Physical Address
Pearly Beach
Western Cape
7220
There are days along this coast when everything aligns—the light, the temperature, the absence of wind—and the landscape seems briefly suspended in a kind of clarity. This was one of those days.
We set off from Skulpiesbaai beach on a warm 28°C afternoon under an uninterrupted blue sky, walking east along the De Kelders cliffs towards the Drip Caves. It’s a route of only a few kilometres, but one that invites a slower pace. Not because it’s difficult, but because the coastline continually interrupts you—first with a view, then with a shift in rock, then with the sound of the sea breaking differently against each outcrop.
What was most striking, though, was the quiet. In an area that can see steady foot traffic, we encountered almost no one. For long stretches, it was just the three of us—Stuart, Cathy and I—moving along the edge of the continent.
Just offshore, we were fortunate to spot a minke whale moving steadily through the shallows—close enough to follow with the naked eye, and close enough for me to catch a few frames on the Canon 5D. Unlike the more conspicuous southern right whales that dominate Walker Bay in winter, minkes are smaller, more elusive, and tend to travel alone or in very small numbers.
This was a solitary individual, and its behaviour suggested active feeding—slow, purposeful movement just beneath the surface, occasionally breaking through in a low, rolling arc rather than a dramatic breach. Minke whales are widespread across the world’s oceans and are known for their seasonal migrations, generally moving between colder, nutrient-rich feeding grounds and warmer breeding areas.
Along the South African coast, they are less predictable than the rights, often passing through rather than settling, following concentrations of small fish and krill carried by currents like the Benguela. Seeing one so close inshore is unusual, and a reminder that even on a quiet, seemingly empty sea, there is often far more going on beneath the surface.
The Coastline: Rock, Time and Pressure
The cliffs at De Kelders are part of an ancient geological system, largely made up of limestone and calcareous sandstone formed from marine sediments millions of years ago. These rocks began as compacted shells, skeletal fragments, and ocean debris, laid down in layers when much of this region lay beneath a shallow sea.
Over time, tectonic uplift raised these beds above sea level, exposing them to wind and wave. What you see now—the cavities, ledges and overhangs—is the result of long, persistent erosion. The sea works at the base of the cliffs, undercutting softer layers, while wind and salt attack from above. The Drip Caves themselves are a product of this slow hollowing-out process, where water seeps through porous rock and “drips” over millennia, enlarging natural cavities into walkable spaces.
There’s also a subtle geometry to these formations. In places, the rock breaks in clean, almost architectural lines; elsewhere, it collapses into rough shelves and jagged pockets. It’s a coastline that reveals its history in cross-section.
The Sea: Movement and Migration
Below the cliffs, Walker Bay opens out into deep water not far from shore. This proximity is one of the reasons the area is globally recognised for marine life, particularly during whale season. Southern right whales migrate here between June and November, using the bay’s relative shelter as a calving ground.
Even outside whale season, the ocean here has a distinct character. The Benguela Current, cold and nutrient-rich, moves up from the Antarctic along the west coast before curving around the Cape. It feeds plankton blooms, which in turn support fish populations—and everything above them in the food chain.
On a calm day like this one, the surface can appear deceptively still, but the underlying movement is constant. You notice it in the rhythm of the swell against different rock faces—some absorbing the energy, others throwing it back in bursts of white water.
A Small Interruption: The Lizard
Somewhere along the path, near a small wooden bridge crossing a grassy dip above the sea, the quiet was briefly broken.
A lizard—about the length of a hand—appeared suddenly and launched itself onto Cathy’s back. It stayed there for a few seconds, long enough to register surprise but not alarm, before pushing off and disappearing into the surrounding vegetation.
All three of us are used to wildlife—farmers tend to be—and the moment passed quickly, more curious than dramatic. Still, it’s not every day that a reptile chooses you as a temporary landing spot, and the fact that it was captured on a 360 camera made it all the more unusual. (See below…)
The species was likely one of the common coastal agamas or girdled lizards found in the Western Cape—both well adapted to rocky terrain, quick-moving, and entirely at home among crevices and sun-warmed stone.
360 Video: Hiking the Drip Cave trail
Life Along the Cliffs
Despite the apparent barrenness of rock and wind, this stretch of coast supports a surprising range of life.
Birds are the most visible. Kelp gulls patrol the shoreline, their calls carrying far in the still air. Cape cormorants sit low in the water offshore or line up along exposed rocks, wings spread to dry. If you’re lucky, you might spot a black oystercatcher—striking in its entirely dark plumage with a bright red bill—moving deliberately along the intertidal zone.
Dassies (rock hyrax) inhabit the cliff faces, often seen basking in groups, blending into the stone until they move. Their presence is a reminder of how these rocky systems create microhabitats—small pockets of shelter and warmth in an otherwise exposed environment.
Reptiles, like the lizard we encountered, rely on the same heat-retaining surfaces. On a warm day, they’re active, darting between cracks or holding still just long enough to go unnoticed.
Closer to the waterline, tidal pools host their own ecosystems—anemones, small fish, crabs—though these are easy to overlook from above unless you stop and climb down.
The Walk Itself
The route to the Drip Caves is not demanding, but it rewards attention. There are moments where the path narrows along the cliff edge, then opens out again into broader sections of fynbos and grass. The small wooden bridge we crossed marks one of these transitions—a slight dip in the land, green and sheltered, before the terrain rises again.
By the time we reached the caves, the light had shifted slightly, though the heat remained. The caves themselves are less dramatic than their name might suggest if you’re expecting scale, but they carry a quiet presence—cooler, shaded, shaped by time rather than force.
We spent a while there, then turned back the way we had come.
A Few Hours, Distilled
The entire walk took a few hours, unhurried. Later, reviewing the footage, it compressed into a 21-minute 360° video—a different kind of experience, but one that still carries something of the day’s stillness.
What remains most clearly, though, is not the video or even the lizard, but the sense of having moved through a landscape without interruption. No noise beyond the natural, no crowds, just a piece of coastline doing what it has done for millions of years—eroding, shifting, sustaining life in small, resilient ways.
On days like this, that’s more than enough.
