At home in Dorset, whenever I watch the swallows departing at the end of summer, my heart goes with them and, although I could never live anywhere else, I miss Africa with an unbearable longing.
Hardly a day goes by without me thinking about the Luangwa River winding in immense silver coils through the Zambian bush or wondering if it is raining in the Serengeti.
Having been many times, I find it easy to conjure up images from previous safaris. A sleeping leopard in a fig tree, all golden sunlight and dappled shadow. A cheetah with burning agate eyes crouching atop a termite mound. A pride of lions with bloody jowls, padding through the dew-soaked grass in line astern after a night’s hunting on the plains. No wonder the big cats which first lured me to Africa over half a century ago continue to prowl through my dreams.