Just an evening walk…

I have been remiss about posting the spring flowers, overwhelmed by the explosion of number and variety since the fires. The soaking winter deluges that could have filled the dams and saved the Cape from drought never happened, but we did get consistent rains, every few days, that were enough for crops and flowers to do well, so we have plenty of buchu to harvest, the olives are looking their best in several years, and the spring flowers have been extraordinary.

Maverick, the puppy is huge now, as tall as Maebh, and he goes a bit crazy in the evenings, so we have taken to evening walks on the farm to burn up his puppy energy. At this time of year the sunsets are late and glorious, the sun itself drops directly behind Table Mountain, 60 kilometres away. A couple of days ago Peter asked me to check on a weir in a place we don’t usually visit, so we set off on a perfectly still evening on a new route for Maverick who absolutely loves exploring the farm. I can’t wait until he can come running with us. Irish wolfhounds need careful exercising as they grow. Short walks are fine but he won’t be allowed to run with us until he is at least a year old. Here he is taking a short break with Maebh keeping an eye on things in the background.

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Along the way we encountered thousands of little comb flowers, Micranthus junceus. In normal years we are lucky to see them at all, these are quite rare flowers. But this year, with the normal fynbos cleared by the fires, they are everywhere, paving the land in blue with their charming little combs. Out running this morning we came across a white one. The photo isn’t great, partly because the wind was howling and the light all wrong for taking photographs but I thought it essential to capture what seems like a rare find as the flowers are only referred to as blue in the literature. I will be posting this one on iSpot, which is the website dedicated to recording sightings of rare wildflowers.

Down by the weir we came across some Tritonia undulate which is growing all over the farm at the moment. I love its waxy white petals with their flashes of red. If I had the time and inclination to be a gardener I really could have the most amazing fynbos garden on this farm, with beauties like this just waiting to be transplanted to a location where they might thrive and multiply. One day perhaps.

I have never seen this blue flower before and I can’t find it in the book, so I shall have to put it on iSpot along with my white combflower and see if anyone can tell me what it is. Stunning, blue on a spiral, similar in some ways to the combflower but the flower itself is quite different. The splash of darker blue on the petals is quite distinctive.

After inspecting the weir we walked home in the darkening light, the sun setting behind the skeletons of burnt trees that overlook a puddle affectionately known as “James’s lake”. We took the long way home and crossed the dam wall with the setting sun behind us. The light was extraordinary and the farmhouse was reflected in the perfect stillness of the dam. We are so blessed.

Spring Days

Spring on the mountain, silent stillness, glowing sunsets and the promise of summer rising up with the heat from the valley.  Days of cool rain followed by the smell of warm wet earth as the dogs and I run, happy and quite fit, around our mountain.

The research is almost done, and even while it held me chained to my desk I would slip out on a fine evening for a quick run with the dogs, returning to my books as the light faded, full of energy and enthusiasm to work late on into the evening.

Though the winter rains were light and we remain officially in drought, the fires have stimulated the flowering bulbs and the mountains are aglow with light.  Where I have found one or two special specimens in specific places over the years suddenly everything  is everywhere, clothing the burnt land with carpets of spring.  The blue of Babiana fragrens is a distant reminder of bluebells woods at home in Ireland.

Tufts of Aristea spiralis are all over the farm, not just in the special damp places, while Spiloxene capensis, the peacock flower is also prolific along the drive and along some of the high damp banks.  Some years I see hardly any of this charming stars, this year is a real treat.

 

 

The Moreas are also prolific. I love the salmon pink Moraea collina, again prolific everywhere after the fires, but I have been told they are poisonous to horses and cattle so I like them a little less now.  Moraea tricuspidata has been so rare that some years I’ve missed it completely because of travelling. Impossible to miss it this year as it has emerged in copious quantity along the paths where we run.

Wurmbea punctata doesn’t have a particularly pretty name, but it’s a gorgeous little flower found only on damp slopes high on the mountain.

White stars light up the roadways as we run, here are Hesperantha and Geissorhiza ovata

In past years I have celebrated the Ericas in spring. So many are gone, and may take years to grow back.  This one survived along the drive, Erica imbricata.

Another lovely sight is the Leucadendron tinctum. Where the two fires meet there is an unburned spot, where these flower prolifically.  They are lovely now and splendid in summer when the leaves turn terracotta.

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This one is rather unattractively known as the beetle lily, Baeometra uniflora.  It grows in a very specific place, where our run takes us briefly onto the neighbours land.  There are dozens of them there this year.

I am not entirely sure of the identification of this one.  Dianthus albens?

Keeping the best for last.  I love this tiny little green orchid.  This colour seems to be hard for my iPhone camera, it doesn’t capture green flowers well.  This is Disperis capensis, the cowled monk. I have only ever found it close to the olive groves above the house, this year it is suddenly everywhere.  Utterly charming.

As always, the dogs are my faithful companions.  We have a new Irish Wolfhound puppy, Maverick.  He’s too young to come running, but enjoyed a sunset walk with the girls one lovely evening.

 

 

The Evening Run

The dogs and I love winter evening runs on the farm.  If I’m working at my desk I set the alarm for 5pm, head up to the house, change into running gear and we set off.  The sun is just dipping behind the Paardeberg as we leave and the light slowly bleeds out of the sky, filling the evening with colour and drama, a typical winter sunset.

The evening was unexpectedly mild as we headed up the mountain.  We stopped by the stream which is flowing with proper determination now, after several weeks of regular rain.

I have been neglecting this blog, in part because there are fewer ‘surprised by joy’ moments as the land takes its time to recover from the ferocity of the summer fires.  But I have been away for a week and to my delight today there was some wild rosemary, Eriocephalus africanus flowering by the road.  We had thousands of these sweet smelling shrubs with their delicate white winter flowers, and I daresay we will again.  For now I was happy to see any at all, the flowers gleaming in the late light of day.

Another jewel is Microloma tenufolia.  The waxy texture of its flowers make it hard to photograph, I can never capture the amazing coral colour that flashes bright as we run past it.  I was delighted to see it, a dear friend, determined to survive and thrive, just like us.  It’s a climber and flourishing all over the place at the moment.

A determined friend is Leucadendron salignum. This brilliant green shrub thrives on the north side of the farm which was completely destroyed by fire three.  New plants emerge from the roots of twisted skeletons and here and there a plant has survived, casting a remarkable effulgent green light onto the bleak mountain.  A joy to behold as the light fades towards the end of the run.

Along the drive the charming blue Morea tripetala flourishes.  The bulbs seem to be fine after the fire.

A mist rose from the valley tonight as the dams reflected the light.  The sky turned a myriad of colours, deep blue and pink with a rising moon above the mountains to the east.  To the west a huge cape eagle owl launched from this tree into the valley below, just before I took this picture. We returned home, the dogs and I, happy, exercised, carrying the enchantment of the mountain in our spirits and I took one last photo of the darkening valley and the deepening sky.

 

 

The Sound of Silence

We’ve been in the bush a couple of times recently.  That’s what South Africans say when the rest of the world might say “on safari”.  Most recently at Mashatu Game Reserve on the border of the Limpopo river in Botswana.  We love the bush, especially being there with family and good friends.  Relaxing, great food, great wine, great fun and spectacular game.
But it’s noisy in the bush.  At night the noise never stops – you lie awake surrounded by the croaking frogs, the rustling, the grunt of the invisible leopard strolling through camp, the far off roar of a lion and the whoop of a distant hyena.  Closer to home, just outside the window the tiny pearl spotted owl spouts forth all night, his whistling call climbing a lengthy scale, the volume all out of proportion with his tiny frame.  With the dawn comes the chacaphony of the chorus but luckily we are up by then, heading out into the cold bitter morning to see what’s out there.
On the way home I stayed in Johannesburg for a night.  Although I stayed with Yvonne who lives in a leafy suburb, the city is never silent for a moment.  My ears are bashed by rumbles and thumps and engines and shouts, by barking dogs and rustles and squeaks that may or may not signify danger.   And because Johannesburg is a city in a forest, the dawn chorus is every bit as loud as in the bush, only now I’d like to sleep.
Home on the farm last night I went high into the mountain with the dogs.  A little rain has fallen in recent weeks and it feels like the whole farm, indeed the whole mountain, is a patient who has been through terrible trauma and slowly beginning to heal.  The green is emerging in patches, and treasures are coming out of the blackened earth.  I almost feel bad for going away as I suspect there are flowering bulbs that have come and gone and I’ve missed them.  Never mind.  Here is silence.  On a still, warm evening the mountain has taken on the magnificent silent presence of a cathedral.  The dogs and I stop, catching familiar scents, surrounded by silently growing plants, holding the quiet, the peace, the magnificence of the entire Cape laid out before us in glittering evening light.  Such beauty.  Such silence.
Fynbos needs fire and rewards us with flowers.  Coming up the drive little flashes of pink caught my eye high on the bank.  The dogs and I went to explore and found masses of tiny pink nerines, something I’ve never seen on the farm before.

A few weeks ago Peter was down by the river, clearing all the dead Port Jacksons (invasive trees that got completely destroyed by the fire).  He found these incredible red flowers, emerging from nowhere.  They are paintbrush lilies, Haemanthus pubescens.

There are always thousands of Oxalis studding the farm at this time of year and even in the badly burned places some have emerged, nothing like as prolific as other years, but all the same, there they are.

Then there are these fabulous aloes that have probably been there all along but were hidden by massed proteas.  The proteas are gone and somehow these survived and I can see them from the road at the top of the farm.  I think they are Aloe plicatilus.  They would normally flower later in the year but between the fire and the unseasonably hot weather they may have decided to flower early.

Small signs of life

For a blog that records flowers on our mountain there isn’t a lot to report.  The end of summer is once again hot and dry, we’ve had one decent fall of rain and a little drizzle here and there, interspersed with days hot enough to make the earth hot, dry and hollow as a drum.

There is a serious drought in the Cape, with dams at some of their lowest levels ever recorded.  If we don’t have heavy rains in April Cape Town will be in serious trouble.  Don’t tell anyone, but here on the farm we have never had so much water at the end of summer.  With all the trees gone along the riverbeds high above us, the water is pouring down the mountain strong and pure.  As a consequence the dams below us may not be full but they are not doing too badly.

The dogs and I run through the desolate landscape; the girls play in the empty land, sniffing and running on the cooler mornings.

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Meath surveys the farm

There are signs of life.  The first things to emerge after the fire are the ferns.  They stud the black earth with bright green flares.

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There was a yellow daisy for a day or two.  Then it disappeared, almost as though it made a mistake and decided to wait for better times.  I am sure it is Haplocapha lanata which flowers especially after fire and has the peculiarity  of being leafless.

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Haplocarpha lanata

The most surprising thing of all is that just a couple of weeks after the fires this Asparagus rubicundis emerged all over the farm.  A small shrub that I have recorded in flower only once before, but clearly it likes the fire, it is the only green flowering thing on the mountain and it’s all over the place, anywhere that has a bit of damp from a watercourse it flourishes and flowers like mad.

Almost all the proteas are gone and I cannot imagine how long it will take them to grow back in their thousands.  One is making an astonishing recovery.  Protea nitida, which I was particularly sad to lose, as it grows into a tree putting out huge fluffy white flowers in winter and great redheads of regrowth in spring.  To my delight the trees are recovering fast, they seem to be fireproof, even where the fire burned hottest and destroyed everything most of nitidas have glowing trunks in the black landscape.  If the trunk is too badly damaged the leaves emerge from the ground.  Mostly they are coming into leaf quite quickly.  It will be a delight to see them flower, perhaps later than normal but I hope they do.

This is, I hope, the very start of a massive outpouring of life and recovery.

The Otters

The wind is howling tonight as I write and I confess I am still nervous about fire.  When it blows like this I can’t sleep.  Almost everything around us has gone, but we are a green oasis on the mountain and the fire might like another bite.  Peter doesn’t want me to call them flare-ups, but how to name the smouldering stump that suddenly bursts into flames?  We have them all the time, sudden breakouts.  The drama is over but the battle continues and we long for rain.  It could be a month or more.

Protea repens chooses the hottest and most inauspicious time of the year to flower, covering the farm with fat pink and white flowers in February.  This year they are dead skeletons and thousands of seeds, probably millions of them, released by the heat of the fire.  And yet…  As I ran around the desolate blackness with the dogs the other day, here and there a protea has survived; sometimes a whole group of them.  By the lookout at the top of the farm all the leucodendrum tincta are intact – Fire two came at them from one side, and Fire three from the other, yet somehow that tiny part of the farm didn’t burn. Where they have survived they thrive and I managed to photograph a couple of Protea repens, one on the drive – literally the only one left out of hundreds, and one from the top of the farm on a different day.

Early the other morning Peter came and called me urgently – I was fast asleep.  “Sarah, come quickly.”  Sometimes it’s really annoying when he does this, but sometimes he’s got something really worth seeing.  I dragged my unwilling body out of bed, onto the balcony and into the cold dawn.  Meabh was sitting by the edge of the dam barking.  Right in front of her, not five metres away, was a cape clawless otter, teasing her.  And right behind him, a few metres back, his family was playing and cavorting in the water.  Peter told me he’d seen this when I was away, but it seemed so incredible that I hardly believed it.  Yet there they were, wild otters, teasing the Irish Wolfhound.   A couple of evenings later they were there again.  I didn’t manage to capture the otter, but if you look closely you can see the silhouettes of Peter and the dogs in the silver water and to the left the ripples of the otter as he swam away.

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It is a great privilege to live in Africa and at times it’s a privilege that exacts a high price.  At other moments you get cape clawless otters in the sparkling dawn.

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Cape Clawless Otter – credit Nik Borrow

 

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