Greystoke Camp by Gemma Pitcher

Soft white sand slopes gently towards the endless shimmer of Lake Tanganyika, just a few yards from Greystoke Camp. Floating in the water, one can look back beyond the beach to the towering hills, covered with green forest, which reach up into the wisps of cloud far above. Over the gentle lapping of the water, the screech of exotic birds wafts faintly back from the shore, accompanied on occasion by the unearthly, primeval hoots and shrieks of the chimpanzees that rule the forest.

To put a camp in an Eden like this is a fearsome responsibility - it must be as perfect as the glittering lake, as relaxed as the rhythms of the forest. As Roland Purcell, the camp’s creator, puts it: "If I dare to put an imprint on this paradise, I’d better get it right."

Greystoke camp is irresistibly, magically right. Six double tents, simply furnished, pitched slightly back into the whispering palms at the edge of the beach. Forest bathrooms with suspended bucket showers set among the trees, or a bath in the lake, rinsing out soap suds while gazing back at the misty peaks. The mess tent is a sculptured palace of wood, canvas and thatch, modeled on the design of a Tongwe chief’s hut and decorated inside by drapes of unbleached cotton and freshly picked green palm fronds. A ladder leads up to the cool mezzanine floor, with overloaded bookshelves standing under the eaves among scattered cushions on which to nest, like a chimp in a tree, during the heat of the day.

Every morning, while the air is still cool, guests trek into the forest in search of the chimpanzees who live there. The forest itself is a magical kingdom of sunlit ferns, dangling creepers and still pools above smooth scattered boulders. The chimpanzees lead one on, their wild calls first tantalizingly close then echoingly distant, as the paths grow steeper and narrower. They appear finally, habituated to humans, relaxed, confident and fascinating. Two hours in their company goes too fast, and the forest is left behind once again for the glare of the beach and the green coolness of the lake.

Afternoons are spent lazing in oversized deckchairs or floating indolently in the water, until the sun sets in ribbons of gold over the lake’s surface and the mess tent glows against the dark green mountains like a great jewel. As the air grows cooler, a fishing trip beckons in the camp’s 45 foot sailing dhow, the Isabella, reclining on cushions while eating lake-fresh sashimi as the glassy twilight water slips along the hull. At night, when the lights of Congo twinkle in the distance, the drama of the camp’s setting is enhanced by the great dining table set out on the sand, surrounded by flares and lit from above by the moon and stars.