Alphonse Island
I remember packing an old suitcase when I was about seven years old. My petulant and all too precocious nature had boiled over and my mother had offered to help me pack my luggage so I could move out. A napkin on a stick over my shoulder? No, no, no, I was far beyond my years for a traditional, Enid Blyton escape. I packed my leather suitcase and satchel, red-faced and mildly enraged, adding all my Ladybird books as a pseudo-guide to life. I had told my mother that I wished to live with my grandparents. This was on the basis that they were willing to buy me all the…
