As a child, I always had my head in a book. My mother used to tell me that a bomb could go off and I wouldn't hear it if I was reading. I loved books then and I love them now. They take me to places beyond this world, allow me to peek into lives other than my own. We lived on a farm in the south of England, and there was no one close by other than my brother, parents and grandparents. So books were my life, my entertainment, my escape.
When the family moved to Australia, life was so very different. Gone were the rolling green hills, the gentle rain, the snow in winter. Australia was a harsh landscape by comparison. Arriving in the midst of summer, the grass was dry, brown and dead. Bushfires raged in the hills; water restrictions were in force. What had we done?
I spent the next umpteen years living and working in cities; firstly Melbourne and then Sydney. Books were the one constant in my ever changing life.
I've always written bits and bobs; stories, poems, but a career within IT saw my writing reduced to program code, technical documents and board papers. No room for creativity there.
Having decided (after more than 20 years) that city life was not for us, my partner and I sold up and moved to the North East of Victoria where we now own 100 acres of paradise. We have lots of native trees and a vast abundance of wildlife that seem to use our garden as a food source. Possums eat the camellia flowers, wallabies prefer roses as well as the rhubarb. Wombats leave their calling card on top of rocks. Black cockatoos and gang gangs nibble on the hakea nuts while robins, wrens and finches search through the leaf litter for insects. Our dams are visited by numerous waterbirds, my favourite being the yellow spoonbill.
Life is good here.
Now I can write in earnest. Along with making cheese and other goodies, of course.