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Click to enlarge I’ve spent time in several Southern African game parks – it’s my favourite pastime. When I first started visiting the Kruger Park, I kind of remembered the trips by the number of times I saw lion. Or leopards. Or, best of all, wild dogs. It took me a good few outings to realise there’s more to a game park than the big five. Or the big anything, for that matter. I’ve been to the Mountain Zebra and Addo parks several times but never seen a lion (which I believe they do have in their menageries). Having said all that, my last trip to the Kruger broke all records in terms of lions. I saw a total of 28 lions in 10 days. It may be that I saw the same lion more than once, but I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. However, I have had a few Kruger trips when I didn’t see a lion at all, which is almost unheard of. When I say I didn’t see one, I mean one close enough to take a photograph of and which you would then be able to recognise as a lion. The thing is, there are many other very interesting sightings, if you allow yourself to think beyond the quest for the big five. The picture above is of a common little Southern African tree squirrel (real name, Paraxerus Cepapi). It’s only about 350 centimetres long, of which half is taken up by its tail, and it tips the scale at about 200 grams. August is the mating season for these little guys and their offspring are born between October and November. At only 19 days, the youngsters are already able to forage for themselves. Like many other visitors to the drier parks, I have loads of pictures of squirrels. They’re usually a lot easier to find and photograph than any of the big five and watching them for half an hour or more will provide you with a whole heap more entertainment that watching the king of the jungle – who’s usually sleeping it off during the day, anyway. There’s much to see in the game parks – and it’s not all royalty.

Click to enlarge Well, in a sense I’m always a birder if you count feeding them every day. I even have a best bird buddy in the shape of a fork-tailed drongo that will eat out of my hand and who shouts at me it I’m late with his cheese. After breakfast, he will sometimes serenade me. Not the most melodious bird, but I’m still flattered. In terms of the avian definition, I’m not a true birder, of course. (I don’t know my canaries from my finches). But I am one in the sense that I love photographing them. Most of the time, I find Google can tell me the name of the bird in my pic and a lot more about it, besides. That’s good enough for me. So, in this birder guise, I set out for one of our local lakes this morning and took up station at a bird hide. Last time I visited, the site was water and reeds and no birds. Today, some kind soul has planted a number of tree stumps in the water, providing perfect perches for a variety of birds. I took a number of shots of the bird featured above which both Google and I identified as a white-breasted cormorant. All in all, I took about 40 pictures, of which I finally kept two. That’s the thing about digital photography. You can take as many pics as you like and only keep a few. In the old days, 40 pics was more than a full roll of film and to have to process them for the sake of keeping two was a somewhat expensive pastime. Something else which attracted my attention at the hide was a school of small fish. The water boiled as they rushed about in a frantic state of confusion. After a while, I saw the cause of the panic. They were being hunted by two cormorants which had to surface from time to time to swallow their catch and get air. It’s the first time I’ve seen something like this at the lake, so it kind of made my day. If you’re wondering about the other pic I kept, Google called it a lesser swamp warbler. A friend who knows says it’s a little rush warbler. I can’t argue but I doubt the little tyke wants to be called “lesser”.

Clicik to enlarge I visited a local beach last Sunday. I’m not a beach person and since our furry friends moved on to doggy heaven there hasn’t been much cause to frequent their happy walking grounds. Also, I gave up fishing years ago, so there’s even less reason to visit a beach. On leaving the carpark, I noticed a broken wall clock lying next to a refuse bin, put there for the benefit of beach goers. (The bin, that is, not the clock.) At first, I wondered why anyone would bring a broken wall clock to the beach. It’s not as if you’ll be able to time your walk. Then, with some annoyance, I wondered why the rejected time piece had been chucked next to the bin, rather than placed inside it. Walking along the beach, wishing I‘d chosen low tide so I didn’t have to walk in the soft, loose sand on the dunes, I got to thinking about time. It’s something which only happens once in your life and when it’s gone, it’s gone. It makes doing nothing a deplorable exercise, unless you can maintain that when you look as if you’re doing nothing, you’re actually meditating or thinking. Or following a higher pursuit, whatever that may be. When I was employed, either by myself or someone happy to pay over the top for my services, time was always a precious commodity. I was good at managing my time. I never missed a deadline, except while I worked for an IT company who sold vapourware by the hour. Yet, I ran out of time almost every day – making for very long working hours. That’s also not true – the hours stayed the same, just 60 minutes in each, but there were more hours in my working day than I preferred. After retirement, however, many people want to know what I do with all my free time. I can’t answer them because I don’t seem to have much free time. I mean, I have to make time to do Sudoku.

Click to enlarge This is definitely one of those ‘luv em or hate em’ birds. They’re messy, territorial, aggressive, bullies and can be just plain nasty. I once sat at a dam for over an hour and watched how a single Egyptian goose held a flock of guinea fowl at bay. They're not the brightest of birds and every time they came close to the water’s edge, the goose rose out of the water to full height, flapped his wings and charged. They scattered, terrified. If you’re a golfer and your course is frequented by Egyptian geese you need to be wary of stepping onto the greens, which the geese seem to think have been laid for the purpose of their defecation. The same applies to swimming pools which the birds are capable of ruining within a week or two – as I know from personal experience. Their poop gums up the filtration plant. It also contains bacteria that can be harmful to humans and dogs. People who have to deal with these birds on a regular basis seldom have a good thing to say about them. A friend of mine had trouble with a pair of nesting geese which stripped thatch from his roof in alarming quantities. Nothing appeared to discourage them and he began to despair. One morning there was a knock at his front door. He opened it to be confronted by an SPCA official who informed him his neighbours had laid a complaint against him for shooting the birds. My friend’s indignant denial led to a somewhat heated discussion until his wife, sitting in the lounge reading and listening to the argument, spoke up. ‘It was me,’ she said. Appears the farm lass in her was sick and tired of the pests and she did away with them as she would have done as a youngster. I can’t condone her actions, but I must confess a little empathy. They’re also beautiful, with amazing colours if you catch them in the right light. They make for great photography.

Click to enlarge In my youth I rode motorbikes. Not like the guy in the picture above, of course. I once heard a doctor describe bikers as organ donors on two wheels. This guy is a donor on steroids. Thing is, I'd be too scared to even try what he’s doing. Firstly, I’m afraid of heights, Then I’d be afraid to crash. Finally, I don’t wear waterproof underwear. I often wonder what it is that drives people to do what others, like me, wouldn’t dream of. Are they simply reckless. I don’t think so, or more of them would crash, more often. Is it adrenalin. Well, yes, at the time of performing the stunt but we’ve all got a bountiful supply of adrenalin, yet we don’t do things like this. When the rider brings the bike back to ground, stops and removes his helmet, he’s kind of like you and me. Just an ordinary person. Yet, he isn’t. We’ve stereotyped him into a crazy, daredevil category, but that’s not true either. He’s spent hours and hours practicing what he does. He's a pro who’s worked extremely hard to do what you’ve just witnessed with an open mouth. He’s not fearless and he's crashed often. But he takes risks that he’s taken time and time before. He knows what the outcome will be and what he needs to do to achieve that result. It’s like you or me driving to the mall. Except you need to add speed, precision timing, risk factors, obstacles, cool nerves, athleticism and supreme confidence. I no longer ride motorbikes. In fact, I don’t even ride a bicycle, other than the one in the gym that goes nowhere. I cycled for many years and when I told someone recently that I really miss it, they asked why I don’t do it any longer. They say you never forget how to ride a bicycle. True, but you do lose confidence in your own ability and that exponentially increases the risk of falling off. Now, I get an adrenalin rush from watching the Tour de France from my couch. Especially the sprint finishes.

Click to enlarge There comes a time when one has to say That’s it. Enough. Sometimes it’s forced on you. I had to give up rugby at the age of 22, much to my disgust. I was playing great rugby at the time, but ended up concussed every game. (Sometimes I wondered if my captain wasn’t giving me a clout in a loose scrum just to get me playing at my best.) The doctor, however, warned that the potential for permanent brain damage was a likelihood if I continued. (Some may say he was too late.) My mother, on a few occasions demonstrated remarkable wisdom as far as knowing when to stop. She was known for her dignity and independence. But, when the time came, she checked herself into a retirement village, giving up a magnificent garden and a very comfortable home. Not long after, she had us sell her car believing she should no longer be driving. It reduced her independence significantly but was the right thing to do. Giving up something that’s important to you, or that you particularly like, is never easy. I was never a great hiker. Although I did do the Whale Trail once (a slack-packing hike) and thoroughly enjoyed it. A favourite pastime was taking long walks on the Silvermine mountains above Noordhoek. They were covered in fynbos and offered something to look at or photograph, any time of the year. My dogs loved the walks. Moving cities put paid to my Silvermine rambles and I confined myself to beach walks. Not that the dogs minded. But when they both moved on to the doggy cloud, the drive to a beach no longer made much sense. The thing is, even if you have to give up something important, having a substitute makes it bearable. While I was working, I ran out of time most days. Now I’m retired, the same thing happens. I don’t have time to miss hiking.

Click to enlarge Using my cell phone, I took this picture of a hibiscus bud earlier this morning. A Hibiscus rosa-sinensis, to call it by its proper name. It was taken against a dull, grey sky in very cold weather. Nothing exciting about all that, and you’re probably thinking there’s nothing exciting about the picture either. You’re wrong. Over the next few days, this humble bud will unfold and bloom into a vibrant orange flower. If you walk past it, you’ll stop and take a closer look. It’s that kind of flower. There are days, like today, when the whole world appears dull and grey. Even this hibiscus flower is hiding its magnificence. It’s easy to walk past things and not see them. Is it because they don’t want to be seen or because you’re not looking? You decide. Mid-winter is that time of the year when not much blooms in my garden, but the flowers which do put in an appearance make up for it. And it’s the same all over the world. Many years ago, I took a walk in the Silvermine reserve above Noordhoek. I almost left my camera in the car. It was a dull, grey day (have I used that phrase before -at least I'm consistent, if boring) so I didn’t expect to see anything worth photographing. After two hours, I hadn’t walked more than a kilometre or so and I’d taken over 100 pictures. I’ve still got some of them. I’m going to be checking the hibiscus bush in the corner of my property every day this week. I’m going to be watching humble transform into spectacular.

Click to enlarge I‘ve never tried surfing. But I did try windsurfing – twice. The first time I had the pole (or whatever you call it) pierce my groin and almost lost my manhood. I did suffer a loss of my dignity as I emerged from the sea, bleeding and with a sail wrapped around me like a blanket. Apparently, Hout Bay in gale force conditions is not the place to learn to windsurf. The second time, I managed to stand up on the board and was blown two kilometres down river. It was another undignified experience and a long walk back, dragging a reluctant board – or whatever you call that plank with a sail. Watching the surfing competition at Herold’s Bay last weekend provided me with a fun outing. I arrived at the beach, well prepared with a couple of apples, a cold drink and water. (I did buy a Russian hot dog for lunch – not to be recommended.) I also remembered to take a hat, a chair and suncream. To add to the occasion, I stood (and sat) next to an old hand at surf photography and he was happy to chat and share settings. He also explained how the competition was run, improving my understanding of what I was photographing. The surfers, all young, bronzed and fit, put on a magnificent display. The weather almost played ball, becoming a little foggy at one point and then clearing. The sea did its thing, mostly. The event, scheduled to take pace at Victoria Bay, was moved to Herold’s on the morning, due to the lack of waves at the former venue. Although the receding tide reduced the height of the waves, there was enough for the surfers to do their thing. In a way, surfing is like a water ballet. Surfers gracefully glide along the barrel of a wave, swivelling to make cutbacks (as seen above) or elaborate, airborne manoeuvres. They pack in as much variation as possible during the short duration of the ride. Rides are scored out of 10, with eight or more considered excellent. For me, just standing up would be beyond excellent. I packed up and left after about four hours of watching and arrived home with enough pics to make me happy. I can’t balance, but I can take pics. Winner.

Click to enlarge During a recent trip to the Mountain Zebra Park in the Eastern Cape, South Africa, I spent a lot of time driving around. In fact, over three days, I drove every kilometre of the roads in the park. If game viewing is the reason for your visit to a park, you might want to choose the Kruger Park where there are substantially more animals and a greater variety. While the Mountain Zebra brochure lists a diverse range of animals, you’ll be more than lucky to spot lion, cheetah or brown hyena, for example. Someone did because they put a picture in the brochure. Unfortunately, I’m not the lucky kind. But there’s always something to see in Mountain Zebra Park, other than zebra, that is. For example, the scenery is spectacular and boasts roads that wind you up steep hills (okay, mountains) to provide a wide angle view of the plains and valleys below. There’s something peaceful about sitting on a mountain and looking down. It calms the soul. And there’s other stuff to see as well. To the observant, the park reveals a variety of plants and flowers to catch the eye – as did the one pictured above. When I showed it to Mrs Google, her response was, ‘an aquarelle sketch of iris flowers on old parchment poster.’ I was flattered and didn’t tell her that it was a photograph processed in Photoshop to appear as a watercolour sketch and I don’t possess anything resembling parchment paper. I mean, you don’t correct Mrs Google in case she sends you a nasty virus or error message, just out of spite. iNaturalist, however, being less arty and more down to earth, suggested it is a Karoo Tulp or Iris (moraea polystachya), a member of the iridaceae family, believe it or not. I believe it because my mate agrees with them – although I won’t mention his name in case he’s wrong and he starts getting hate mail from irrational phytophiles. Sadly, farmers hate the plant because it’s deadly toxic to livestock. To me, it is simply a lovely purple flower and when I saw it, my immediate reaction was, ‘that will make a super watercolour pic.’ I think I’m right and any floraphile will agree with me.

Click to enlarge Over the past few weeks Mother Nature has made her presence felt, dramatically so, in my hometown. It started with a storm, the likes of which has never been experienced locally since such events were first recorded in South Africa – sometime around 1920 or thereabouts. Winds, close to hurricane force, relentlessly battered the town for almost two days. Roofs were blown off, road signs flattened and trees uprooted, leaving craters where they were ripped out of the earth. Only a week later, we suffered heavy rain for two consecutive days, swamping vast areas and causing the local dam to overflow. For many, the weather did more than dampen spirits as they battled to deal with problems. Ironically, we’ve experienced a drought for the past year or more and some were worried about how severe water restrictions would get before being eased. Then, yesterday, I took my camera for a walk along one of our beaches. The particularly rough seas accompanying the latest storm had whipped the waves into a frenzy. The high content of organic matter in the water resulted in a layer of foam about half a metre deep in places - pushed between the rocks and along the edge of the sea where it ran up the beach. Young children ran thigh deep in the foam, laughing as they brushed it off their legs and clothing. Some of them smeared it on their cheeks like shaving cream. They were having a blast. But, so too, was Mother Nature. Every crook and cranny within reach of the sea was covered in foam. Small inlets between the rocks were a playground for incoming and receding waves as they pushed foam forward, deposited beards on the rocks and dragged the rest back into the ocean. The light was fading and I was contemplating heading back home when I rounded a corner to find a delightful little bay, no more than three metres across. I was able to take the picture you see above. I’m reminded of a quote by Aristotle, “In all things of nature there is something of the marvellous.

Click to enlarge For most of us, getting something to eat is as easy as opening the fridge. And there’s usually a choice. For moggy or best friend Fido, it’s almost as easy. (I admit to never having come across a dog called Fido, but you know what I mean.} However, for wild animals, it’s a different matter altogether. Dragon flies top the success stakes with a 95% kill rate, followed by orcas who average between 85% and 95%. Wild dogs, hunting in packs, average between 80% and 85% while the king of the jungle only manages a lowly 20% to 25%. (All according to Ms Google.) Going to bed on an empty stomach is not unusual. While travelling though the Mountain Zebra Park recently, I stopped to watch a black backed jackal on the hunt. The stealth and patience displayed. It stood poised for ages, then pounced. With a one-in-three success rate, it missed, despite a frantic digging and scratching follow-up effort. I’m not sure who was more disappointed, me or the jackal. With a dust stirring shake of its body and a lick of its lips, the animal was back on the job. Listening. Stalking. Poising. Pouncing. Jackals often hunt in pairs, making the odds of grabbing a meal a bit higher. In fact, being omnivorous, a diet of birds, insects, reptiles and rodents is sometimes even supplemented by fruit – although what that fruit might be, I have no idea. Of course, they’re also master scavengers, happy to sit at the lion’s table – albeit at some distance – to share in the spoils. I once stayed on a guest farm in the Northern Cape where the owner made a lucrative living by selling semen from simmental cattle - but that’s another story, I guess. Anyway, he also kept sheep and we were approaching the lambing season. Consequently, he'd contracted the regional Jackal Catcher, a professional hunter, to rid his farm of vermin. Despite the fact that the entire farm is surrounded by jackal fencing, designed to keep the animals out, I was horrified to find eleven dead jackals on the lawn the next morning. I try not to think of the Jackal Catcher when I eat lamb.

Click to enlarge Yesterday my wife and I paid a visit to our local botanical gardens. It’s that time of year when the leaves are falling, having passed the period of splendour when mother nature watercolours our world in autumnal hues. To be honest, the gardens looked drab and I was disappointed at how little there was to see. No colour. Nothing to detract from the dull grey-green of the vegetation now preparing for winter. To make matters worse, the dragonflies, a big attraction at the dam, are still underwater nymphs and will stay that way until spring, at least. Suddenly I thought ‘hold your horses’, not that I can ride a horse – I mean they’re dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle. Anyway, I realised that if you want to see something, you have to look for something. I started looking and started seeing things. Hidden amongst the foliage were tiny flowers. There wasn’t much competition so they probably don’t need to be big and bold to attract the pollinators. They simply have to be there. And they were big enough to catch my eye and make my day. I went into the bird hide and, again, there was nothing to see. Until I focussed on a rustling in the reeds and spied a moorhen foraging. A slate grey bird with a flash of white on its wings and tail and a bright red beak tipped with yellow. (I couldn’t see them, but the moorhen has green legs and really long toes.) I sat for some time watching the bird, taking shots every now and then. Unfortunately, the surrounding reeds made a decent image impossible – but then who needs pictures when you can see the real thing. (Actually I do.) My wife had sat on a park bench while I was in the hide. She’d been entertained by a family of double collared sunbirds – a male and two females. The afternoon chill was moving in so we decided to call it a day and have coffee at the little restaurant on the way out of the gardens. Rounding the final corner of the path, there was another surprise – a dietes grandiflora, also known as the wild iris. The plant, as you can see above, provided a spectacular sighting. I looked and I saw.