On a two-rail concrete jeep track in the Waterberg, after 3km of rock and rolling, and through bored herds of impala and wildebeest, past a family of warthogs and bum-scratching baboons, a man called Larrie asked me about rugby. That is not how I would spell his name, but in the Book of Sightings at the Clifftop Exclusive Safari Hideaway — again, not a name I would have chosen — that is how his name was written. I shall go with Larry. I know a few men called Larry. That feels right. Larry was our exclusive driver to the Clifftop, the short journey to the resort my wife chose to celebrate our one year of wedded bliss. Just two days of escape and love, away from a year of change and uncertainty and fear, to remember what we are and what we will be. Larry, the ranger, asked the usual questions: how do you do, where are you from and what do you do? I told him. Sports. Writer. It always brings a pause, then a "really", then another pause, then the question: "What is happening with rugby?...

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