I can understand why in 1855 fellow Glaswegian David Livingstone claimed to have discovered the Victoria Falls, despite it having been well-known to locals as the “smoke that thunders” for centuries. Walking around the surrounding eponymous town, the only signs of the Falls are a constant background wall of white noise and a band of localised cloud rising from the trees. You know you are getting closer when you feel the perennial drizzle that comes from the torrents’ spray; closer still when you pay the admission fee to the national park surrounding them. Very quickly the fee is forgotten.
Staring into the white oblivion of the falls, you understand the hyperbole. The masses of falling water counterbalanced by the spray shooting directly upwards mesmerises you, while the wind swirls around your head, chilling your soaked skin and clothes, making you feel like a maniacal sorcerer marvelling at his creation. Or at least I did. I think Lorna was just plain impressed.