Our exile in NW1

The sweetest sound to me now is the dawn chorus of birdsong at home on the farm. I lay awake in bed and listened, as a light rain fell on the coconut thatch above me. When I walked out into the garden the three dogs burst out of the house to go off exploring. While I made coffee in the kitchen, our cats Omar and Bernini rubbed against my legs until I fed them and then in walked Long John Silver the orphaned calf, looking for a bowl of milk. I headed out to the crush where the herds were coming in to be dipped. Cattle were mooing, the sheep were bleating and the cowhands were whistling and shouting. With dew sparkling on the grass and the air alive with the hum of bees, I felt so grateful to be here. Home.

I felt it again while driving over to visit my neighbours Tom and Jo on the next-door farm, when three eland leapt high in the air as they crossed the track ahead of me. I stopped on the way there and saw not a human soul, not as far as the eye could see, with green grassy plains scattered with great herds of zebra, oryx, gazelles, elephant and giraffe. Any kind of trouble seemed very far away.

Back at the kitchen, where we usually have our farm business meetings, I sat down with the staff. They looked worried because the rumour was that any contact with the virus was fatal. First, I said, everybody on the farm was young and healthy. We’d be OK — and their spouses and children were going to be OK.