I recently saw Eric Abetz, and it made me unhappy. He was standing on the street in a patch of Hobart light, bathing in the weak wash of the southern sun, a smile on his face, and this scene—the banality of his contentment juxtaposed with the pallid horror of his existence—wrought in me a deep, gnawing displeasure. I was supposed to be finding lunch, but I could no longer concentrate on what I wanted to eat. He looked so happy there in the pale light, this man who has opposed decriminalising homosexuality, who has linked abortion with breast cancer on national television, who has passionately pursued a career of making life harder for people whose lives are already hard. My unhappiness swelled. I forgot all thoughts of food and fled into the comfort of a nearby bookstore.

I wandered through the fiction, biography, history and thriller aisles before reaching the nature section, where my attention snagged on a yellow paperback, its cover dominated by a diving bird of prey. It was The Peregrine, by J. A. Baker. I had never heard of it before, but a jacket quote promised that it was a classic of nature writing, and the blurb made it seem uncomplicated, and the clean lines of the swooping raptor appealed to me, so I bought it. That afternoon, with Abetz and his sun-smile still shining in my mind, I began reading.