Cirrus@Austlit

'Travelling to St Albans Writers’ Festival, there is a point at which you realise your routine life can be left behind. It’s about the time you’re crossing the Hawkesbury, by the slow pull of the barge through a river lit with sun. Or on arrival at the village, at the stone buildings and blossom trees. There are chickens and kelpies, people and books, children playing hide and seek. Bales of lucerne surround a fire pit, so that writers and readers can merge as one.' (Introduction)