The farmer and his goat

SARAH DITUM

I WAS lonely. Papa was a preacher and we lived and travelled in a painted wooden wagon, pulled by Jessie, a large and docile shire horse. We had few possessions; there was no room for what Papa called

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

Helen Harris always enjoyed her afternoon tea with Martha Evert, and as she knocked on the door carrying a treat of two chocolate muffins, she looked forward to an hour or two of catching up with her

G av drove home, glancing up at the ...

Alicante is famous for its beaches; less so for its hiking. But in the Sierra de la Serrella, a short hop from the city, Isis Taylor discovers a network of trails that combine natural beauty with an insight into ancient cultures