I think of myself as bold. (In the original sense, that is, brave). It’s not necessarily a good thing. Bold girls jump in very cold sea water. Bold girls eat caterpillar ridden apples. Bold girls don’t get men.

The highland island of Harris can be the most beautiful place in the world, if only the sun can pierce through the cloak of cumulonimbus clouds which almost always refuse to reveal the blue sky above. I’ve visited it with the many members of my family for almost as long as I can remember. I’ve been to crofter’s cottages on a far north point, a 40-minute drive from even a tiny local post office, which sells Caramac bars and milk. This year my elder sister bravely invited a collection of friends. Harris caters to very specific tastes – I honestly don’t mind midges and rain, I definitely love to swim in salty seas – the colder the better. You’ve got to take everything with you – a whole trailer of food (Gold bars disappeared first. I only got 3,) 16 packs of cards, Avon ‘skin so soft’ midge repellent-moisturiser, matches, thermal underwear, sun cream, dog, CD player and batteries (for starters). Her friends were amazing. I tell you, they were very bold. Our Harris holiday was given new life. We ate in mum’s Yurt, a canvas imitation of the Mongolian masterpiece, dragged splintered planks, hauled off old gates, onto a glowing fire and fried kippers. Not a word of a lie: we had Caribbean sunshine for three whole days. The sky was one hundred per cent washed blue.

And there was Jamie. A gardener from Croyden, a run down bit of South London. He had this little gypsy curl, knotted with faded string, which hung down a little at the back. Brown from days of planting poppies and pruning blackberries. He knew all the names of Scottish heathers and carried a book of wild mushrooms in his pocket. He had travelled through China, Nepal, India and more. Yes, I thought he was pretty good.

I felt the velcro hooks of early friendship. We jumped in the sea first. I admit, I was definitely showing off, I was more animated when he was watching. I wanted to be the most bold. Bold-est. I hadn’t really thought it through, but, I tell you - my pride was pricked when I was told, weeks later, that he had fancied my younger sister, Amelia.

I’ve got to tell you about Amelia. She is incredibly beautiful. I don’t say this lightly. She is long and angular. Her eyes are really like those grey marbles, like the swirls of St. Basil’s. It sounds like crap romantic poetry doesn’t it? But I tell you, she’s a bit of a siren. Point made. In Harris, however, she was withdrawn. She has eczema which gets irritated by avocadoes and milk (according to a dietician) which obstinately distracted Amelia from her usual activities. She’ll kill me for saying it, but she wasn’t very bold. She crept off to read this crap book called ‘The Princess Bride’ – I quote the synopsis, “this story has everything: Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautiful ladies. Snakes. Spiders. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles.” Come on! But my point: even Jamie - bold, travelled, intelligent, brave – is attracted to the passive female, the shy beauty reading her book in the corner.

I interviewed Amelia at breakfast this morning:

Izabella: “Hey, listen, I want to write down what you said about Harris, tell me again”

Amelia: “I was really quiet, I’d just got back from Ibiza and I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I wanted to go to bed early and sit by myself on the beach with a book.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really jealous. But the principle of it pissed me off. I thought, naïvely perhaps, that to be bold is to be impressive; clearly, I was presumptuous. I don’t believe that our actions should pivot on their possible effects on the opposite sex, but it maddens me that bold girls don’t get men.

Beyond this petty example with my sister, who was shy only in circumstance, it seems a recurring trend - in the West at least - a weird regression to traditional roles. Why are men attracted to passive women, who are less willing to share opinions, less daring in dress, unwilling to jump in the sea in case they mess up their hair? Or, to turn it around, why do bold girls scare off men?

Personally, two experiences stick out in my mind. The first is a train journey in India a few years ago. I’d always had an idea of traditional patriarchal roles in India; the usual jargon of “firmly established spheres,” the male world of “work and action,” against the female sphere of family, home and kitchen. These seemed embodied in Indian culture.

You’ve heard the stereotypes before. It might not sound particularly profound, but this bossy,

The young men in Kitezh epitomized, for me, the well-rounded, real men, which our society doesn’t seem to produce any more

But this lady, I tell you, she was bold and charming, strong and feminine. Her simple action of passing a luke-warm disk of salty flour cast my ideas of Indian gender roles in a new light. I read her as a rebellious female, a fearsome wife, existing within a more volatile society, in which the bold and the feared and those in between mesh together – men who fear their wives, girls who fear men, boys who fear mothers. Her gesture re-established for me the complexity of the interaction between men and women, where our part to play is uncertain, shifting, variable.

The second experience was in Russia this summer, backpacking with a friend across a small portion of the vast country, which, incredibly, stretches across 11 time zones. We visited a community living 400 miles south of Moscow – called Kitezh – where a collection of adults have adopted 20 or so children. I’ve always been mildly suspicious of the authenticity of such communities, but I was taken aback by Kitezh. The people who lived there were so Good (capital G).

It’s humbling to meet such honest, kind people, living off the land, raising abandoned children in houses they have constructed together. To earn our keep we were asked only to prune blackcurrant bushes under August sun and cut onions in the communal kitchen. I must tell you, these children were talented in a very raw way. The kind of kids who are good at everything. Two older boys stood out; fine carpenters, fine sportsmen - kind, quick, handsome, patient. Real boys who will, in time, become real men.

My three little tales must seem unconnected. But let me explain. Jamie’s attraction to my sister seemed to suggest bold girls don’t get men, or even, very good guys don’t pick bold girls. The lady handing me chapatti on a Rajasthani train usurped my common misconceptions of the passive, shy female. In fact, her action implied that bold girls get men, but they only confiscate their bread, asserting their dominance, post–marriage. The young men in Kitezh epitomized, for me, the well-rounded, real men, which our society doesn’t seem to produce any more, a Jamie-style all-rounder, in search of an equal, not just a sheep who will just follow. I don’t claim to have an answer to the mysteries of gender interaction, but it’s a fascinating subject.