It's early on the 6th of February 1952 in Kenya, East Africa.

It's a beautiful morning at tree tops, an exclusive safari resort built in the branches

of a 300-year-old fig tree.

A young man stares at bed in one of his wooden lodges.

His wife, a keen photographer, is already up, having been woken adorned by the trumpet

of an elephant.

She opens the curtains and looks out, yawning.

She was up late, trying to film an elusive leopard.

Glancing down, she nods to the hunter at the bottom of the steep ladder, which is the only

way in and out.

And with a rifle, he's been stationed there to protect his two guests from predators.

After breakfast, the woman packs up her belongings and places her precious cine-camera in its case.

She passes it down to her husband, before carefully descending the treacherous ladder.

Together the couple climb into the back of a car.

The woman takes a last look at the watering hole. There are still giraffes looping round.

But now, it's time to go back to work.

The vehicles set off in convoy along a red dirt road towards their base at Saganaloch.

The woman doesn't know it yet, but 6,000 miles away in London.

A series of events is underway that will shift the gears of her life forever.

Only seven days ago her father defied his doctors to go to London Airport.

And wave off his daughter she departed on a working tour.

He was too sick with lung cancer to make the planned trip to East Africa, Australia and

...