Island of the Human Heart, like most good contemporary travel writing, is a self-reflection told in the format of a narrative that describes the wanderer’s response to the genius loci with a keen eye for description, nuances of character, and insights into cultural idiosyncrasies.

In this, Gough’s first book, the Guelph, Ontario writer takes us to the South Pacific and Asia, where she supported herself and her yen for roving by teaching in Fiji. Seven years later, in an isolated cabin near Algonquin Park, Gough set down to record her stories and insights of the road from that trip and others. The result captures not only Gough’s love of wandering, but also the fulfillment and joy of writing itself. “Writing, like travelling, deepens my life, and writing about my travels gives them new meaning,” she writes. “Sometimes, it even allows me to live those journeys over again, minus the mosquitos and sun stroke.”

Gough recounts Fiji and her romance there with Laudi, a local. At times, she becomes frustrated with the attitude of Fiji men toward women. Her descriptions of New Zealand make it sound like a Victorian paradise, a pastoral world that is reminiscent of Thomas Hardy’s, minus the dark side. Gough has a keen nose for a story, too, and is courageous; for example, she risks considerable danger in going to a brothel in Malaysia, but is not so lucky when she meets a good-looking Italian in the Alps. The book is worth the price alone for the stories of Chester McQuiggle, an eccentric middle-aged biker from Nova Scotia whom she meets in California.

There aren’t many weaknesses in Island of the Human Heart. It is curious, though, that Gough makes no mention of her teaching experiences, the rhythm of her days or what the children were like.

Amid the hype that surrounds new books and writers, it’s rare to find one who lives up to the superlatives, as Gough does here. I’ll look forward to future reflections and stories from this talented and sensitive free spirit.