Catherine lives in a unit, surrounded by other Mercy nuns. I meander through the rose garden to reach her front door. One of the neighbouring nuns is pruning a rose bush in their shared garden. Above, the blue sky is streaked with white clouds.

Father Maurice lives alone on a quiet street where early twentieth-century cottages sit tucked behind white picket fences. A statue of a Cambodian King sits on the living room windowsill, gazing towards us with an expression that is hard to read: it could be serenity, it could be aloofness.

Nestled in the Adelaide Hills, Father John’s home is warm and inviting. Outside, the trees are dampened by the winter rains. The sky is dark although it is only midday. John sits in a blue armchair by the heater. Green plants surround us in the living room where we sit.

After 24 years of being a nun, Juliette (name changed) left the convent. It was 1986. Juliette’s spiritual longing – unsatiated by the convent – was as strong as ever. So three years later, when she met Brendan, a charming, charismatic, striking man who ran spiritual workshops drawing on the wisdom of the world’s greatest traditions, she took notice.

THE ANCIENT ART OF STORYTELLING was once a vibrant feature of the Arab world. In days gone by, a storyteller could be found in a smoky cafe, delighting audiences with tales, both old and new.