Memorable moments: The lemonade trap

One of the absolute favorite jobs of my life was working for Volvo Construction Equipment. I was brought on board to help drive an ambitious Volvo Group web project, a role that saw me traveling across Europe, heading over to Brazil, and jetting into the United States. I loved the projects, the travel, and above all, the incredible people I worked with.

Yet the entire trajectory of that chapter could easily have never happened at all. In reality, it all hinged on a single, high-stakes split-second decision made over an empty table.

My interview was scheduled in a tiny town just outside Cambridge. I caught the morning train up from London and met with Mats and Caroline, two brilliant individuals who would go on to become cherished colleagues. The formal part of the interview went smoothly enough—the scope sounded exciting, I expressed enthusiastic interest, and we wrapped things up on a positive note.

Then came the unexpected second stage.

"Would you like to join us for lunch down the road?" they asked.

A few minutes later, we were settled into a gorgeous 1660 English pub called The John Barleycorn a few blocks away, joined by several other team members. The conversation was warm, relaxed, and full of lively banter. Then the waitress arrived at our table, notepad in hand.

"Can I get you all something to drink before lunch?" she asked.

Mats turned to me, fixed me with an attentive look, and said, "What would you like to drink, Graeme?"

In an instant, the lively chatter vanished. A sudden, palpable hush descended over the table as every set of eyes turned directly toward me.

My internal alarm bells started ringing. What is the protocol here? This was a middle-of-the-day corporate interview lunch. Was it a trap to see if I was overly casual during business hours, or a test of social ease? I wasn’t even a big beer drinker to begin with.

Caught in the crosshairs of professional etiquette and workplace ambiguity, I threw caution to the wind and said, "I'll have a beer, please."

Instantly, the tension broke like a snapped wire. A collective wave of relief swept across the table, the noise returned at full volume, and every single person promptly chimed in: "I'll have a pint as well!"

We had a fantastic meal, the rapport was effortless, and a few days later, the formal job offer arrived in my inbox.

Once I started, I quickly discovered that after-work pints and pub culture were central pillars of team life. As it turned out, that sudden hush in the pub wasn't an accident—Mats offering me the first drink order was very much the decisive final test of the interview. As qualified as I was on paper for the role, had I played it safe and answered with a polite "I'll just have a lemonade, thanks," I am fairly certain I would have caught the train back to London empty-handed.

The John Barleycorn where we had lunch

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Memorable moments: The three great twitches

In the birding community, those of us who obsessively pursue rare or elusive species are often known as "twitchers." The name comes from a very real, very physical phenomenon. When you finally spot a bird you’ve spent years searching for, a wave of intense excitement hits you. You raise your binoculars to your eyes, but the surge of adrenaline is so overwhelming that a tremor sets in. Your arms begin to shake, and sometimes the twitching spreads through your entire body. It is an extraordinary reaction that has to be experienced to be believed.

Over a lifetime of scanning treetops and riverbanks, I like to say that I have only truly twitched three times.

The first was in the lush wilderness of Ndumu, when I caught a sudden, violent flash of crimson through the canopy—the rare and breathtaking Narina Trogon.

The second was also in Ndumu, when my binoculars landed on the distinctive rufous face of the elusive Pel's Fishing Owl perched silently above the water.

And the third, most unforgettable twitch occurred along the banks of the Palmiet River.

Shortly after meeting Ally and her group of friends, a bunch of us went down to the river for a late-night, moonlit skinny dip. As everyone scrambled into the cool water, I caught a sudden, distinct sight of Ally’s white rump disappearing into the shadows of the river.

Right then and there, the classic birder’s tremor set in. My body began to twitch, and a single, crystal-clear thought echoed through my mind: Wow, I’m going to marry that girl.

I didn't need binoculars for that last sighting, but the instinct was spot on. We ended up spending seventeen wonderful years together—proving that sometimes, the rarest and most life-changing sightings aren't hiding high up in the trees at all.

Trish and Mike celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary

What an incredible milestone! 

Memorable moments: The vulture and the rookie

During my final years of school, I developed a consuming passion for bird watching. It was ignited by my close friend Tony Verboom, an expert birder who introduced me to the gritty reality of the craft. We spent our mornings at Rietvlei, crawling on our bellies through knee-deep mud, getting thoroughly filthy in pursuit of "lesser-spotted thing-a-me-bobs." I loved every second of it—especially the moment a magnificent Osprey banked over our heads, sealing my fate as a "twitcher."

From then on, I lived and breathed birds, cycling to local wetlands every weekend to increase my "life list."

Shortly after I started, while I was still very much a novice, Tony and I spotted a large bird drifting in the distant Cape sky. Tony gasped in genuine shock. "My God, it’s a Cape Vulture!" He was ecstatic; Cape Vultures hadn't been recorded in the Peninsula for sixty years. Tony was so convinced that he wrote a formal report for the Cape Bird Club newsletter.

When the article was published, I saw my name in print for the first time: Verified by Tony Verboom and fellow spotter, Graeme Myburgh. I felt a wave of hot embarrassment. I was a beginner; I just hoped the veteran birders wouldn't realize that my "verification" carried about as much weight as a sparrow’s feather. I lived in fear of blowing Tony’s credibility.

The moment of truth came during a Bird Club weekend trip to Swellendam. Tony couldn't make it, so I carpooled with the Chairman of the club, a friendly, high-level expert named Jan. As we drove, Jan mentioned the newsletter. "Extraordinary sighting, that vulture," he said. I nodded, trying to look like a man who knew his raptors.

I was obsessed with seeing a Black Harrier on that trip. I had them on the brain. Suddenly, I saw a large, black-and-white shape perched on a power line.

"Oh my God, stop!" I cried. "Black Harrier!"

Jan slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, dust billowing around us. He leaned out, binoculars raised, squinting at the bird. He looked confused, then slowly turned to me.

"Graeme," he said gently, "that’s a Pied Crow."

It was one of the most common birds in the Western Cape. Even a rank amateur knows a crow from a harrier, but my wishful thinking had performed a mid-air transformation. I sat there in the settling dust, mortified. I was certain I had just blown the credibility of Tony’s legendary vulture sighting to smithereens in a single, caffeinated outburst.

Thankfully, Jan was a man of immense patience and quiet grace. He didn't mock me or question the vulture article; he simply shifted back into gear and drove on. We had a marvelous weekend of birding, and while the Black Harrier never made an appearance, I learned a vital lesson: in the bush, as in life, you have to see what’s actually there, not just what you’re desperate to find.

Matt graduates from the University of Cape Town

Wonderful photos from Jo of a very special family milestone. Fingers crossed that Matt will now find an incredible job that makes all the hard work worthwhile.

Memorable moments: Fast and furious

Once upon a time, there was a fine young chap named Antony. He lived a happy life in Pinelands with three zany housemates, but there were times when he felt he was missing that "special something." Then, on a cold, blustery winter evening, he was invited to a Glühwein party. He walked in, ready to get stuck into the warm wine, when suddenly—flash, bam, alakhazam—his whole world shifted.

There, standing before him, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

If you ask Antony about this moment today, he’ll give you the most explicit details: the outfit she wore, the sparkle in her eyes, the fact that her feet were bare, and—crucially—that she was carrying a plate of sausage rolls. It was, for him, a total thunderbolt of love at first sight.

However, the "heroine" of our story had a slightly different experience. When Jo was later asked to recall her side of the events, she couldn't actually remember Antony being at the party at all.

Undeterred, our hero persisted. He ensured their paths crossed whenever possible until, eventually, Jo noticed him and decided he was actually rather delicious too. The turning point came a few weeks later at a music concert. Jostled by the crowd, Jo turned to him and said, "Antony, please take hold of my hand—I don’t want to lose you."

Being a perceptive chap, Antony realized things were hotted up sufficiently to make his big move. After the concert, he took Jo out for frozen yoghurt. As they sat there, he decided to employ a classic "Valentino" move: the surreptitious hand on the knee.

It was a time-honored approach, but it had one fatal flaw. Antony’s hand was icy cold from holding his frozen yoghurt. When he made contact, Jo got the fright of her life, leaping a meter and a half off her chair in pure shock.

That was the official start of their "fast and furious" relationship: Antony was fast, and Jo was furious. Despite the thermal shock, their love blossomed, and they were married in 1996—proving that even a freezing hand can’t put out a fire that started with a plate of sausage rolls.

Memorable moments: The rose and the bromance

It’s amazing to think how the most important friendship of my life began. At the start of my final year at university, I had just started dating Ally. We were completely smitten, spending every spare moment together.

But I wasn't the only one who noticed her.

Every day, as Ally sat on the Jamie Steps at UCT, a charming, quirky guy named Russell would approach her and gallantly present her with a single rose. He was persistent, funny, and utterly unique. Ally was flattered, but eventually, she had to break the news: "I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend."

Russell, being the gentleman he is, backed off immediately, but he and Ally remained friendly. Then, the day came when I finally met the man who had been "wooing" my girlfriend.

I didn't feel a shred of jealousy. Instead, I immediately fell for him.

He was hilarious, adventurous, and possessed a spark of madness that matched my own. Our "bromance" was instantaneous. Ally and I stayed together for the next seventeen years, and throughout that time, Russell was the third pillar of our lives. He even moved in as our housemate for several years—a period I still count among the most enjoyable and laughter-filled times of my life.

Ally and I eventually went our separate ways in 2009, but my bond with Russell remained unshakable. Even now, living in different countries, our friendship is priceless. Whenever I return home to visit family, we don't just "catch up" over coffee; we disappear into the mountains or head off on some new adventure, picking up exactly where we left off on the Jamie Steps.

Sheila's memorial

The family held their memorial for Sheila this weekend at Alphen Way. Lots of beautiful shared memories and tributes to a wonderful person and a life well lived. 

Jo's beautiful tribute

Sheila, this is for you — to honour your 92 years and the incredible life you lived before being reunited with your beloved Henk.

When I think of you, I think of all the small, meaningful things that made you so uniquely you. Your love of ironing, darning and mending, always taking such care with everything. The colourful bottles that stood in cheerful rows along your kitchen shelf, and the little treasures and teaspoons you collected on your travels — each one with a story.

Your home and garden were a reflection of you — warm, cared for, and full of pride. There was never a plate left in the sink, and everything had its place. And of course a “Sheila” salad was never complete without its signature touches: Little cubes of cheddar, chopped onion and sliced mushrooms.

I will think of the quiet, special moments too — how Sam would melt with contentment from your arm tickles in the back of the car, purring with happiness. How you were always on hand to look after her so I could get some sleep after Matt was born. How, on your walks together, you planted seeds of wonder and magic in her heart, filling her world with fairies and imagination.

It is about the family you loved cherished so deeply. How you loved Mathew with such pride, and how that same pride extended to each of your eight grandchildren. Not a single Sunday morning call with Antony passed without you asking about them — what they were doing, how they were, what little stories there were to share. You were always interested, always present.

It is about your love story with Henk — a love so deep and constant. You did everything side by side, a true partnership in every sense. Your strength during his illness and the fierce, protective love you showed him will never be forgotten.

Plett won’t feel the same without you and our family gatherings will always have a space where you should be — our matriarch, at the centre of it all.

It is about your spirit of adventure — your love of travel, of road trips in the Musso with Henk. Skydiving at 87 says everything about your bravery! How incredible it was for one last spin in the boat in Plett - the delight on your face is something I will never forget.

It is about the little things that made us smile — how you and Henk were always five minutes early to everything, how your cheeks would turn pink after a glass of wine, how you loved your pretty lights, sitting with your chair with your cross word puzzles, your weekly You adiction, your love of Binnelanders and the Grand Pree.

Your belly laugh when something tickled you! The incredible garden you created, drawing much admiration from all who walked past. How much you loved your tea and always had your cup and saucer ready at the kettle for the next brew.

You were beautiful, inside and out — you looked gorgeous wearing pinks and purples, never without your earrings and pearls. How you never missed your weekly hair appointment, and how, in all the years, not a single grey hair ever showed — always so perfectly, gracefully you.

But more than anything, we’ll remember your generosity and your love. How you spoiled us — at restaurants, at Christmas, on birthdays. Always thinking of others. And how no one ever left your house after a visit to Bloem without chocolates, Rolo’s, smarties and later on bags of Checkers mixed choccies to pass on to the other family members who could not have been there.

We will miss you deeply. But we will carry you with us — in the way we care for others, in the stories we tell, and in all the little things that will always remind us of you.

Memorable moments: The Kleinmond interruption

I met my future wife to be, Ally, in the tiny village of Kleinmond, two hours outside of Cape Town. We were camped on opposite sides of a rusty old fence, but by the final night, the "spark" between us was undeniable—aided, in no small part, by the generous flow of alcohol around the communal braai.

Ally was playful. She spontaneously bit my earlobe, and when I warned her of the "consequences," she promptly did it again. I moved in for the clinch.

Now, I consider myself a very capable kisser. I was fully prepared for Ally to swoon, to be consumed by the moment, and to forget the rest of the world existed. For a few seconds, it seemed to be working perfectly.

Then, without warning, she detached herself from my embrace. She didn't look at me. Instead, she leaned toward her friend sitting a few feet away.

"Colleen," she announced firmly, "I must butt in and disagree with what you’ve been saying. I think that..."

I stood there, mid-clinch, abandoned for a theological or political debate I hadn't even realized was happening. My confidence didn't just take a hit; it did a backflip into the campfire.

Ally eventually blamed the alcohol, and I eventually forgave the rebuttal. We went on to spend 17 wonderful years together, but I made sure to check for nearby debates before every kiss from then on.

Pure nostalgia: Discovering the joys of birding (1987 - 1989)

During my last couple of years at school, I developed a really strong passion for bird watching.  This was first ignited by Tony Verboom, a very close school friend of mine, who took me off on one of his birding trips. We spent the morning at Rietvlei, a local wetland, crawling on our bellies, getting knee deep in mud and thoroughly filthy in our pursuit of lesser spotted thing-a-me-bobs.  And I absolutely loved every minute of it, especially when a beautiful osprey flew over our heads.  

My love of birds was kindled into a passion shortly after when dad and I went camping to Uilenkraal. I lay in the sand by the lagoon, with close views of gulls, terns and pied kingfishers. Later, to my utter delight, an African Fish Eagle appeared in the distance.

From then on, I lived and dreamed birds and cycled to the local birding spots every weekend in pursuit of new species (or ticks as we call them) in order to increase my  life list. My favourite birding haunts included Rondevlei, Kirstenbosch Gardens and Devil's Peak.

Another favourite haunt was the Harold Botanical Gardens in Betties Bay for wonderful encounters with sunbirds and Ground Woodpeckers.

I also joined the Cape Town bird club. I loved the monthly get-togethers at the University of Cape Town to see presentations and amazing photos from people like Nico Myburgh. I remember vividly a wonderful weekend with the club at Swellendam.

In Std 9, I went on an unforgettable trip to Botswana (Okovango Delta and Chobe) where I saw birds like Gymnogene and Jacana.  Our family also went to Natal including Midmar Dam and the Drakensberg, where I saw lots of new birds.

Dad really supported my hobby. He and I went on an incredible trip to Zululand (Umfolozi and Mkuzi wildlife reserves) where I saw many birds.  My favourite memory is attracting a Green Coucal by playing its call on my tape recorder.

In matric, I went to Kruger National Park with a Colin, a close friend. I also went back to Zululand with Tony and his mum (Ndumu and Mkuzi) where I saw Pel's Fishing Owl and Narina Trogon.

They call us birds "twitchers" because when we see exciting new birds for the first time, we get so excited that our legs start to twitch and then our arms - so much so that it becomes hard to see through our binoculars. 

Since my school days, birding has continued to be a passion and I have travelled the world in search of new ticks.  My goal when I was young was to see 1000 birds in the wild.  In 2007 at the age of 37, I achieved this target.

Memorable birds seen during this time

Redbreasted Sparrow Hawk, with Tony, on a school camp a few years before

Black Eagle, slopes of Devil's Peak

Pied Kingfisher

Malachite Kingfisher, Rondevlei

Sandwich Tern, Uilenskraal

Curlew Sandpiper, Uilenskraal

Blacksmith Plover

Fish Eagle, Uilenskraal

Blackshouldered Kite, Rondebosch Common

Diederich Cuckoo, our garden

Little Bittern, Rondevlei

Burchell's Cuckoo

Orange-breasted Sunbird, Kirstenbosch

Cape Batis, Kirstenbosch

Ground Woodpecker, Harold Botanical Garden

Spotted Eagle Owl

Half Collared Kingfisher, Natal

Crowned Eagle, with Tony, Natal

Palmnut Vulture with Tony, Natal

Narina Trogon, Ndumu

African Rail

Green Coucal, with dad, Mkuzi

Pel's Fishing Owl, with Tony, Ndumu

African Finfoot, Nature's Valley

European Bee-eater

Favourite bird books

 

SAMSUNG Galaxy FIT 3 [2024]

Bought for only $70 on Amazon. For the 1st time, I'm tracking my sleeping which is something I've been wanting to do for a while.