My hands gripped to the railing, I peered down at the ancient brickwork laid out in the dimensions of a house. My fingers twitched as the suburban road stretched on ahead of me in the middle of the fresh, morning mist which mingled with the scent of a bit tongue splashed across the dashboard, dribbled down soft flesh onto the stone blocks below.
Have you ever had a travel experience so significant that it left an indelible scar upon your life for over a decade? My first visit to Oradour-sur-Glane did just that.
What was left of the Berlin Wall wasn’t much to see.
It was a sultry Saturday afternoon on January 11, 1845, when a little boy of eight or nine and his elder sister went to play at the Yarra Falls.
He had been in the room for no more than a moment, yet his expression was already contorted by a perpetual grimace.