I’ve just finished Rachel Joyce’s novel, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. It’s one of those rare books that lingers in the...

Camber Sands. It's winter and the sunrise is late enough for me to clamber over the dunes to walk on the beach at dawn. At low tide, a...

I awake to a whatsapp from my daughter, with a link to an article in The Guardian about grandmothers. As I read, I’m filled with joy and...

All my life I’ve wanted to fit in – to fit in to a nationality, to gender, to a religion, to a group of friends, and I never really felt...

You can picture a wormhole as a kind of tunnel that connects two points in spacetime. That tunnel could be a straight chute or take a...

I go over the dunes to the beach to pray, as I intend to do every morning - and sometimes succeed. I'm too late to see the sunrise, but...

This morning the sunrise was painted in pastels, with a crisp breeze and a receding tide, rivulets rippling along the beach to the sea...

There are mornings - today was one - when I look out of the window and see only grey skies, drizzle and trees gusting in the wind. "There...

A grey sunrise with a confetti of gulls feasting on the shellfish beached by the receding tide - cockles and razor clams and whelks and...