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Our Stories

Read Stories from Anabezi & the Lower Zambezi

I imagine being in the middle of a pod of hippos to be much like an eternal trip to the traffic department, or some other bureaucratic operation of chaotic organization, in the height of a summer afternoon. The reluctantly gaggled

n September the first the swallows hatched. Finally Summer, as the ancient Wessex song goes, is icumen in. The wire-tailed couple have been building their nest and settling the eggs for the past month and a half, eagerly watched by

“As no man is born an artist, so no man is born an angler.” It’s alliterative, so it must be true, or so at least I reassure myself as I lose a fish for the nth time this afternoon… So quoth

Exhausted and all worn out from their playing, the little lion cubs collapse into a heap of oversized paws, twitching, tufted ears and snowy whiskers. John and I look across at each other, almost unable to believe this incredible chance

Crepuscular sheaves of shrivelight pierce the canopy of the leadwoods, littering the island floor with spashings and dashings of sun, mottled and sprottled like the spots of a leopard. It’s approaching noon and on the sand below stands a lone

If you’ve stayed with us before, you may well remember our insanely delicious rusks, made all the more magical with the addition of a healthy dousing in 11 o’clock tea or coffee for madly moreish mastication… Due to popular demand I