Arrowtown book buyer Miranda Spary continues her recommendations for a good read and life, as she sees it . . .
This week, I can't stop thinking about bravery. I come from a weird and murky gene pool in loads of ways, but one of the strangest is the bravery gene. I have no idea how the two halves of my DNA can possibly hold hands in the courage department with my mother's contribution being the 38kg weakling, weedy strain and my Dad's lot being giant, sturdy, fearless things that see him holding medals for it.
My four siblings and I have never even bungy-jumped and the only awards we hold are for such death-defying achievements as crossing the equator (in the days when airlines gave you a certificate for it) or second place for pikelets at the Lake Hayes Show. Poor brave Dad with his family of feeble-bodied cry-babies.
My favourite ''sports'' are yoga, walking and very gentle, cautious cycling. Nothing extreme.
On the way back from doing the Hollyford Walk a few years ago, our fantastic guide Bard told us the Gertrude Saddle was his favourite day walk and the one he considered the most beautiful in New Zealand.
He told us in summer it was covered in alpine flowers, had some glorious lakes and fabulous views. Sounds like a walk in the park. And so it is, but a walk in the Fiordland National Park (capital letters required so you know this is no ordinary park). I had imagined a day of strolling and scampering about in alpine meadows, possibly wearing a dirndl and singing Edelweiss.
He is absolutely right about the flowers, lakes and views, but it took us six hours to do the 7km return trip. Much of it involved holding on to the ground with feet and hands and when someone has put a wire cable in to help people scale parts of the walk, you know you are going to get nervous.
So I did.
I was delighted I made it to the top where I could see right to Milford Sound and probably Tasmania, if my eyesight had been good enough. Vertigo and the dread of going back down the way we had come up made it hard to enjoy my lunch, but the hysterical relief at the end made it all worth while.
There's a lot to frighten me nearer home, as well. I was waiting for some kids who were watching the Teva Slopestyle practice day in Ballarat St. When they had not found me, I went to find them. Just as I walked in, a cyclist seemed to fall headfirst out of the sky in front of me, and suddenly spun upright again and cycled on to another ramp. Even the St John guy was looking anxious!
The cyclists were biking off a three-storey scaffolding ramp on to an impossible series of curvy walls and platforms. As someone who is nervous of cycling over a small stone or ditch, it made me feel quite ill.
Being the mother of teenagers requires vast reserves of bravery. At one stage, all five of ours were teenagers and it took a lot of nerve to get through the day.
I was overfamiliar with the ambulance crews and emergency staff, and had far too much information about stitches, plasters, crutches and painkillers. Do you know about gastrosexuals? It's a new term for men who use their culinary skills to seduce us simple, innocent women. My darling is not gastrosexual, unless he thinks there's a woman out there dreaming of his specialty - cremated chops.
In The Chef, by Martin Suter, a Tamil dishwasher called Maravan seduces his co-worker Andrea with his sensational cooking. Sadly for him, she's a lesbian, and shocked by what his food did for her, sets up a business with him as private caterers for people who want to sparkle up their fading relationships or create a new one. It's a silly story but a fun read and the food descriptions are heavenly. There are even recipes, although I'd be nervous that they would work!
