I used to be able to count my close friends on one finger. Now I'm missing a finger. Neil was always a joy to be with: generous and courageous, funny and clever; full of ideas and endlessly inventive; interested in everything around him, and interesting in everything he said or did. Of course, he had the knack of surrounding himself with things, and creating surroundings, that interested him — at work or in the Bush, on an island or a river or boat. Nevertheless, Neil never chose the easy way. He had a talent for finding just the right gesture of friendship. And he took a refined pleasure in creating special experiences for his friends and guests. Whether they were expeditions to meet the kangaroo population of a “secret” valley formed by a meteorite, or gifts of thousands of pieces of music, books or films trawled and pirated from the Internet. Above all, the Neil I knew was an unbeatable optimist. Nothing could keep him down for long. He seemed to be able to bounce back from almost any setback. Though he had few illusions and many disappointments — inevitable if, like Neil, you live in search of the extraordinary in the everyday. His was a brilliant mind capable of almost anything it set itself to doing. Think of all the things he could do: radio, publishing, photographics, electronics, computers, solar energy, mucking around with boats… I'd hoped to be lucky enough to have many more years of his excellent and amusing company. I took comfort in the fact that he was there for me every time I returned to Australia. I expected to see him again in July this year, on a trip to mark the 100th anniversary of the death in Oodnadatta of my great-grandfather — like Neil, originally from Canada. I'd asked Neil to accompany us on the pilgrimage to my great-grandfather's Outback grave, but he wanted to invest everything in finishing Wombat Swamp. For my and my wife's part, our visits DownUnder will never be the same without Neil. Nor will our lives be the same without our exchanges by e-mail and telephone. As a French saying goes, we've been made orphans. Stephen Kennedy with Elisabeth Zumstein Kennedy