So, as is traditional at this time of year, we went on holiday. Put briefly, the idea was to make our way to the UK to reunite with friends and family not seen since before the pandemic. For a variety of reasons we need not concern ourselves with now, we decided to go in short, one-way hops: Sydney-Singapore; Singapore-Delhi; Delhi-Istanbul, and so on. We made it as far as Delhi and the whole plan fell apart — so we stayed in India.

And a spectacular, eye-opening, mind-boggling experience it was, too. In every department, from the gustatory to the olfactory, it was revelatory. And of course, visually — from the point of view of, say, the photographer, it was nothing short of cornucopic. In Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur, you couldn’t venture twenty metres from the hotel without encountering a picturesque person, a photographable tableau, a scenic situation.

Such was the potential for indulging in creative image-making, it became a frustration to move about by car, because successive unique opportunities would pass by behind glass, disappearing into the clamorous streets with no chance of being immortalised by yours truly.

But then there were the times you could walk about with a camera and indulge every creative urge. These efforts, of course, belong within the much-discussed photography genre known as street. That is, it is mainly urban and involves people and their doings and makings.

Yet for the committed nature photographer, it is difficult to assay the febrile avenues of Delhi without casting an eye upward to the numerous raptors which, perhaps surprisingly, orbit the urban skies. Yes, above the tumultuous metropolis, there circle large numbers of kites — Brahminy Kites (Haliastur indus) and Black Kites (Milvus migrans) have adapted to urban life and are doing very well, thank you very much.

But apart from that, it was street photography all the way. That is, until the second-last day, when we ventured out on a Leopard safari outside Jaipur. And let me tell you, I knew — as surely as you know your own name — that there would be frustrations galore. Just as in the streets of the city, there would be photographic opportunities that would not and could not be realised.

And that is because, as I have probably stated, there is an immutable law that governs wildlife photography. And that is that, if you venture into the wilds without the gear capable of doing justice to nature’s wonders, you will be inundated with once-in-a-lifetime encounters that you have no hope of capturing satisfactorily.

Thus it was that we rattled around the Jhalana Leopard Safari Park in the back of a jeep, the photographer of the group equipped with a very nice but totally inadequate piece of kit called a ‘superzoom’, which is great for street photography but not up to scratch for wildlife. And yes, even as we entered the park gates, our guide said casually, “there’s a white-throated kingfisher.”

You can lurk in Braidwood’s bushes for three consecutive summers, applying every skill and subterfuge to get a good shot of Australia’s version of this bird but hey, in India they’re waiting at the gate to welcome you.

And so it went on. The place was crawling with birdlife. And to add to the unique quality of the experience, the landscape, studded with Acacia trees, was strongly reminiscent of the bits of Zimbabwe I come from. And the birds were similar too: Bulbuls, Hoopoes, Paradise Flycatchers — all denizens of our long-lost Bulawayo garden.

Of course, other exotica caused the odd eyebrow to elevate — like peacocks in the wild! Of course, we know the peacock is India’s national bird, but so strongly are they associated with stately homes and palace gardens, it hadn’t dawned that they may still strut the savannah in their wild state. (And, hilariously, when spooked by the jeeps, they would pick up their skirts and flee like the Roadrunner.)

Ultimately, in such a situation, there is no point in bemoaning the absence of a piece of gear or a perfect opportunity when faced with all these wonders. For one thing, being a fallible human, you can’t guarantee that even with the perfect set-up you won’t stuff it up. That happens often enough, I can tell you.

And there’s the fact that if you spend all your time bemoaning lost opportunities, you’re not really focusing on what’s in front of you. You’re thinking about might-have-beens and maybes. So after the frustration of shots uncaptured peaks, the wise thing to do is, in the words of Frozen’s Elsa, let it go. Or to cite an authority of similar weight, shake it off.

Or, as we have previously discussed, lean in. Set the inadequate lens aside and dedicate the limited time available to enjoying the ride. And so we did.

There was plenty to see.

But what of the leopards? It was, after all, billed as a leopard safari. And in fact, we encountered two. One, a sinuous rippling golden dappled flank slipping stealthily through thick brush, gone in a second; and then a distant hilltop silhouette, haughtily ignoring the gathered mortals below as it languidly made its way from cover to cover.

This was enough to fulfil every expectation of the day. Put it this way: in an African childhood and periodic return visits as an adult, I had never seen a leopard outside a zoo; witnessing that subtle, gorgeous predator owning its native heath was yet another reason to treasure our inadvertent time in India.