1974 Dodoma, Tanzania, East Africa In the churchyard of the Anglican cathedral two coffins lay ready for burial.
I began my rural journey as a knotty-haired tomboy playing in the singing creeks of southern Tasmania with frogs, tadpoles, skinks, mud and rocks.
The morning of Monday 26 September 1988 was cool and crisp in Scone, a country town about a three-hour drive north of Sydney.
INTRO Dearest Billy, I have a feeling that you’re going to find out about all this, so I thought you’d better hear how it all began, from your own mum.
In the morning they gave Reacher a medal, and in the afternoon they sent him back to school.
On the beach one day, as I was sliding my board back onto the tray of the ute and trying to clear my sinuses of salty water, an old neighbour who was passing by with his dog told me he didn’t know...
A visitor to Passchendaele today would struggle to imagine this small Flemish town as the object of a field marshal’s obsession and the pivot of the great Flanders Offensive of 1917.
From the very beginning there was no doubt that we three Wilson sisters would grow up with horses.
It happens just three days into one of the world’s most gruelling treks.
The fell land we are gathering today doesn’t belong to us, it belongs to the National Trust.
