'As the children of French expatriates in Australia, yo-yoing constantly between the two countries, my siblings and I grew up in two worlds. And part of that was expressed in different experiences of landscape. In Australia, we lived in Sydney, but my parents also bought a seven-acre bush block in the nearby Blue Mountains, not to build on, but simply to be in the bush. It was my father’s favorite place. We would go there on weekends, and Dad, machete in hand, would clear a path for us through the undergrowth down to the creek. There, we’d sit and eat Maman’s excellent picnic lunch, drink from a canvas waterbag my father had hung on a tree, and try to catch yabbies in the creek. There were dangers: the occasional bull ant or two (ouch!) and once or twice a snake caused much excitement but there were also sweet-voiced birds, and the odd kangaroo (though most of them kept away, given the racket a gaggle of lively kids created!). Back in France, in the southwestern village where we owned a beautiful old house, the nearby forest of Goujon was also a favorite family haunt. There in the green depths filled with birdsong, you might come across hares, rabbits, and hedgehogs and once, a curious young fox. There were dangers there, too—including the occasional viper, but most of all, our father told us, the forest of Goujon was reputed to be enchanted so we must on no account wander off or we might never find our way out again.' (Introduction)