An Irish philosopher poet accompanied me to Livingstone. When I left America I packed him away in my heart and in my mind. He boarded the plane with me in Virginia and together we took off into the wild.
I was chatting to a friend in America a while ago, telling her about my average day on the farm here in Livingstone, when she suddenly piped up: “Annabel, you sound just like a Bush Martha!”
Combretum seeds
I was sitting at my desk in our tin house, corrugated iron walls all wide open in a futile attempt at tempering the 43-degree afternoon heat, when a gust of wind whipped through. I heard it before I felt it.
Yomar Monsalve, my Michelin-starred new kitchen bestie, and I were back-and-forthing the other day about a dinner I was planning for his farewell from Livingstone, when he announced he’d bring along a “
Live entertainment of any kind is a luxury here in the upper Zambezi Valley.
Hardly anything fills me more with wonder than witnessing our pomegranate trees change out of winter’s monastic habit into summer’s flamboyant Versace. The metamorphosis is fast and its dramatic.
