All agree it’s been a stupendous summer but not stupendous for the
brain, for every author I’ve spoken to has had writer’s block in a big
way. Hot airless nights – not easy to sleep, even in the skimpiest
nightie (or even less) with a teensy sheet covering only ones toes.
God help anyone who finds me if I cark it in the night – not a pretty sight–
nude. And doesn’t hot weather do strange things to
people? Some of us even seriously consider murdering our
lovers who seem able to snore away non-stop and insist on cuddling
up. High time for single beds.
What I can recommend is a train trip – somewhere –
anywhere. No luggage hassles, no watching the road for idiots who
don’t understand the rules of the road – just a pleasant ‘sit back and listen to
the commentary’, indulge in an occasional cold slurp from a well-stocked café
car and drift into an ‘enjoy the scenery mode’. What more could one
ask?
I’m talking about the Tranzalpine – Christchurch to
Greymouth. You can do it easily there and back in one
day. Make sure you get a window seat. Even the endless
Canterbury Plains have a magic carpet of colour from burnt sienna to brilliant
yellow with a splash or two of white daises nodding happily as the train
flashes past. Further on, the commentary tells you the
mountains you are about to enter are steadily pushing themselves ever upward at
what might sound like a caterpillar pace. It’s only when you are
surrounded by them that you know they mean business as they appear to be
striding towards the train, eager to crush it into little pebbles like the ones
far below in the braided rivers that wait for rain.
There are gasps as the train dashes in and out of tunnels and the
terrible thought of what might happen during the endless darkness of the
Otira Tunnel should there be a breakdown or a fire. Another gasp of
relief, this time as the train breaks free into the sunshine once
more.
At Arthurs Pass station a mob of foreigners disembark with their
luggage whilst the watchful hills sulk in the distance. From then
on you sit back and relax again, wondering if that solitary figure you glimpsed
in the distance was the ghost of the Irish miner who died during the gold rush
days and has been seen walking - always eastwards - towards home out
of the Pass. A garish red Warehouse sign flashes past and you know
you are entering Greymouth. Nearby a tiny old cottage
on the hill has an inflatable Santa sitting on the porch waving to the
train. Ah well, it was
romantic- for a while. Now for that whitebait fritter.
Barbara Algie
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