IT WAS A balmy May evening in the middle Drakensberg; Royce Buckle and I were enjoying a fire under the stars. Born in Tanganyika, Royce grew up on a farm before becoming a ‘white hunter’ as East African professional hunters were called back in the 1950s. Now in his eighties, Royce lives near Winterton, and in recent years we have become firm friends. We talk the same language – a language which, nowadays, fewer and fewer people can or want to talk… guns, game and hunting, mostly.
“I saw a lone hartebeest walk across that hillside this morning,” I said. “A century ago, hartebeest were plentiful in the Berg. Two freak blizzards wiped most of them out.” Royce nodded, “It can get bitterly cold up here in winter. The townie…
