Or: “How a Penguin Ignored Me, a Hawk Mugged Me, and Cape Town Nearly Got Birding Right”
This week’s edition of Beat About the Bush comes to you from a very cold, very damp, but surprisingly lush corner of the Western Cape. Not Cape Town, mind you—just the Western Cape. There’s a difference. One has overpriced coffee and vegan options where they don’t belong. The other has birds, and therefore, purpose.
The past few days have been sheer, bloody-minded bliss in the birding department.
Friday kicked off the monthly Cape Town trip. Normally this includes the usual Morreesburg–Langebaan shuffle: some laptop-based “remote work,” a bit of domestic bliss, and the occasional contemplation stare into the wine rack. But not this time. No, this time we decided to actually do Cape Town. Like, properly.
Cape Town City-Hall building
So Friday morning was spent being a tourist. I wandered through the High Court, Market Square, City Hall, and even the Castle. Lots of old buildings. Lots of Germans. And some other tourists in sensible shoes.
Now, while not remotely related to nature, it was—shockingly—my first proper walkabout in the guts of the Mother City. History, heritage, and heavy architecture. I was mildly entertained for several hours. So not entirely tragic.
Saturday arrived.
We packed the car with the essentials. Which, obviously, included 2 litres of water, some nicotine, light snacks, a MacBook, a camera, two lenses, a drone, a sensor cleaning kit, rubbing alcohol, and a dustproof case. You know—just the basics.
By late morning, we arrived in Simon’s Town. I hadn’t been there since 2018. Back then, I was a vastly different human. But the mission remained pure: Penguins.
While my partner was drawn to signs for thrift stores, bakeries, and smokehouses, I was following the breadcrumb trail to Boulders Beach.
Thanks to signage that might as well have been drawn by a distracted meerkat, we somehow skipped the main path and ended up—quite by accident—on the actual beach. And it turns out… that’s exactly where you want to be.
There I was, standing quietly when, like something out of a Pixar film, a lone penguin waddled out of the surf and strolled right past us. No tourists. No squawking. Just silence and the soft, awkward feet of a tuxedoed beachgoer heading home.
It was a genuinely profound moment. A pilgrimage-worthy, soul-lifting encounter.
Camera in hand with a penguin on approach.
Of course, I should’ve stopped there. But no—we went back up to the main boardwalk like civilised people. The colony was impressive, yes. The photos turned out lovely, yes. But so did the crowd—roughly 200 tourists, 97 of which were either vlogging or shouting in foreign languages. Romantic moment well and truly assassinated.
Next up: lunch.
We descended upon Simon’s Town proper and did some intense staring at objects behind shop windows, followed by a meal at The Hickory Shack—a delightfully rustic smokehouse with a great menu and a single, glaring error: there was a vegan option. I mean… why? So close, Cape Town. So very close.
Then came Kirstenbosch.
Except we didn’t quite make it. My partner, worn out from an entire morning of penguin-hunting and camera-hauling, fell asleep in the car. I, being the ultimate gentleman (and an idiot), drove him home instead of chasing my real goal: a malachite sunbird photo I’d missed on a previous visit.
So I sulked, poured wine, and plotted revenge.
Sunday, he insisted we go. I said no.
Instead, we agreed on wine tasting. Because compromise. And because wine. Naturally, I picked Spier. You see, Spier has everything: gardens full of proteas and aloes, a river, a dam, and, most importantly, birds. Lots of them. I was in birder’s heaven.
And right off the bat? New lifer: a Swee Waxbill. Tick.
As we strolled through the gardens, we were swarmed with Cape white-eyes, dozens of southern double-collared sunbirds, and—still no malachite. Much to my growing internal rage.
We broke for a picnic on the grass by the dam. I was just about halfway through a decent bottle of Sauvignon when it happened.
A shadow moved in the trees. I looked up—and there, no more than four metres from my wine-drenched face, was an African Harrier-Hawk.
Now, this bird is one of my all-time favourites. I’ve seen plenty of them in the bush, sure. But this—this was different. The stare. The proximity. The drama. It was like being mugged by David Attenborough’s camera crew.
I leapt up, flung the wine aside, and spent the next five minutes in an absolute frenzy trying to photograph this bird like my life depended on it. And you know what? Worth it. These may be some of the best bird photos I’ve ever taken. And I didn’t even spill the picnic.
Monday morning.
I was thawing in the garden at roughly 11 a.m. (don’t judge) when a malachite sunbird flew right past my face and landed on the aloe next to me. I grabbed the camera. I waited. I froze slightly.
He came back.
And in spectacular fashion: I filmed him snatching a fly mid-air in slow motion. If you haven’t seen it, it’s up on my socials. Go look. It’ll change your religion.
Final thoughts?
Birding, for me, is the grown-up version of Pokémon. You’ve got to catch them all. And at this rate, I’m building a Pokédex that would make any twitcher weep.
Five lifers this trip. And it’s not over yet.
This weekend: West Coast National Park. Binoculars loaded. Camera ready. Sarcasm on standby.
Catch you in the next one.
Sunbirds and sarcasm forever.
Wildlife Beyond the Lens 