Kenya’s Call: King Charles is visiting this week – and he’s not the only one cherishing the country’s majestic nature

We hear them before we see them.

Yapping and howling from a yellow acacia tree, which sits like giant fruit in its branches, about thirty baboons make their new home for the night.

“It is also called a Fever Tree,” says Abdul, our guide. From the back of our open Toyota Landcruiser, my daughter Rose, 17, raises an eyebrow.

“They love a fever tree almost as much as you and daddy,” she says, referring to the favorite T in our nighttime G. The light fades in the foothills of Mount Kenya and vast plains stretch before us as the silhouette of the mountain takes on an increasingly clear silhouette. a silvery glow.

There is magic in the air. And a brutal cold. We’re shifting towards the equator, but you’d never know it; at 1,826 meters altitude on the Laikipia plateau you will need one or two blankets. Your Majesties, take note.

While King Charles and Queen Camilla’s state visit to Kenya this week includes a trip to Nairobi National Park, a forty-minute light aircraft flight north would take them to the Ol Pejeta wilderness, a nature reserve spread over 30,000 hectares of open grassland. home to the last two white rhinos on earth and the closest reserve to the capital where you can see the Big Five.

I have been longing to take my family on safari ever since I fell in love with East Africa twenty years ago, captivated by the wild beauty of this amazing wildland.

And judging by the children’s faces as we bump through the bushes, the exciting possibilities of this endless landscape are working wonders again.

Our first drive to camp has three must-sees: buffalos sniffing the evening air, black rhinos surrounding a watering hole; the dusty skin of a lonely elephant on its way to kingdom come. Not that our sense of awe is limited to the box office beasts.

“Look at their eyelashes!” snaps Evie, 16, as Abdul slows to a crawl so we can admire a pair of giraffes, swooping away like the late Sophia Loren.

“Pumbaa!” shouts Felix, 11, as a family of warthogs scurries through the undergrowth, as if rushing to a meeting for which they are hopelessly late.

The greatest show on earth gives us the lesson of a lifetime. And the involvement of the class is high.

Then the collective nouns. Unlike my attempts at verbal reasoning when the children least expect it, Abdul’s students are hungry to learn.

Soon we’re chatting about a dazzling zebra; a drift of warthogs; a group of rhinos. We debate when a group of giraffes is a tower (answer: when they stand) and when it is a journey (answer: when they walk). No one needs any explanation as to why a group of hyenas is called a cackle; when our headlights spot a package tearing into a fresh carcass, their ominous laughter is chilling.

Abdul puts his foot down; stiff drinks by the fire pit are long overdue.

Sanctuary Tambarare, the newest camp in the high-end Sanctuary Retreats group, is both stylish and authentic. The restaurant and lobby are decorated with a Masai touch and topped with covered ceilings. They are connected by a teak walkway that is illuminated at night. It’s the perfect stage to relive the day and end it with a feast.

And which parties. Baked camembert with apricot sauce; halloumi skewers with Swahili salad; a passion fruit pavlova to die for. How exactly this magic happens in a simple bush kitchen is beyond me. But luckily it doesn’t go beyond Eric, the wizard chief of Tambarare.

We retreat to two of the camp’s ten canvas-lined lodges. Each room has a private veranda overlooking the boma and a four-poster bed wrapped in mosquito nets, so dreamy it would take an African sunrise to get out of it.

Our first game drive in the morning and a close encounter with Big Five’s number four. Stretched out on scorched grass under the cover of a thicket, a lioness nurses five cubs. She sees us and narrows her eyes. Abdul turns off the engine and my heart almost stops. “She’s not hungry,” he whispers, pointing to the partially devoured zebra behind her.

My ECG rhythms have barely returned to normal when Abdul catches wind of a cheetah. We rush across the savannah, hoping to spot this elusive creature. We’re lucky. Lying in the midday sun, feathery limbs folded in repose, we are granted a golden audience with the fastest animal on earth.

‘How do you tell a cheetah from a leopard?’ the jerk from the Jeep asks as I finally start breathing again.

“You’ll tell!” laughs Abdul. “If you find one in the Mara, let me know.”

On our second leg and two turbulent flights later, we are dropped off on the beautiful plains of the Masai Mara and placed in the care of our next guide, the larger-than-life Joseph. He opens the cooler of his Jeep and presses two ice-cold beers into our hands. It’s only 11 o’clock.

The relief is enormous. Just like the views. Miles of limitless space, home to perhaps the most famous wildlife venue in the world – as well as one of the most luxurious lodges, Sanctuary Olonana.

Our room is a large family suite with glass sides that opens directly onto the Mara River. The view from the large circular bench is so stunning that you could be forgiven if you wanted to skip a day of safari and stay indoors. But Joseph has plans and none of them involve sleeping after 6am.

A new early ride yields new gems. Sunbathing crocodiles, stalking lions. As we pause at a bend in the river, I count the heads of 22 hippos, slowly rising and sinking in the morning sun.

Joseph finds the perfect spot for a bush breakfast and within minutes a folding table is decorated with Masai checks and groaning with food: French toast, fruit, yoghurt, boiled eggs, sausages, the best mug of tea.

‘Now a race!’ he declares, pointing to a tree 100 yards away.

The children are competitive to their core and become flexible.

Joseph joins them – and all four are off. The kids are fast, but none are a match for him; his heavy physique is lightning fast. He laughs when we ask how he learned to run so fast. He was once attacked by a lion and survived the scar.

So there’s no better man to get close to the last of our Big Five: the leopard.

Abdul’s words ring in my ears as we spy this terrifying mass of markings and muscles straddling a tree as we tear away at what’s left of a wildebeest. Only the face and tail remain, but the leopard is in no mood to rush off leftovers.

Our last evening and Joseph drives us to the plains. With G&T at hand, we watch as the children do cartwheels and compete for the straightest legs, their bodies silhouetted against the setting sun.

If safari has taught us anything, it’s that only the strongest survive. Joseph nods and looks at the children.

“So,” he squints, “who’s the best?”