Drawn Out, a Seriously Funny Memoir by Tom Scott (published by Allen & Unwin) is on sale now.
My greatest holiday? Trekking in the Himalayas with my partner, Averil, Ed Hillary and June, and Ed's old climbing chum George Lowe, and his wife Mary. It was off the beaten trail to Everest, up a remote and beautiful side valley. There were no television crews or wealthy North American philanthropists tagging along. It was just us, meandering leisurely through a wondrous landscape, smothered with warmth and hospitality by the locals. One night in an isolated monastery high on a valley wall we were trapped in a cookhouse by winds so savage it was unsafe to dash 20 metres along an exposed plateau to our sleeping quarters. An old kerosine tin sitting on the floorboards served as a charcoal brazier. Every few minutes, when the timber beneath it started to singe, it had to be booted sideways. I had secreted a bottle of Jameson whiskey for such an emergency. Averil I sat in the dark spellbound as Ed and George traded fantastic climbing yarns from their Everest climbing days.
And the worst? It would have to be from my childhood. My father was an agricultural contractor who was busiest over summer. We went to Tauranga one winter and had an entire motor camp to ourselves. The trees were bare, the ground muddy, and it was long walk into the city, but we didn't have to queue for crumpets for a change - we had a toaster each in the cookhouse. And with multiple shower and toilet cubicles, the air did not ring with, "Hurry up! I'm busting!" Which made a nice change.
If I could teleport myself to anywhere in New Zealand for a week-long holiday where would it be? The Hokianga. I have never been. Everyone tells me I must go.
How about a dream holiday internationally? A guided walk over the alps from Slovenia to Italy in late summer, assuming the gradients are gentle and the huts come with espresso machines and CPR equipment.
