My Anzac Day tribute

As a child, teenager and young adult I wrote quite a bit of poetry.

A lot of it (especially in my teenage years) was angst-ridden and of dubious literary worth. Some of it wasn't bad. One poem got published; another two were borrowed by a musically talented friend and turned into (if I do say so myself) pretty damned good songs.

But as I was writing, I had no idea there was another poet in my family. I can't remember when I became aware of Donald McDonald, my great-uncle, a casualty of the Second World War. But after I did, I read his poetry — and realised he was a far, far more talented wordsmith than me.

Donald McDonald, a farmer in peacetime, was taken prisoner at El Alamein. He died on August 17, 1942 when the Italian prisoner of war ship he was being transported in was torpedoed. Family history goes that at that exact time my great-grandmother was gardening, stopped, looked up and said, "Something's happened to Donny."

This is the last poem Donald McDonald wrote, at Sidi Reszegh, Libya, where he had previously been wounded.  I share it with you as glimpse into the thoughts and insights of an Anzac soldier.

Sidi Reszegh

Children are born in the land of the green grass springing
Knowing the voice of the streams and the rain's caresses,
Knowing the scent of the flowers, and the larks' sweet singing,
Feeling the West wind cool in their bright young tresses.

But this is the Desert—Earth's bones to the old sun lying,
A fit place this for the ancient passions' burning;
And men who were children in sweet green lands are dying
Bone of their bodies to bone of the Earth returning.

Bare belief their bodies through steel hail urges;
If need be, here I'll die, my spirit braving
The darkness; but Ah, how the child in my heart upsurges,
Yearning for streams, for the larks, and the green grass waving.

Walking alone without fear

Just 15 minutes from the centre of New Zealand's largest city, I am surrounded by nature, and spoilt for choice when it comes to my favourite form of exercise —  walking through the bush.

Several routes take me down to the harbour, often via a headland where I look over the sparkling waters to Auckland's sensational skyline, while stretching at the same time. Listening to tui and rirorioro, soaking in the sunshine. Bliss.

Another favourite route, of more than 8km, takes me from the top of the Glenfield ridge down to the Kaipatiki inlet.

Along the way, I always meet other walkers, runners, sometimes mountain bikers. Some are exercising their dogs. Some are walking with their families. Some, like me, are just enjoying the peace, quiet and exercise on their own.

On Saturday, I met another lone walker, coming the other way. She was, at the very least, in her late 70s. I wouldn't be surprised if she was in her 90s. She was immaculately dressed in light trousers and a light shirt, and comfortable walking shoes. And she was doing just the same as me —  enjoying the sights, sounds and scents of the bush while keeping fit and healthy.

What a contrast she is to the intelligent, fit, independent and resourceful women I know who have one other thing in common: they are afraid to walk in the bush alone.

They are afraid of stepping off the footpath in a relatively central city suburb on to a well-maintained path that will take them, in a matter of just minutes, past manuka and ponga down to a beach. They're afraid to walk five minutes into a gully in which ancient kauri are growing — just metres from suburban fence lines.

They all say they'd do it with a dog. They'd do it with a friend. But they won't do it alone.

One, I understand. As a young woman, she was attacked. Her fear is natural. But the others? Why have they been taught to fear? Why do they allow themselves to fear?

Why does anyone accept this as natural? It's not.

And it makes me sad.

Walking through bush, I have learned about the gorgeous scents of our native plants in flower. I have, by watching where that magnificent sound comes from, finally got to see a riroriro (that magnificent sound comes from a tiny, non-descript grey bird that lives up to its English name, grey warbler).

I've been able to emotionally and mentally escape from the busyness of life, relax, let go and just enjoy nature.

Twice, in the 14-plus years I've been walking (sometimes several times a week), I've felt uncomfortable. Twice. In both cases, by confronting the person I felt uncomfortable about, and quickly making my way out of the bush into either an open field or on to a footpath, I made that discomfort go away.

I've had more close calls on our roads than I have while walking in the bush. But I haven't stopped driving. I suspect my friends who are afraid to venture into the bush, have all had a close call or two on the roads — and yet none of them have stopped driving either.

So, isn't it about time we stopped teaching our girls to be afraid of being by themselves? Isn't it about time we gave them the correct information about where danger is likely to come from, and how to take care of themselves? Women who have the skills to confidently take control of their own safety —  not relying on the presence of another person, or a dog, to keep them safe — don't fear a malevolent stranger behind ever manuka trunk.

If you are the mother or father of a daughter, raise her to be confident and unafraid. Make sure she knows how to physically defend herself if she has to. Don't fill her mind with imaginary rapists around every bend.

Give her a future in which she can choose to enjoy the tranquillity and peace of solitary bush walking. She might still be thanking you for it in her 90s.