We arrived to the sight of a landscape transformed – lush, green bush thick with life, puddles still shimmering on the tracks, and trees heavy with the gift of recent rain. Though the earth was damp and the sky still heavy, the heat clung to the air. At the lodge, Anderssons at Ongava, ice-cold towels were handed to us along with a glass of homemade lemonade – a crisp, refreshing welcome against the warm weight of the day. Bags disappeared into capable hands while the landscape stretched out before us, antelopes grazing unfazed in the distance.

Though offered lunch, we chose instead to settle into the rhythm of the place. Our suite was a sanctuary – spacious yet intimate, with swinging chairs and loungers perched on a deck overlooking the waterhole. The textures spoke luxury without shouting: cool concrete underfoot, and the sturdy stone walls framed a space that blended effortlessly into its surroundings. A soft couch inviting an afternoon doze, and a hidden treasure – a tin of the most dangerously delicious cookies beside a coffee station stocked with hot chocolate, teas, and coffee, while ice-cold water waited in a flask.

Beyond the private deck, the world moved slowly – a jackal trotting across the horizon, a flock of birds scattering into the sky. Here, nature is not something you visit; it is something you become part of.

Curiosity pulled us toward the Visitor Centre, a beautifully curated space where knowledge pulses quietly, telling stories of lions, rhinos and the fragile threads that bind this place together. The adjacent boutique offered tokens of memory – local, handmade and heartfelt – but it was the first game drive that truly wove us into Ongava’s magic.

Wrapped snugly in fleece-lined ponchos against the cool drizzle, we set off. The tyres whispered across wet gravel, the scent of damp earth rising in waves. Our guide, an anchor of calm and knowledge, led us deeper into the bush. A footprint here, a broken branch there – signs that, in less skilled hands, would have gone unnoticed.

When we disembarked to track rhinos and elephants on foot, adrenaline and awe mingled in the cool air. Every sense sharpened: the spongy surrender of wet soil under boots, the muted thud of an elephant’s step, the soft murmur of distant thunder. Around us, life unfolded. Giraffes melting into the trees, tiny frogs hopping between puddles, flowers glistening with raindrops like jewels.

Later, at a clearing brushed gold by the setting sun, a table with dried fruits, biltong and drinks of our choice was set. It was more than thoughtful; it was a quiet, intuitive luxury that became the theme of every moment here.

Dinner that night overlooked the waterhole where two rhinos emerged from the darkness, a silent shape stepping into the glow of a spotlight, its presence both awe-inspiring and gentle. Homemade bread rolls, still warm, were the first indulgence during a meal that felt both artful and generous – the plating deliberate, each flavour singing in harmony. Around us, the African night thickened, and somewhere close, a lion’s rumble stitched itself into the dark.