Ten days, two countries, and not a single bumpy Land Rover in sight. The route runs from Tanzania into Kenya, and every transfer happens by private plane or a 4x4 reserved for your group alone. My nan had a saying about doing things properly, and this trip takes her at its word. You land in Tanzania at a private airstrip rather than a busy terminal, and someone is waiting with a chilled glass of champagne and your name already learned. Your guide will likely know how you take your tea before the first drive, and he'll have your preferred table set by the second morning. Then it's on to the Serengeti. The camp there has canvas walls, antique furniture and Egyptian cotton sheets, with a butler quietly handling the rest. The camp I stayed in had twelve tents, each with its own deck facing the plains, and the staff-to-guest ratio ran about two to one. Housekeeping turned the bed down at six and left a hot water bottle under the covers. Mornings begin with coffee delivered to your tent while the sky turns orange and pink. After that you head out in your own vehicle, which means no jostling for a view when a leopard settles into a tree a few metres away. You can count its whiskers if you like. I'll admit to feeling a little smug about the whole thing. Afternoons slow right down. There's a plunge pool on your private deck, a massage if you want one, and lunch served on the veranda while the plains shimmer below. The kitchen turns out seafood and steaks and desserts that would not embarrass a Parisian patissier, all built on local ingredients. Our chef, a Kenyan named Joseph, sent out a mango tart on the second night that I still think about, and he came out to explain the pastry himself. The cellar ran to about forty labels, mostly South African. Then you hop to Kenya by small plane and land in the Masai Mara, where the lodge sits on a cliff with views across the plains and a resident chef who works in a fusion register. The rooms there open onto a shared terrace with binoculars on every table. During the Great Migration, thousands of wildebeest and zebra move through, and you watch from a prime spot with a sundowner in hand. The scale of it is hard to describe. I'm not sure any photograph I took comes close. Evenings are spent by the fire and under the stars, with your guide swapping stories and, on clear nights, a private astronomer naming constellations you'd never heard of. He brought a laser pointer and a flask of tea and kept us out past eleven. Somewhere in there I lost an afternoon to a book on the veranda and missed a drive entirely. The days still hold every comfort you could ask for, and by the end the schedule felt less like a tour and more like a house party with very good catering. A package week in Benidorm starts to look like a different sport. On the last morning I packed the walking shoes I'd brought along and never wore once, and the camp manager pressed a small bag of coffee beans into my hand at the airstrip.