How We Open Things

There are places that restore us, and for me Greytown is one of them.

There is something about the town that always draws me back. The old villas with cottage gardens spilling over white picket fences, fruit trees tucked behind hedges, and quiet streets where you can wander from a bookshop to an orchard in only a few minutes. For a little while, it feels as though you've stepped out of ordinary life and into the pages of a storybook.

On Sunday morning my daughter and I drove into town from our accommodation after spending the weekend in the Wairarapa. We were early, too early for the shops to be open, so we stopped for French pastries and coffee. My daughter hopes to become a pastry chef one day, so pastries are never just pastries to her.

Afterwards we planned to wander through Mrs Blackwell's Village Bookshop. My daughter loves stationery almost as much as I love books, and I was looking forward to returning after briefly visiting the afternoon before.

Instead of waiting the forty-five minutes for the shops to open, though, I found myself thinking about home. Comments through the week had left me feeling that I shouldn't be lingering in the Wairarapa and that I should be heading back.

So we climbed into the car and drove away.

Later that morning, after experiencing the most wonderful service at the Masterton Caltex, I rang Mum, who had been looking after my son.

"You didn't need to rush home," she said.

I sat in the car and cried, not because of the drive itself, but because I had hurried away from something that fills my cup.

The afternoon before, after the market, I'd found a book in Mrs Blackwell's that seemed written for me.

How to Winter.

As someone who has spent most of her life wishing winter away, it felt like the sort of book that quietly arrives at exactly the right time. The shop had been overflowing with Winter Festival visitors, so I decided I would come back the following morning when it was quiet.

Instead, I left without it.

When I arrived home, I searched for the book online but couldn't find it. I sent the bookshop a message on Instagram, wondering if perhaps I'd remembered the title incorrectly.

The reply came back almost straight away.

"We know which one you mean. We'll put it online for you in the morning."

A few days later the parcel arrived.

Normally I would have opened it standing at the kitchen bench, tearing away the paper before the jug had even boiled. But this time felt different. After leaving Greytown so hurriedly, I found myself wanting to savour the experience rather than rush through it. I left the parcel on the table, finished a few jobs around the house, then made myself a coffee, found one of my daughter's homemade biscuits, added a handful of dried apricots and a few pieces of sugared ginger, and sat down.

Only then did I untie the string.

Inside was everything I had hoped for. The familiar Greytown postcard, beautiful wrapping paper, and a handwritten note from Mr Matthews, who is moving on from the bookshop. Every layer had been prepared with such care that I slowed down, noticing each detail before moving on to the next.

I've already started reading the book, but I suspect I'll always remember how it first arrived.

Someone had taken the time to wrap that parcel thoughtfully, and without even meaning to, I found myself opening it just as carefully.