Travelling up to London to raise funds for my beloved thousand year old church, I arrived in the city to find myself in a huge, apparently empty, glistening white building, looking down on the ruins of a Roman wall and, amazingly, a wild flower garden. As I waited on the 11th floor I could help myself to coffee and then get out onto a balcony with plenty of greenery.

We arrived in the foothills of the Cairngorm mountains with the newly emerged leaves of the copper beeches in their translucent glory and the birches in their lovely fresh green. There were snow patches on the hills and golden daffodils welcomed us as we passed the mysteriously named Blacklunans hamlet and reached our Norwegian log cabin, ideally built to withstand the hard winters and massive snowfalls. In the first week we recovered from the long drive with magic walks dow

The journey so often made - the first time by boat in 1948, two weeks to Cape Town, flying fish on the deck, adults playing quoits or pounding endlessly around the ship

After two successful book launches — one in the Wiltshire village where I live and another at Andrew Edmunds in Soho — I filmed myself reading a couple of poems and posted them on my Facebook author page before flying to South Africa for my annual visit. I grew up in Johannesburg in the 1950s. It has changed enormously since then, in many ways for the better, though the continuing poverty, corruption and crime remain troubling. Yet South Africa is still magnificent. Racial te

KwaZulu-Natal and Home Back in England from the glories of KwaZulu-Natal, two memories linger most vividly: a quiet Methodist service in a small chapel, and the exuberant pottery of the world-famous Ardmore Ceramic Art, founded some forty years ago to support local, underprivileged artists. The result has been a truly African outpouring of creativity. Both chapel and studio sit amid lush pasture, grassy hills and ancient forests rich in wildlife: parrots, cuckoos, snakes and

On a recent trip to Northern Ireland to see my nephew and his family, I found myself reflecting on the memories stirred by the long drive north. My wife and I travelled via southern Scotland, taking the ferry from Stranraer so that we would pass through the country where my much-loved Scottish grandfather had grown up. Driving up the M5 past my childhood home in the Midlands, the spire of Tewkesbury Abbey came into view and with it memories of my mother, who loved it deeply.