By Ellie Ballantine

Where we live now

the forest meets us

at the door

By Alessio Zanelli

How many times along the way

have you stopped on the edge

to watch an oddly-shaped stone

or a flower jutting from the grass?

By Clare Bryden

Us English are a country 

of boat people. 

By Anna Evans

In the mist and cloud of rain-soaked London, I turn the corner into one of the streets off Brick Lane and glimpse a church spire across the rooftops, and just beneath the clock face, the windows of lofts built for weaving.

By P.W. Lewis

When it was his turn to cook, there were many things Rob didn’t know. At the age of forty-five, he should have had time to learn something, but he knew next to nothing. He knew nothing about cooking, and he knew nothing about Iquique.

By Mark Crimmins

You wake up at 4:30 AM and turn on a light in room 406 of the Cochs Pensjonat Hotel overlooking Oslo’s Hegdehaugsveien, which you have decided to call Hedgehog Street, and  you are so tired that you reach onto the windowsill and pick up, not a pen, but a toothbrush with which to write this account of your first morning in Oslo

By Elsa Court

The morning train from New Haven to Hartford, Connecticut, was air-conditioned like public transportation only is in America. The visiting scholar had anticipated this and was wearing extra layers, a grey hoodie and a cotton scarf, which she took everywhere with her despite the scorching summer heat.

By Sharon Tyers

I come from a city of many layers - Leicester, sandwiched neatly into Middle- England where you can’t ever hear the sea. Now I live where you can’t fail to hear it, but my heart, my soul lies back in that industrial heartland.

By Fiona M Jones

The snowgates open in spring, giving access across the Highlands towards Fort William.

By Neelakshi Ghosh

Since my late twenties, when I moved out of hometown, Kolkata (erstwhile Calcutta), there has always been a longing, as Maya Angelou would say, ‘to be at home, wherever I find myself’.

By Jamie Lin

We are scrambling over rocks at Whistlepipe Gully in the Perth Hills in Western Australia, to the soundtrack of water coursing downhill.

By S.W. Hagen

One-hundred-fifty-two steps forward. Pause.

Eight white lines on the zebra crossing. Cross. Eight large steps. Turn right.

By Jenna Sciuto

There are no ghosts in Grandi—in this modern apartment building, with its lovely glass  balcony facing the sea. Whatever ghosts are here I brought them with me.

By Claire Everett

At some indeterminable point it became more than a walk. We are now deep in conversation. When I say "we" I'm not sure if I'm communicating with the land itself or the spirits of place.

Read by Marcel Krueger

The map of Europe is still slashed with past trauma, embedded in the landscape. And it is maybe at the periphery, away from the centre, that these remnants are best visible.