Gone possum
Life of utter simplicity in the bush is not for everyone.
The Xena Warrior Princess cover image speaks volumes about the content of Miriam Lancewood’s account of six years in the wilderness. While WOMAN IN THE WILDERNESS (Allen & Unwin. $39.99) will resonate with those seeking escape from the contemporary world, it’s not Walden Pond and Lancewood is no Henry David Thoreau. The book is written with breathless conviction by a woman who has taken the phrase “gone bush” into an entirely new dimension, in which she embraces the cold and wet and a lack of virtually anything. She also plays the guitar, sews endless possum-skin blankets and hunts feral goats with a bow and arrow. Lancewood’s story of “survival, love and self-discovery” has ironically made its Dutch-born child of nature into a minor media personality. Her unfettered life of utter simplicity – or, as she describes it, “a free, random and spontaneous existence”– is certainly not for everyone. Nor is the book’s propensity for gushy New Age philosophising.
Jane Robertson’s HEAD OF THE HARBOUR (Philip King Publisher, $100) creates a new standard for other authors and loyal readers of New Zealand regional histories.
Her book about the head of Lyttelton Harbour, specifically Governors Bay and the surrounding area, began as an oral history project but expanded into an intensely researched, highly detailed and absorbing exploration of a corner of Canterbury beyond the plains. Robertson’s passion for human history is reflected in the breadth of stories and detail she reveals with gusto and insight. Beginning with the area’s explosively volcanic origins, she travels from the early Maori settlers to the arrival of the first European settlers and beyond into the 21st century. The result is a tale well worth the telling, especially when it is accompanied by such high standards of production and editing.
Julia Stuart’s HALF A WORLD AWAY: Eastbourne in Wartime 1899-1928 (Eastbourne Memorial RSA, $55) is well written and competently produced, but its Achilles heel lies in the time frame it covers, one that curiously extends from the Boer War to a decade after the end of World War I. The result is a crowded mass of names, places and events linked by images. Towards the end, I was taking notes to keep track – always a bad sign. Surely it would have been much better to focus tightly on the impact of the years between 1914 and 1918 on a suburban Wellington community – a subject largely overlooked. I was also left with the impression the author and her publishers didn’t wish to offend anyone by omitting a name or group, one of the major hidden hazards for the local historian.