
I kept digging. Apart from the photographs, tiny vases came up with the shovel, of all different colours. One had 'Portugal' painted on it, with flowers and squiggles. There was something that looked like a collection of four leaf clovers in a plastic wallet, and I stopped to remember how my father used to spend an hour every Sunday looking for those himself. Never did find any but had a good life anyway. I wonder if the person who belonged to these had been lucky? Ah, here's a bone, a grey yellow little thing, like out of a leg. Now that looks like a booklet coming up this time. What's it got on the cover ... Diary ... 1947 ...


Robin Hemley has written an excellent book on immersion writing, which he defines as ‘any kind of memoir, travel narrative, or journalistic piece in which the narrative is as much forward-looking as backward, and in which the writer is a part of the story being told’ (8). He writes with humour and passion and injects himself into the prose, thus making for a great example of what he is describing.