To reconnect with his past. And to better understand the 19th-century Cascade Range advocate John Waldo, the state's answer to California's naturalist John Muir. Despite great expectations, near trails end Welch finds himself facing an unlikely challenge. Laughs. Blisters. And new friends from literally around the world-his PCT adventure offered it all. But he never foresaw the bittersweet ending.

    It’s a story common to many, but Dillon's response was far from expected. Instead of searching for new employment, he bought a bicycle, loaded it with camping gear and pedaled alone across the United States. Changing Cadence recounts the story of Dillon's travels through the farming and fishing communities of the South; the ranch lands and Bible Belt of Texas; the lonely deserts of New Mexico and Arizona; and finally up the coast of California. Along the way, he crosses paths with others who share his need for wanderlust: the brokenhearted woman from London exploring the West alone on a motorcycle; the pair of college students walking across the country in support of the Tea Party; the woman hiking the circumference of the country on a prosthetic leg (along with her three-legged dog); and fellow cyclists like Don, a middle-aged, yarn-spinning, former Marine with a grey ponytail and a penchant for McDonald’s Egg McMuffins. Over the course of more than 3,500 miles, Dillon rediscovers himself, his family and his country, and learns that it’s never too late for a little adventure.

    (The Continental Divide Trail is scarier.) There, she faced the icy winds of the Mojave Desert and the brutal heat of the snowless High Sierras, the choking smoke of Oregon and the vicious marmots of Washington. Rabid is a semi-fictional account of the weird and wonderful world that Libby found on the Pacific Crest Trail, a world where time is measured by distance from Mexico, where poop is a casual conversation topic, and where hikers are stalked by the worshipful followers of their trail blogs. Darkly humorous, Rabid tells of the beautiful, high-energy, technology-permeated, sometimes-overcrowded, modern thru-hiking experience.

    The next, I was marching in lockstep through the dark, snow-strewn streets of Sweden. Clad in an ill-fitting cheap blue suit—a Book of Mormon in my pocket—I was tasked with nothing less than saving the country of "godless fornicators from certain moral destruction." You've seen us. We are impossible to miss. We are iconic, and now even celebrated in a nine times over, Tony Awarding winning Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon. Most are boys, some girls. We always travel in pairs. Impeccably groomed, always smiling and polite, you can’t mistake us for anyone else. And, if you haven't met us already, we will soon be coming to knock on a door near you. I know. I was one of them. This is my story. Although raised in the LDS faith, nothing could have prepared me for what I experienced. My world was turned upside down. Nothing was as I expected: the country, the work, my fellow missionaries, and most of all, the Church. Had I not gone through the experience myself, I honestly would not believe a word of what follows. And yet, it’s true. Every last bit.

    No two bucket lists are the same, but each list has the same ultimate goal—to make the list maker feel like they are doing something useful with their life instead of just sitting around, writing lists, and watching Morgan Freeman movies. Dom had seen some of those lists and they looked so difficult that he wondered whether dying would be a better option than actually ticking off the items. "I am a paid-up life-member of a place called the comfort zone. People always go on about the importance of getting out of your comfort zone. Not me. Any day I can stay inside it is a good day. All of which makes it a bit odd that I decided to complete a bucket list of my own. Not just any bucket list though. This is a reverse bucket list—a bunch of stuff that I could have happily passed away without ever doing—stuff like getting a tattoo I'd instantly regret, arm wrestling a professional rugby player, and being the model for a life drawing class—and I recruited some of my closest family and friends to compile it for me. In hindsight, this was a bad idea. But here it is—my pain, discomfort, and humiliation for your pleasure."

    It is an insightful account of the larger governance phenomenon in India—coalition politics—as seen through the eyes of one of the chief architects of the post-Congress era of Indian politics.From the inexplicable defeat of the Congress in the 1996 general elections and the rise of regional parties like the TDP and the TMC, to the compelling factors that forced the Congress to withdraw support to the I.K. Gujral government and the singular ability of Sonia Gandhi to forge an alliance with diverse political parties that enabled the Congress to lead the coalitions of UPA I and II, Pranab Mukherjee was a keen observer and an active participant in the contemporary developments that reshaped the course of the country’s political, economic and social destiny.Beyond the challenges, complications and compulsions of coalition governments, this book is also a recollection of Mukherjee’s journey as the Cabinet Minister in the key ministries of defence, external affairs and finance, beginning from 2004. He recounts each of these events with candour—the path-breaking meeting with Henry Kissinger in 2004 that altered the course of the Indo–US strategic partnership, his timely advice to Bangladesh Army Chief Moeen Ahmed in 2008 that led to the release of political prisoners there and the differing views with RBI Governor D. Subbarao on the structure of the FSDC.The third volume of Mukherjee’s autobiography is a sharp and candid account of his years at the helm. It offers the most authoritative account of contemporary Indian politics by one of the tallest leaders and statesmen of our generation.

    It was a dream that would lead him into a nightmare of sexual and physical abuse from which he has still not recovered. Stewart was abused every day for four years by his junior football coach. He suffered in silence and embarked on a successful career that saw him play for Manchester City, Tottenham Hotspur, Liverpool and Sunderland, scoring in an FA Cup final and winning caps for England. Behind it all, he was a broken man – many times he wished he could end his life. He turned to drink and drugs as a way of coping with his devastating secret. In 2016, Stewart was sitting at his office desk one morning when he read a Daily Mirror story about a footballer who had been abused. His world was about to change… Paul Stewart: Damaged is one of the most powerful and emotionally charged football life stories you will read.

    After doing a TEFL course in London, he flies to South America alone. He has no job to go to but hopes that teaching English will fund his travels – ultimately, it opens up opportunities all over the world.During Barry's two-year TEFL adventure he has several nervy encounters with local louts in Ecuador and Brazil, collapses after a trip to Machu Picchu, gets stuck next to ecstasy raving loonies and a transvestite on a Greyhound Bus across America, struggles to settle Down Under, finds himself working for strict Catholic nuns in Bangkok, and meets some sex mad Babushkas on the Trans-Mongolian railway.This book is essential for anyone who wants to see how rewarding it can be to teach English in a foreign land.

    Her touchingly sincere story is one of discovery, friendship, endurance and love and, most importantly, never allowing the landlubbers to get you down!

    The home was unkempt and rubbish was littered all over the floor. Dirty nappies were piled up in a corner of the room, which made the room have an awful stench. None of Jacksons bottles were being sterilised before use, and the water that was to make up the formula was tap water….straight from the tap and unboiled."

    Life was no bed of roses. The Bernardinis stayed in a room and kitchen, where young Walter slept in the bed recess in the front room. His Mum and Dad, meanwhile, had a 'hole-in-the-wall' bed in the kitchen. There was no bath, only one downstairs toilet shared by two other families. Glaswegians in those days may not have had much money, but they made up for the lack of material possessions with a real live of life. There was never a dull moment, at home, on the streets or at school. In this compelling book, the author fondly reminisces about first footing, wedding scrambles, winchin' in the close, nights at the pictures, the trams, trips with the Scouts, wartime evacuation and much more. It is a scintillating slice of social history, full of warmth and humour. For the sake of his career, Walter Bernardini eventually left Scotland, taking his wife and family with him. Yet he has never forgotten the city of his birth, the place that shaped him, the place he still thinks of as home. These were truly his dear old Glasgow years'.

    In 1976 their dream of owning a peaceful summer retreat came true when they stumbled across this derelict farmhouse surrounded by fields and orchards, and saw what it could become. Over the years there has been the inevitable sadness, but also the joys of new grandchildren, anniversaries, village fetes, and splendid meals taken with their neighbours. And whilst the family has seen many changes in its time, the warm and welcoming atmosphere they first fell in love with has remained the same. Now they face their own personal tragedy, but through all their sorrows Bel-Air continues to be a place of hope and happiness, as well as extraordinary beauty.

    Lots of laughs and tears are part of the job. Combat, test flying and, as the title implies, high risk. A Silver Star recipient, much of my OV-10 combat time was in Laos. Started with the F-100 in Europe and finished my career as test director to make the F-100 a target.

    Financially we were afloat and we lived in a perfectly decent house until my wife came up with the zany idea of living on a boat. I'd just got home from work, via the pub, when Jan asked me to watch a video while she prepared our frugal meal. I watched a pair of old fogies trundling along a canal in the rain on a narrowboat. You can imagine my reply when she asked if I fancied emulating the sodden wrinklies and taking to the water. She's a lady of vision and determination (she married me after all) but this was elevating madness to a whole new level. Jan's oncologist had her a few years previously that she probably wouldn't see the new millennium, so she had a different perspective about the future than many people. Despite lots of huffing and head-shaking, twelve months later we had sold a perfectly respectable house, given up a job that kept us in cornflakes and moved onto a metal hole less than a tenth the size of our house – excluding garden. It was the 4th July 2003 – independence day.We knew nothing about narrowboats – their workings, waterways lore and how we would cope being cooped up together – particularly when it's minus five and the nearest shop is miles away. We had a mountain to climb – which you can only do by using locks, and we'd never done a lock. A more accurate analogy is shooting the rapids because our venture took on a life of it's own and we were washed down stream on a tide of enthusiasm and ignorance. We had to make it work or the people who had laughed and scoffed would be proved right – we really were mad. Well, make it work we did, and we're still boating twelve years on. It's marvellous and it possibly saved Jan's life.