The patter of hooves is accelerating from canter to gallop as thousands of thoroughbreds come North. The predators follow these meals on heels for months, relentlessly harassing and harrying them to sate their rapacious appetites. As millions of muzzles mow the green to a level finish, the circling vultures signify the passing of yet another ruminant to the great migration in the sky.
The herds are arriving, a phenomenon which heralds acres of justifiable prose each year, but this week permit Spot to ponder on something else, the magical crepuscular hours which book-end the day. The snap of 1500 metres of cold as the dew reflects off the coarse grass, the magical blazing orb glowing on the horizon with the promise of warmth. Alternatively the clink of ice as the chilled sundowners compliments its namesake as both descend slowly, the latter enjoying a brief but steamy dalliance with an acacia or wildebeest before twelve hours of abstinence.
Last week a visitor sent us a decent sunset image from South Africa. We replied with one of our own: ‘you’re not being fair’ he bleated ‘ we get a couple of these blinding ones a year, you get the same number each week’.
He’s right …. but you knew that.
The snort of indignant grazers, the wheeze and cackle of hyenas, the guides laying out delectable bitings and drinks, the coruscating sunset with that Mara patent that many envy but none can possibly emulate.
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