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AT THE beach, the trek across the hot sands for ice cream can seem endless.
But just try it on Justin Marozzi鈥檚 鈥渂each鈥�. Marozzi spent months on a camel
deep in the Libyan desert. For him, ice cream really was hundreds of kilometres
away.

In South from Barbary, Marozzi follows an ancient caravan route from
oasis to oasis across the Sahara. He met great characters on his journey: Gobber
the phlegm-challenged camel, Tuna the dog, weaselly policemen and
extraordinarily hospitable desert dwellers. Camel psychology, glorious scenery
and tuna pasta feature prominently.

His narrative is so beautifully paced you feel you are there. The desert
awakes in Marozzi a quintessentially English way of describing the world. Try,
for example, the lyrical comparison of an ancient volcanic cone to a chocolate
sponge pudding dripping with custard. And with this comes a quiet downplaying of
the dangers and hardships of the journey. It wasn鈥檛 until I came across a bunch
of photos that I realised how tough the journey must have been.

Ancient and modern politics, the rise and fall of fiefdoms and empires,
provide the backdrop for his camel鈥檚 padding. He passes once great centres of
trade. Elegiac as Shelley鈥檚 Ozymandias, he notes these ruins created by
time and by Gaddafi鈥檚 attempts to build a modern Libya.

Marozzi鈥檚 journey would be hard to repeat. Cheap petrol has ousted the camel
caravans. The desert guides鈥� skills at camel care and navigation are nearly a
lost art. The best are now old men. For a first book, this is magnificent.

Lucy Jago journeys across a waste of time, not sand, of ruined hopes rather
than cities. In The Northern Lights, she brings to life the
long quest by Norwegian physicist Kristian Birkeland to find the cause of these
enigmatic light shows. Set against the rise of Norwegian nationalism and the
political climate of the early 20th century, her fine historical research and a
grasp of physics create a gripping biography of an extraordinary pioneer.

Birkeland invented a furnace for generating nitrogen fertiliser and held
patents as diverse as an electromagnetic cannon and a thermal blanket, which
helped pay for his research. Money, health and marriage were secondary to his
passion to explain the ethereal celestial phenomena that haunted him.

His work was cutting-edge and exceedingly dangerous. In his attempts to
recreate the northern lights, Birkeland and his assistants worked with one hand
in their pocket to ensure that shocks would run to earth and not across their
hearts. He died of the barbiturate he used to maintain his frantic lifestyle.