Some of my fondest memories live in the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser – wrapped in a wool blanket, binoculars latched against my neck, a warm Stanley thermos of Five Roses tea for dunking a cheeky rusk or two in. For eight-year-old me, it was pure happiness.
This October, I returned to Kenya. And not to the well-known plains of the Maasai Mara or the red-dirt scenes of Tsavo – this time, I flew north to Laikipia. A lesser-known region, filled with busy brush and golden grass, the Ewaso Narok River winding through ancient rock formations that look as if they’d been dropped down by angry Greek gods.
