This is Dadanawa, deep in the southern savannahs of Guyana. It was built by a Scot called Harry Melville who arrived here in 1891.
His ranch (once the biggest in the world) thrived in the 1914-18 war, producing beef for troops. Little seems to have changed since then, and the effect is enchanting. It isn’t just the livery and the lovable staff, and the distant blue hills, melting together. It’s the sense of a peculiar past, all around.
When I stayed there, my room was high up on stilts, and looked as if it had been quietly – and elegantly – flaking away since the 1918. Then there was the main house, which was like the officers’ mess of an Edwardian army (see picture). Around the walls, there were weapons and saddles, and, at sundown, we’d all sit on the balcony, drinking punch. As the ranch no longer had electricity, we were soon in the dark, and beginning to itch. ‘Time for dinner!’ the manager would say, and then we’d all fumble our way downstairs. There, we’d sit in Melvillian splendour, dining on tablecloths adorned with his crest. As we sat, working our way through three great courses of soup and mutton and chocolate mousse, the bats would come wheeling in through the windows, and squeal around our heads.
