There Is Life Everywhere

Vergelegen Wine Estate

There are some days in nature that begin with a very clear plan. You know the kind. The route has been discussed, the timing has been worked out, the target birds have been named, and everyone quietly hopes that the day behaves itself long enough for it all to happen.

Our last full day in the Cape in December was one of those days.

From Left to Right: Scenes from the Wine Estate

We had spent the morning taking it slowly, which, on holiday, is sometimes exactly what you need. By midmorning, we headed off to explore the gardens of Vergelegen Wine Estate, which was a beautiful way to start the day. There is something quite special about wandering through old gardens, where the trees feel as if they have seen more history than most of us ever will, and where every path seems to invite you to slow down a little.

The Cottage

After that came a cheese and wine pairing, which we all absolutely loved. It was relaxed, delicious and very Cape in the best possible way. For a few hours, the day was all gardens, good food, good company and that lovely holiday feeling where nobody is in too much of a rush.

From Left to Right: Smelling the flowers; Luca and I preparing for the wine tasting

But of course, this was still us.

So, after admiring all the beautiful flowers at Vergelegen and a bit of chill time, the birding mission began.

From Left to Right: Stunning flowers in the Estate Gardens

The plan was to head to Rooi-Els, with the hope of seeing Cape Rockjumpers, and then continue towards Pringle Bay to try for Cape Eagle-Owl. It was one of those classic last-day-of-holiday plans where you try to squeeze every possible special sighting out of the remaining hours before reality starts calling you home.

Rooi-Els already feels special before you have even found the bird. The mountains, the fynbos, the rocky slopes and the sea air all seem to come together in a way that feels unmistakably Cape. It is rugged and beautiful, but not in a polished way. It feels wild around the edges, which is probably exactly why so much life manages to thrive there.

From Left to Right: Scenes from Rooiels

We set off along the track, or pathway, depending on how generous you are feeling with your description. The weather still seemed decent enough, and there was that quiet birding optimism in the air.

And then, almost as if the birding gods had decided to be kind to us, we found them.

Cape Rockjumpers.

Cape Rockjumper by Luca Tomlinson

Honestly, if ever a bird was perfectly named, it is that one. There they were, doing exactly what their name promised, hopping and bouncing between the rocks as if the whole mountain had been built purely for their convenience. They were busy, alert, full of character, and completely at home in a landscape that would leave most of us stumbling around very ungracefully.

We got our views. We got our photos. We had that wonderful little burst of birding joy that comes when a target bird becomes a real bird right in front of you.

And then the weather changed.

It was not exactly a thunderstorm, but it was definitely enough rain to send us scrambling for cover. One minute we were watching rockjumpers, the next we were trying to tuck ourselves under the biggest patch of fynbos we could find, which, as anyone who knows fynbos will understand, is not exactly built with human shelter in mind.

So, there we were, Mom, Dad and I, curled into a little ball under a not-very-effective bush, trying to wait out the rain while pretending this was all completely normal. Luca, naturally, was entirely unfazed. While the rest of us were attempting to become one with the shrubbery, he was still out there taking photographs, because apparently rain is just atmosphere when you are committed enough.

And to be fair, it paid off. He got some incredible images.

Eventually, the rain moved on as quickly as it had arrived, and we began making our way back to the car. The Cape Rockjumpers had already given us the moment we came for, so in my mind the main event was over.

Except it wasn’t. As we walked back, I started noticing the tiny things. Not birds. Not animals. Not anything dramatic.

Plants.

Tiny little fynbos plants growing in places that made absolutely no sense to me. Some were wedged between rocks. Others seemed to be coming straight out of dry, hard ground, where there was no obvious crack, no soft soil, no welcoming little gap where life should have been able to begin. And yet, there they were.

From Left to Right: Fynbos pushing up through dry arid ground

Small, tough, determined little plants, pushing up from places that looked impossible.

Once I noticed one, I started seeing them everywhere. Along the road, between stones, in the roughest patches of earth, little bursts of green were quietly existing without needing anyone to clap for them. I found myself photographing them again and again, not because they were grand or rare or obviously impressive, but because I could not get over the fact that they were there at all.

There was something incredibly powerful about that.

We often go into nature looking for the big moments. The target bird. The lifer. The predator. The dramatic sighting. The photograph that makes the early morning, the long drive, the wind, the rain and the cold worth it.

From Left to Right: More fynbos pushing up in the Rooiels area

But sometimes nature gives you something far quieter.

Sometimes it is a tiny plant growing out of a place where you would not expect life to have a chance.

A few weekends ago, that same thought came back to me again at Suikerbosrand. It was not a big adventure day. In fact, we had taken a day to do some much-needed work. Luca was busy with a university project, and I was recording content. It was one of those practical days where nature is still around you, but you are not necessarily out looking for it in the way you would on a proper walk or drive.

And then we noticed it.

In the tar road, growing out of a crack right in the middle, was a tiny little plant.

Not beside the road. Not on the edge where a bit of soil might make sense. Right there in the tar.

Life is everywhere!

And I had that same feeling all over again. There is life everywhere.

It sounds simple, but the more you think about it, the more powerful it becomes. Nature is not only found in national parks, mountain reserves, wetlands or wild coastlines. It is not only in the birds we chase, the animals we photograph or the reptiles we stop to admire on warm roads. It is in the cracks, the corners, the hard places, the overlooked spaces.

It is in the fynbos clinging to rock. It is in the tiny green shoot breaking through tar. It is in the places we walk past because we are too focused on getting somewhere else.

That day at Rooi-Els started with a plan to see Cape Rockjumpers, and we did. It was wonderful. But somehow, what stayed with me just as much was what I noticed on the walk back.

The small things. The resilient things. The life that does not ask for attention but deserves it anyway. Because once you start looking properly, you realise nature is not somewhere you go.

It is everywhere.

Happy with the Cape Rockjumper lifer