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In 1976 Niall Griffith' family emigrated to Australia, as part of the "£10 Pom offer." He lived there for three years, moving from Brisbane to Perth in a souped up station wagon. Thirty yeras later he returned to retrace his steps; this is the closest thing to an autobiography Niall griffiths will ever write.

A £10 Pom having a right old bash at living down-under. Guaranteed not to win him Australian of the year or a commendation from the Queensland Tourist Board. God bless Australia? Yeah right ...

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Wil says goodbye to his family and friends in North Wales, and hello to adventure in South America, heading into the unknown, away from comfort and predictability in a bid to ‘let go’.

From the beach he lives on with only a stray dog for company, to his final destination with its tearful goodbyes, Wil shares the joys and the trials of his search for freedom of the soul. He talks candidly of friendships, drugs, sex, politics, of the fear and elation he experiences along the way, of how dangerously close ‘letting go’ can come to ‘losing it’ when the boundary between exploration and hedonism becomes blurred.

            Wil Gritten writes with a wonderful self-deprecating sense of humour and refreshing emotional honesty, and his ability to make the most alien of places come to life means that the reader is transported away with him, feeling less like an observer and more like a travelling companion on Wil’s journey.

Winner of Wales Book of the Year Award 2011

In every atlas there is a country missing from the maps of South America: the Andean nation. For five months John Harrison journeys through this secret country, walking alone into remote villages where he is the first gringo the locals have ever seen, and where life continues as if Columbus had never sailed. He lives at over 10,000 feet for almost the entire trip, following the great road of the Incas: the Camino Real, or Royal Road. Hand-built over 500 years ago, this road crosses the most difficult and dangerous mountains in all the Americas, diving into sweltering canyons and soaring up into the snows. 1500 miles, half of it on foot, take him from the Equator to Cuzco and the most magical city of all: Machu Picchu. He meets locals and discovers some he can trust – and some he can’t. He struggles with dog attacks, floods, losing his way and even a stubborn donkey, but only when he returns home does he lose what he wants most.

My great grandfather and grandfather sailed the Horn, in steam and diesel, out of Liverpool. I was the first generation not to sail the Horn or fight a war. Instead, I would go to the end of the world, beyond Patagonia, to Tierra del Fuego. I would do more, I would see the Horn and find lost tribes. The child in me could go even further and sail the waters of Coleridge's albatross and enter the watercolours' blue horizons of my first novel, and sit on Robinson Crusoe's imaginary shore. I had imagined these places; they must exist. All I had to do was look for them.

George Evans had been working underground as a miner for three years when he volunteered for the British Army in 1944. He was eighteen years old. The train from Banwen across the mountains to the Brecon barracks was the first stage of a remarkable journey that would take him across the world and propel him into one of the last major campaigns of World War II. Where the Flying Fishes Play is a record of that time in a young man's life when the world holds endless possibilities.