Because of a crushing farming schedule, our friend Bruce was unable to attend my recent 50th birthday party.
The wind feels almost indecisive at this time of year. It comes, it goes. Sometimes it roars in full of bluster, other times it creeps about in quiet whispers.
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 “
