wryneck was seen, an unexpected bonus.

A Karoo Odyssey

This article was written in about April 2000, but not published.

One of South Africa’s great natural wonders, the dolorite columns at the Valley of Desolation.

A FOUR-DAY, 1000km round trip through the Karoo left me convinced that the area offers scenery unparalleled anywhere in the world.

And the Valley of Desolation, near Graaff-Reinet, is truly an Eastern Cape tourism treasure.

We left Port Elizabeth in pouring rain and arrived mid-afternoon at the Cradock Spa, with its sulphur springs, just outside the town.

Here we cooled off with a swim in the large outdoor pool, before transferring to the indoor pool – to warm up again.

Scaly-feathered finch

In perfect weather, a braai using the facilities provided at our comfortable, fully furnished – and inexpensive – cottage, enabled us to take in the clear Karoo air. In nearby trees, the unfamiliar (to us) sociable weavers provided ornithological interest, along with a scaly-feathered finch, yellow-throated sparrow and African hoopoe.

Cradock’s main claim to fame is Olive Schreiner, whose book, The Story of an African Farm, was based on her life on a local farm. Olive Schreiner House in Cross Street illustrates her story.

But the dominant sight in the town, towering above other splendid old buildings, many in the Cape Dutch style, is the 1866 Dutch Reformed Church, which is similar in design to St Martin-in-the-Fields, next to the South African High Commission on Trafalgar Square in London.

Unlike its illustrious English counterpart, however, the stone-work on the Cradock church is largely unsullied by pollution.

Mountain zebra magic

Two mountain zebras enjoy the lush veld after rains at the Mountain Zebra National Park.

The next morning we set off early for the Mountain Zebra National Park, just 23km outside Cradock. Dew drops nestling in a myriad spider webs created delicate tracery patterns in fences along the roadside as we approached our destination.

Paying a mere R10 per adult and R5 each for children for a day visit, we first stopped at the information centre to pick up a map of the various drives available. We were also delighted to come across an acacia pied barbet, chirping merrily in a nearby tree.

We essentially wanted to see the famed mountain zebras, which the park saved from virtual extinction after it was established in July 1937, starting with a population of just five stallions and one mare.

Today, thanks to the acquisition of neighbouring farms, and the inclusion of the zebras on them, 200 to 230 mountain zebras populate the park, with about 20 others being translocated annually.

By the early 2000s some 1 100 had been re-established in recognised conservation areas and on private land.

While this is a wonderful conservation success story, the mountain zebra – which is distinguished from the more common Burchell’s zebra by the absence of shadow stripes – remains among the rarest mammals in the world.

The 14,5km Rooiplaat drive, we were informed, was the area where the zebras were most likely to be spotted. A tarred road took us higher and higher up the mountain, offering ever more spectacular views as we navigated between massive boulders.

But no sign of a zebra.

Then, finally, on a vast, pristine grassland plateau, we saw a herd of about half a dozen, grazing peacefully. As we journeyed slowly onwards, many more of these magnificent animals were spotted, along with hordes of springbok, blesbok, black wildebeest – with their ungainly gait – and eland.

We came across a huge red hartebeest dozing in the sun on the side of the road, just metres from our car. As he ambled off, we saw several young springbok perform their unique jumping act, with legs outstretched and heads bowed.

Clapper lark

Among birds spotted in the grass and scrub were sabota and clapper larks and a chestnut-vented titbabbler, while a pallid harrier soared overhead.

Returning to the rest camp, we took a short 30-minute walk during which we got our first sighting of a red-eyed bulbul, among other birds. After a tasty and inexpensive lunch, we headed back to Cradock.

Teebus and Koffiebus

Teebus and Koffiebus, near the farm Spring Valley, west of Steynsburg.

Our next destination was a farm just to the west of Steynsburg, near the northern border of the Eastern Cape.

The farm, Spring Valley, has been in my wife’s family for generations, and driving up from Cradock there is no mistaking your imminent arrival. The harbingers are as large as life and as old as the hills – the adjacent koppies known as Teebus and Koffiebus.

But things were different in the Karoo this time, compared to previous visits. It was already autumn, but the normally arid countryside was a sea of swaying grass. We had to negotiate several pools of water before arriving at the farm, which three months earlier was in the grip of one of the worst droughts in years.

Here our hosts, Bill and Colleen Elliott, provided us with the kind of hospitality for which South African farming families are famous.

Bill drove us around a sheep farm turned into an oasis by the rains.

Ironically, it was two devastating lightning strikes, last December, which initiated the transformation. The first killed a couple of his sheep, while the second struck a tall tree right next to the house, with a huge branch falling harmlessly a few metres from the roof.

From then on, the formerly black-scorched countryside turned an emerald green as the dams filled – and the farmers smiled again.

Bill enlightened us on the various Karoo bushes and grasses which are the staple of his flocks, while also pointing out the spoor of several buck and hare species. Birds spotted included red-billed quelea, common quail and the redheaded finch.

The next day it was time for our odyssey to continue. Our journey west took us between Teebus and Koffiebus and more breathtaking mountainous countryside, to Middelburg, and then south to Graaff-Reinet.

Picking up a local map in the “Gem of the Karoo” – which has more national monuments than any other town in the country – we set off along the edge of the still almost-empty Van Rynevelds Pass Dam. There was no entry fee at the Karoo Nature Reserve entrance to the Valley of Desolation, one of the most impressive natural phenomena in South Africa.

A well-maintained tarred road winds through Karoo vegetation ever upwards – your ears “pop” before you reach the top. For yes, the Valley of Desolation is a misnomer – it is actually at the top of a mountain.

Declared a national monument due to its geological and scientific significance, the valley consists of piled dolerite columns stretching hundreds of metres into the air. A large cluster of these rise from a valley carved out of the top of the mountain by volcanic and erosive forces during the Jurassic Period, between 190- and 150-million years ago.

Spandau Kop

A silhouetted Spandou Kop seen from the Valley of Desolation above Graaff-Reinet.

The first glimpse one gets of the area is from the toposcope look-out point. This offers a panoramic view of the historic town, encircled almost entirely by the Sundays River, with the splendid 1886 Dutch Reformed Church dominating the latticework of roads. To the right, Graaff-Reinet’s most famous landmark, Spandaukop, hogs the skyline, with the plains of the Camdeboo spreading out into the distance.

A row of outjutting crags, which resemble bottom teeth, led to the naming of the awe-inspiring Tantjiesberg, which can be seen in the distance.

A couple of minutes’ drive up from the toposcope, we stopped the car at a parking area and followed a well-laid-out path up to a point overlooking the valley itself. Wow! When you are up there among those dolerite columns, where each precariously balanced boulder must weigh hundreds of tons, you realise just how small and vulnerable we humans are. And children especially.

With that vertigo feeling almost beckoning you to tumble down into the depths below, we had to remain constantly on the look-out for crevices which could gobble up a wayward waif.

Pale-winged starling

While we never saw any of the famed black eagles soaring through the air between the cliffs, we did hear the low bellowing of baboons, and caught sight of flashes of cream on the plumage of pale-winged starlings as they rode the thermals.

Bird Party

A red-billed woodhoopoe

THIS appeared in Leisure in late 2000 (probably December), under the headline “Welcome to the bird party!”.

DID you know that our fine, feathered friends have a strange proclivity for getting together in a group of trees and, well, doing what birds do – eat fruit and insects, chirp and sing, and generally create a bit of a stir?

Normally bird-watching can be a bit of a bind, as you seek out those often very tiny specimens amid the leaves and shadows. But not so during our recent visit to the Dassie Trail, a nature reserve comprising thick riverine forest beside the Nahoon River estuary in East London.

Grey heron

We kicked off by surveying the river itself, and found on its surface and banks, among others, a grey heron, its feathers flapping in the breeze, a white-breasted cormorant sunning itself on a piece of driftwood, and a juvenile kelp gull swimming along duck-like.

Common terns wheeled across the surface, while a great white egret (85-92cm) stood absolutely still then spread its giant wings and traced a graceful path along the river before – watched through the binoculars – landing a few hundred metres away.

Half-collared kingfisher

Running across the mud flats (the tide was out) were a busy group of white-fronted plovers, as a tiny half-collared kingfisher darted hither and thither along the bank.

In a thicket of trees beneath a cliff we first heard, then saw, a Knysna lourie, which then flew off in a flash of scarlet wings to find a new perch.

All this and the party hadn’t even begun!

As we headed into the forest right next to the river, we encountered . . . nothing. Silence. Then, with a jolt my son, Luke, 9, and I were frightened out of our wits by a pair of hadedah ibises which flew off a branch just metres away from us, with loud, wailing shrieks.

A few minutes later we found ourselves in the thick of a real, unadulterated bird party.

High above us in the canopy we picked up a grey-headed bush shrike, one of the more elusive birds, with its beautiful yellow-orange breast and distinctive bill. Known as the ghost bird, the reason became obvious as it made its haunting “oooooop” call. I first thought two other large birds which fluttered out of a tree ahead of us were louries. But, with such big bills they could be only one thing: hornbills. This magnificent pair of trumpeter hornbills moved playfully from tree to tree, seemingly unconcerned about the human presence.

By now the bird party was in full swing in the canopy above as black-eyed and sombre bulbuls, forest weavers, Cape weavers and red-fronted tinker barbets, among many others, were either seen or heard.

Bronze mannikin

To cap a superb outing, a flourish of bronze mannikins alighted in a tree just ahead of us on the path, and as we returned to the river bank we saw two red-necked francolins fly hurriedly out of one thicket, only to conceal themselves equally quickly in another.

But if this outing had been a party, what was to come would constitute a bird banquet, so plentiful and diverse were the species encountered.

My nephew, Dylan Weyer, who has just completed matric and has been an avid birder for years, told us matter-of-factly that he thought we might have some success at the Amalinda Nature Reserve, on the outskirts of East London. The reserve comprises a dam, some fish hatcheries and a substantial area of bushveld and forest.

Dabchicks and yellow-billed ducks playfully swanned around on the dam as we heard and identified a host of species – but saw very few. However, the sight of a huge eland on the hillside across the lake enchanted us, as did a long-crested eagle, which remained perched atop a distant thorn tree throughout our visit.

As we headed along a gravel road towards a picnic area, the banquet broke out around us. Dylan was almost overcome with excitement as he battled to note down the numerous species seen and heard on his check-list. In all, that morning, 58 types were identified.

Black-collared barbet

Anyone with a knowledge of birds will find it hard to believe that within a radius of about 100 metres we saw, among others, several bizarrely behaved red-billed woodhoopoes, half a dozen crowned hornbills, a cuddly brown-hooded kingfisher, Knysna and cardinal woodpeckers, a paradise flychatcher, yellow-eyed canaries, a madness of forktailed drongos, a tambourine dove and a pair of black-collared barbets.

And, as we tiptoed through the grass for a better view of an elusive olive bush shrike, Dylan caught sight, in a low acacia bush a few metres away, of the truly magnificent Klaas’s cuckoo, surely one of the most attractive wild birds in southern Africa.

With a Knysna lourie “barking” away in the distance, and the southern boubous, sombre bulbuls and a myriad others keeping the music going, an intended hour-long visit had turned into three before, satiated by such a glut of God’s finest creatures, we had to become our own bouncers and throw ourselves out.

As we drove off, the party continued unabated in the balmy heat.