As someone born in Australia,
now living in London,
it's been a poignant few weeks to be working as a senior campaigner on the Greenpeace forests campaign.
When I was a young kid in Australia,
we lived on a three acre property in a valley that was a mixture of bush,
pasture and citrus orchards in the foothills of Perth, Western
Australia. In summer we
would sniff the wind nervously. Some
years, we watched with grim fascination as uncontrolled fires swept the
opposite side of the valley. One year, before I was born, the flames came close
to my families' home, but we were fortunate.
At primary school, diligent teachers instructed us in the risks of bushfires.
There's nothing like a match dropped on a pile of dried eucalyptus leaves, even
in controlled conditions, to make the point to a group of rapt five year olds. Eucalyptus
trees are full of oil - they explode and the fire jumps. When I was eight, Colin
Thiele's classic Australian children's book The February Dragon,
telling the story of an idyllic rural life consumed by summer fires, drove the
lesson home. Some times as a child I couldn't sleep because I imagined the
smell of smoke.