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Our day starts in darkness, always. My dogs could hear an eyelid opening from outer space so the first job of the day is to run them ­– head torches and water proof jackets in place. After that it’s into the vortex of caring for fifteen horses and getting the family dressed, fed, ready and […]
Why I write about war By Portland_Jones In 1944, in the last, long winter of the war my grandmother fed her family on stolen tulip bulbs. Every morning she cooked some of the bulbs to an ugly, brown flecked paste and her children cried, their chill-blained fingers red and their ankles poking thinly from beneath […]
Water always runs to the deepest point, to where the land is lowest. For me, the same is true of writing. The words fall into the places that lie deep beneath. I think of them as the 2am places. The ones you usually hide with conversation and movement. The voice in your head that you […]
At the Citadel in deep ponds the koi, like shards of afternoon light, swam at the surface waiting for crumbs. I stood with my eldest son in the rain. Tiny frogs hid in cracks between the pavers while we traced a spray of bullet holes on a wall, the mortar crumbling damply beneath our fingers. […]
My children joke that I interrogate people when I travel. And they’re probably right. I want to know the stories, because one of the things I’ve learned since I started writing is that everybody’s got one. It’s these stories that I travel to find. After all, you don’t travel to another country to learn about […]
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