T WAS the eerie call of the fiery-necked nightjar, ‘Good Lord deliver us’ and the cry of black-backed jackal that had made me shiver the previous evening. I’m originally from Scotland; I had finally arrived in Africa and I knew it was going to be a great day’s hunting. Until a few days earlier, I’d never even handled a firearm, far less shot one. My South African husband, Alex, had told me about the thrill of game hunting, and on visiting our friends at Dresden hunting farm and conservancy, deep in the hills of Zululand and close to the site of the battle of Rorke’s Drift, I’d decided to take part in a
