There was rain in the middle of the night, yet what woke me was not the sound of drops spattering on the tent but a combination of the electric blanket being left on its hottest setting and something playing castanets in the surrounding bushes.
Whatever creature it was, it had a huge back up orchestra of clicks and clacks, gwarras and chirrups. And something playing xylophone, too. It had my unwavering attention.
Between the syncopated rhythm of rain drops were hippos guffawing, plus infinite more creatures noisily celebrating the rain. A gentle tugging of grass, unfamiliar chewing, the scuffles and shushing of god-knows-what, and the occasional sandpaper rustle of things moving in the blackness.
I was at Thula Thula, a private reserve just two-or-so hours north
