Recollections of the early 1970s
Long before the concrete highway sliced through the Johannesburg suburbs of Sunninghill Park and Rivonia, where it now crosses the Jukskei River, there used to be a small seven-acre estate known as The Lychgate. Set amongst the poplars and willows on the bank of the river, you could not imagine a more idyllic setting for a country home. At the time, a good friend of mine, Irving, was lucky enough to practically live there, it being owned by his Aunt Mavis and he being her favourite nephew. I recall spending some of the most interesting times of my youth in Sunninghill and surrounds. Having spent all my life stifled in suburbia, this was the closest I ever came to experiencing the taste of traditional country living.
I loved any time I spent at the The Lychgate, but the autumn and winter days were particularly memorable. There was an atmosphere of history about the place that is difficult to describe, a feeling that was enhanced by the impressive array of antiques, old military weapons, swords, spears, and the like, boys’ stuff mostly. I well remember the beautiful old stone and thatch house, which had the cosiest, most lived-in lounge this side of the Cotswolds. In winter there was always a log fire going, so the whole house smelled pleasantly natural, permeated with a subtle blend of wood smoke, the wheaty odour of thatch and a hint of creosote.
The cheesy-smelling old gun dogs, lying on the hair-covered couches or in front of the stone fireplace, were an almost permanent feature. They’d loll about languid and lazy until you picked up a shotgun, when, without having to say a word, there would be three instant volunteers, tails wagging, ready to go hunting.
On the mantelpiece was Uncle Mike’s assortment of old smoking pipes and his Erinmore flake tobacco, with a pinch of rum and maple. Next to that, a pile of old books always accumulated and always needed to be returned to the study. This was also where the gun-cleaning kit was kept, so there was never an excuse for a dirty gun. It contained the nicest-smelling gun oil, which apparently did everything from cleaning through to preventing rust to acting as an insect repellent on human skin.
One day I had just placed the kit on the coffee table and was about to open the leather case containing a pair of WW Greener shotguns to start cleaning them, when Aunt Mavis appeared.
‘Mario, would you and Irv be darlings and shoot a few pigeons for me, a dozen or so should be fine; I have a dinner party tomorrow night and want to do them for starters,’ said Aunt Mavis.
‘No problem, Aunt May, I’ll wait for Irving to get home, and then we’ll go out and try our luck,’ I responded as the dogs pricked up their ears in parallel response.
It was Irving’s influence and the pages of The Old Man and the Boy, Robert Ruark’s classic, that taught me the etiquette of conduct in the field and the ethics of wing shooting. This book is a must for anyone aspiring to train and use gundogs in field sports; it contains nearly everything you need to know and although set in North Carolina, the associated guidelines, ethics and philosophy are universally applicable.
Being the middle of the highveld winter, it was chilly but not unbearable, only occasionally dropping to below zero. Most of the willows and poplar trees were bare and from the paddock in front of the house you could see the Jukskei River glinting through their silver-grey branches. This tree-lined river course was a popular flight path for hundreds of speckled pigeons, which we called ‘rockies’, going to and returning from feeding. Even though it was late in the season, the birds were plump; their crops were stuffed full of ripe sunflower seeds from the outlying fields where the farmers were busy reaping what was left of that season’s harvest.
It was a beautiful winter’s afternoon with clear blue skies and there wasn’t a breath of wind. The crisp air began to cool rapidly as the late afternoon sun dropped lower on the horizon so we picked a suitable spot and settled down to wait, concealed in amongst some low scrub facing the river. The shooting conditions could not have been better, and it wasn’t long before the first couple of pigeons came hurtling through, jinking and twisting just above tree-top level.
After many thousands of years of dodging peregrine falcons, arguably the fastest predators on earth, speckled pigeons have evolved into one of the quickest and most evasive tacticians on the wing. They have earned the respect of both man and raptor, both hunters having to be wide awake to bag one. Irving was first off the mark and with a practised swing, collected the first bird, which folded in a puff of feathers. Before I could call out, ‘Good shot, Irv!’ we heard a man shout. Slowly, out of a grey shroud of windborne feathers, a policeman, cap in hand and with a few feathers sticking to his spotless uniform, emerged from the grove of poplars along the river. Apparently they didn’t use camouflage overalls in those days.
Red-faced from anger and effort, he came straight to the point, explaining somewhat breathlessly that prisoners had escaped from Leeukop Prison, which was not far from there, and that he was part of a massive police manhunt for the convicts. They had been making steady progress along the river, he said, when the pigeon Irving shot had almost fallen on him. He angrily demanded to know what we thought we were doing. I simply told him the truth, and said that we were trying to shoot a few pigeons for the pot. He then asked us how old we were and when we told him, he informed us that by law we were not allowed to shoot unless over 21 years old, or in the company of someone of that age or older. He went on to say that if he hadn’t been tied up with the search, he would have confiscated the guns and fined us. However, if we took the guns home and stopped shooting, he would consider this as a formal issue of a warning.
Thinking back, that shot going off must have alerted any escaped prisoner hiding within 100 miles, which wouldn’t have done their search effort much good, so it was no wonder he was so livid. We didn’t need a second prompting; we were off back home in a flash, just in case he changed his mind. How we would ever have told Uncle Mike that his cherished Greeners had been confiscated, I have no idea. One thing, though, the policeman was not a happy chappie, but he did let us keep the pigeon. Back at the house, Aunt May was busy in the kitchen bottling her delicious homemade preserves and jams to sell at their farm stall down the road.
Greeting us with her usual broad smile, she enquired how many pigeons we’d bagged. When we showed her, she was more than a little disappointed, and it wasn’t until we’d told her the whole story that her smile returned. In a mischievous half-whisper, she told us that Mike’s mother, who happened to be visiting at the time, was well over 21; in fact, she was 82. Surely then, if she were to come along with us boys, everything would be legal and above board?
The next day we gently bundled Uncle Mike’s mom into the Land Rover, packed a small cooler, and drove to the same spot from which we’d been chased the day before. I set up a comfortable chair we’d brought along and sat her in it. Hardly was she settled with a stiff gin and tonic in hand, when she called in the first pigeons, ‘Here they come, Irving.’ With her remarkable long-distance eyesight apparently unhindered by her oversize bush hat and ear muffs that almost covered her whole head, the pigeons didn’t stand a chance of sneaking past us. In a short while we had bagged our quota, and the game old lady, having grown up on a sugar estate, so no stranger to a shotgun, had thoroughly enjoyed herself out in the open air that afternoon.
The pigeons were prepared to perfection, casseroled in a white wine and mushroom sauce, with a slice of streaky bacon wrapped around each breast and held in place with a toothpick. Not much was said as the guests began the meal. All I can remember is that at the start of the second course, not a bird nor a trace of sauce was left in the dish and Aunt May’s dinner party was, typically, a great success.
Most of what I know about snakes I also learned from Irving. I would accompany him on as many of his snake-hunting expeditions as possible, which, besides forays in the Honeydew and Kyalami area, also took us into the wilder areas in and around the Magaliesberg. For me, it was never just about catching snakes, it was the real enjoyment of getting out into the bush. Irving would capture certain snakes for his own collection and others would be given to snake parks, the Reptile Park at Hartbeespoort Dam being one of his main recipients. He had a tremendous respect for reptiles, and remains one of the only collectors of snakes I’ve known who was never bitten. We caught snakes, did lots of fishing and enjoyed the bush, but it was our decision to rebuild a Series 1 Land Rover that changed things.
This was a ‘chassis-up’ project that captured my undivided attention. It and the resulting focus of regular bush trips kick-started my desire for the bush, the lowveld in particular, where I would end up living, never to return to Johannesburg except when I just couldn’t avoid it.
We used to call them ‘Four hundred rand Landies’ and they were barely able to get you home from where you bought them. This didn’t bother us too much, as we’d be rebuilding this one from scratch, something that was easier said than done. Undaunted, we persisted with boundless enthusiasm. Irving was a skilled movie camera technician, so his fastidious attention to detail when having to improvise proved invaluable. We begged, borrowed and stole, and everybody who could help, did help. Soon, the aged little classic began to take shape; just three months after wheeling a heap of junk into the garage, we were driving our reconditioned and rebuilt short wheel base Series 1 Land Rover out onto the road. A couple of weeks later, after sorting out all the teething problems, we began packing our gear for the few weeks we’d planned to spend in the Timbavati Game Reserve. We loaded everything we thought we’d need, but as there’s not too much space in a Landy ‘Shorty’, we had to think about what were necessities and what were nice-to-haves.
By the time the rising sun compelled us to drop the visors, we were already approaching the half-way point near Middelburg. The Land Rover wasn’t exactly fast, and I was impatient to get to the bush, the anticipation being almost unbearable. I was about to realise the dream I’d painted on my bedroom wall a few years previously. This would be my first time in the ‘real’ bush where the Big Five roamed, there were two of us in a Landy ‘Shorty’ and when we lit a fire this evening against the backdrop of a setting sun, the picture would be complete.
Doug Jackaman was the warden of the reserve at the time, and was based in the southern Timbavati, most of which was then owned by Hans Hoheisen. We would be staying in a bush camp with Doug’s son Dave, who was a friend and former colleague of Irving’s. The next morning over breakfast, Doug asked us to count all the wildebeest, elephant and buffalo we came across. My coffee cup wasn’t cold and I was already in the Landy ready to go, and this time my impatience was rewarded. We hadn’t driven more than 500 metres before I saw my first wild lions. I will never forget that sight, or the impact it had on me for the rest of my life. There were 13 of them, mostly sub-adults and females, lying on a dam wall, and I remember there were no big males. As it happened, these would be the last lions we’d see for nearly a week.
There were always plenty of hyaena around though, and Dave would call them right up to the vehicle by cupping his hands to his mouth and bleating like a lost calf. We were less successful with leopard sighting, as they are hard to spot anywhere, but although we didn’t see any, we found a freshly killed common duiker hoisted way up into a knobthorn tree. Unfortunately, this was on the main dirt road through the reserve that took you to the Kruger Park’s Orpen Gate in those days. Leaving really early the next morning, we hoped to catch the leopard feeding before the traffic disturbed it. Our efforts were in vain: when we arrived, the kill was no longer in the tree. According to Dave, the bicycle tracks under the tree left no doubt as to what particular predator ended up with the duiker.
The farms Spring Valley, Morgenzon and Kempiana, straddled a generous section of the Timbavati River and made up much of the area we drove in. The predominant veld type featured thick bushveld and knobthorn/marula woodland with beautiful, relatively large open seep lines. These black, cotton soil plains were studded with wildebeest and zebra made up of smaller family units in herds of up to about 60 individuals. In those early days, we would often mistake the black masses of wildebeest for buffalo when they were far off. The total number of wildebeest in the Timbavati at the time was estimated at well over 3 000. Giraffe, too, were abundant; we saw them all the time, but although we regularly came across fresh evidence of elephant, we never saw one in over two weeks. According to Doug, the total population of elephant in the reserve was about 65. We also didn’t see any buffalo in the time we were there, although they too left evidence of their presence. The number of buffalo was thought to be around 180 at the time. Today, 35 years later, the Timbavati has well over 600 elephant and 3 000 buffalo, but fewer than 150 wildebeest! Yet the physical habitat, except for tree damage by elephant and a moderate amount of bush encroachment, appears to be relatively unchanged from what I remember all those years ago.
What is so amazing – or, more accurately, so concerning – is not so much the drastic differentials in animal numbers, but the ecological ‘blink of an eye’ in which all this has happened.
All good things come to an end. But, when it was time to leave, I don’t recall feeling sad at all. I felt content, summarising the emotion by turning to Irving with a confident, prophetic announcement. ‘One day, this is going to be my job and my life,’ I said.
Footnote
Hans Hoheisen has since passed away, leaving his property and its management to the South African National Parks Board. The Hans Hoheisen Wildlife Research Centre, which he conceived, founded and built, is situated near the Orpen Gate to the Kruger Park and stands in honour of his contribution to conservation. Sadly, however, this institute is now a mere shadow of the wildlife research and environmental education centre that he had envisaged.
In similar realistic and perhaps disappointing vein, when I went back to visit The Lychgate nearly 15 years later, I found the old place had long since been swallowed up by progress, and a restaurant-cum-conference centre called Falcon’s Crest had been built on the estate. You could see the developers had tried to maintain the old charm and atmosphere by having parts of the house incorporated into the new structure, but sadly to no avail. Sunninghill was completely built-up, the river was littered with plastic bags and other detritus of humanity and The Lychgate and its surrounding countryside as I remembered it were gone forever. It even smelt unfamiliar and strange.
I never did find out if they recaptured those escaped prisoners, but as for the speckled pigeons – well, in and around the mushrooming suburbs of northern Johannesburg there are more of them than ever. Aunt May and her guests continue to dine forever in my imagination, still leaving not a scrap of pigeon nor a drop of sauce.