The barber stumbles about the shop, swinging the razor blade through the air as if he were composing for the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.

Surfers don’t walk to the water’s edge, they run, through the dunes like five year olds, barefoot grown men, lives defined by the ocean.

To have family in Ireland is not to have relatives alive this very day, no, it’s to have Gaelic blood coursing your veins.

The chooks are more dependable than clockwork in this outer realm of Indonesia, up bright and chirpy, cuckooing their way through the dawn.