When I was six my family moved from Ireland to Australia. Considering I have only patchy memories of being 6, this day is remarkably strong in my memory. There are many parts of the journey that I can remember clearly: the car trip to the airport in Dublin; the ground disappearing rapidly beneath us as we took off over the Irish Sea; flying across never-ending sandy ridges in the middle east; asking Dad when we stepped onto the tarmac in Saudi Arabia if the plane engine was the source of the intense heat. It wasn’t, he told me, it was just damn hot. I remember stopping in Singapore and shopping for a Commodore 64, and I remember the excitement of approaching Sydney as the sun rose through the tiny windows on the plane. What I really remember though, or at least what is stronger as an image in my mind’s eye than any other, is when we were waiting for a connecting flight to Armidale in a small, quiet terminal at Sydney Airport. I remember it because as we waited I stood near a floor-to-ceiling glass façade looking out over the broad expanse of the runways and there was this enormous blue sky with barely a cloud in it. It was a sky I’d never seen before, and the light from the sun gave everything a sensational clarity.