Friday 27th November Nelson to Kaikoura

Sandwiched between the snow-capped peaks of the 2610m high Seaward Kaikoura Range and the South Pacific Ocean, the small town of Kaikoura (pop 3850+1 ie me) is one of the few places in the world where the awesome mountains come so close to the sea. It produces a place where wildlife abounds. Whales, dolphins, seals, penguins, and (I hope) the Albatross! Whale watching etc tomorrow but for the moment it’s settling in to the motel and thinking back over today.

I calculated that the trip to Kaikoura would take about 4 hours. In the end it took six but that was because I kept finding reasons to stop on the way. My first stop was to answer the phone as Tess rang to tell me she had broken her toe by crunching into something in the study. I thought it was me that was supposed to be Mr Clumsy! A call in for my morning coffee, and off again. My second stop was to pick up a hitchhiking couple. I was going to drive past but the guy gave me such a pleading look I gave in. They were from Canada – French Canadians; Les Quebecois – and were ‘tramping’ around the North and South islands for three months sleeping in tents or the huts provided in National Parks. They both worked as National Park guides in Canada so this was a bit of a ‘bus man’s holiday’ but they were loving it. They said they had picked up lots of ideas for home. We chatted mainly about the scenery, and I said the parts we were going through reminded me of Scotland – hills, pine forests, gorse and broom – no surprise as the first settlers tried to recreate ‘home’ and imported all these plants and trees. They had not been to the UK so were very interested in this. I told them they would probably find the south of the UK too crowded but it was less so further North. I thought it politic not to chat about my current reading material and in particular the fall of Quebec to General Wolfe with Captain Cook’s assistance. They did say they found the Kiwis nicer than the Aussies. I dropped them an hour later at a place called Kawatiri Junction as I was heading off into the mountains of the Mount Richmond Conservation Park. If you want to imagine what Kiwatiri Junction is like think of the scene from North by North west when Cary Grant gets dropped off in the middle of nowhere just before he is attacked by the crop dusting plane. They seemed happy enough. ( Excuse moi, ou est Le Metro? ) I hope they are not still there.

Continuing the French theme, the road from here climbs steeply to the village of Saint Arnaud – whoops, just missed it – then takes a long descent to the Wairau Valley. Now in NZ a valley is a valley! The road stretches out almost straight in front for nearly 80kms, only taking the occasional twist to cross a river or stream. Farm after farm is soon replaced by winery after winery. I have hit Marlborough territory, South NZs most productive wine area. Just who drinks all this stuff I think! I am not exaggerating when I say that vines stretch as far as the eye can see in all directions. Yes there are mountains on both sides but they are so far away across the valley that I cannot see where the vines end and the hills begin. An occasional figure is working in between the vines, snipping here and there. That in itself must be a full time job. It is still late Spring/Early Summer so the real growing season has not yet started. Someone somewhere is going to get really sloshed! The wineries give way to more farms as I reach Blenheim – which I think is linked to Churchill – and I turn South to Kaikoura. I still have about 130kms to go, so refuel, toilet stop etc.

The first part of the next stretch cuts much of the coast out, and I am just thinking that the terrain reminds me a bit of the Lake District when blow me if I don’t see a sign for Lake Grassmere ( UK spelling is Grasmere) and Lake Elterwater. They are both some kms out of my way so I reluctantly have to give them a miss. Soon the road starts to cling to the coast and the rolling surf of the Pacific Ocean is continuously ringing in my ears. The mountain ranges press in from the West so the ‘corridor’ is quite narrow and a bit hair-raising at times. Needs all my focus, so I put my I-pod away. I stop at Ward for a cup of Earl Grey, and check my map. I note that there is seal colony just before Kaikoura at Ohau Point. The guide book says very smelly and noisy but really easy to get close to the seals. I decide to lunch there. The guide book understates the impact of the seal colony in that it says as well as smelling they laze about wondering why everyone is looking at them. There is a lot more to it than that. This is the closest to seals you can probably get without getting attacked – they can get nasty if you get between them and the sea or near their young or if the bulls are sorting out the mating. This time of year it is mating that is going on, and there was certainly as lot of ‘sorting’ out amongst the bull seals. There seemed to be about a couple of hundred seals spread along a 2km stretch of rocky shoreline. The road runs right next to some sections so you can be within twenty or thirty feet of them. This I like as it means easy photos. Yes it smells – a bit like a group of navvies waking up after a hard night on the drink – but seals have yet to see the benefits of deoderant. The bull seals are huge! Forget the little sea lions you may have seen in a circus or the small seals off our coast. These are New Zealand fur seals and they is big! Think a combination of Grant and Phil Mitchell. Now put Basil Brush’s snout on this. Then imagine it naked except for a body covering of thick fur. Then imagine it on its back with its (arms) flippers stretched out sideways. Throw in some heavy snoring and six empty cans of Stella – and you have got your picture of a bull seal at rest on the rocks. But when they move the rocks shake! They roar at each other and at the females in their ‘harem’. They chase rivals away – I saw this happening. They transform in the water – I saw this too. Females and young seals get out of the way when a bull starts to move. I saw young males – big but not yet fully grown like the bulls – play fighting in a pool. There was a bit of a bar-room brawl between four bulls that resulted in one fleeing into the sea. I did notice when I was trying to take photos that a number of bulls had wounds on their sides from battles that had taken place. This early in the season there was sure to be more of that to come. I stayed for over an hour just watching them. The stretch of rocks they occupied was crashed upon repeatedly by some pretty big waves – not a bother on the seals. They just lay where they were until they felt it was time to move. I did see some in the water where they move completely differently. One thing they do is to roll them-selves over so that one flipper at a time is exposed out of the water. It’s almost as if they are waving, not drowning!

Next to the seal colony was a breeding colony of NZ Red billed gulls. As you can imagine very noisy. As I was looking I saw one gull casually stroll up to its neighbour’s nest, help itself to some nesting material , and ignoring the fuss and pecking that went on, took it back up the rock to his own nest. He would be in Mrs Gull’s good books for that! Just up from the thief were two Terns who had clearly misread the directions to Tern City. Mrs Tern was sitting on her nest while Mr Tern stood guard and pecked violently at any gull that got within pecking distance. It was clearly going to be a long night! As I move on back to my car I pass a Japanese family edging along the cliff pathway to the seal colony. I’m almost sure I heard one of them say ‘Nice doggy. Good doggy.’

Heading once again for Kaikoura, I saw the evidence of a sense of humour I can appreciate. The road signs for ‘pedestrians crossing’ is a walking stick-figure that if you added a halo to would be the figure from ‘The Saint’ with Roger Moore. Someone had taken the trouble to stop and add one so it made me smile as I went by.
(Neighbours again!) ‘ Cray-fish! Everybody loves Crayfish! With a little salt and lemon! You can have a better day!’ Food-wise, if you are not keen on crayfish ( a mini lobster) then you are going to struggle in Kaikoura. This is a crayfish mad plaice (sorry, couldn’t resist). But they is very expensive, even though they are caught nearby. Restaurants, sea food outlets, caravans, chippies – they are all trying to get you to eat the flippin things. In a restaurant you are likely to pay $50 for half a crayfish – that’s about £30! They are cheaper in chippies but not by much. I had to have a go and got half a crayfish, salad and half a scoop of chips for $35 – about £20! Ouch! Tasted lovely though and much, much easier to eat than lobster (or mud crab for that matter). Taste a bit like chicken! I sat near the beach to eat this delightful feast and was immediately surrounded by squawking gulls shouting ‘Mine! Mine!’ I told them in no uncertain terms to fly off, but they just stood and stared me out. I am getting good at not being psyched out by them and so they got none of it until I had finished. I then tried one with part of the crayfish leg – it wouldn’t miss one! The leg had a bit of meat on it. The gull? Took one sniff at it and flew off complaining. Not everyone likes crayfish it seems.
Walked back along the beach and watched a shore fisherman land his catch. It looked like a small ray rather than a flat fish as it had a long tail which was still thrashing as he put it in his box. Supper! Continued along the beach looking for as place to get back on to the road but found only an outlet for the river which was flowing quite fast. Found a bit that was flowing slowly and just plunged in up to my calves. The current was noticeable, but all I got was wet feet and home a site quicker than if I had gone all the way back.

Kaikoura does feature on Cook’s journals but he did not land here. He passed by on his third voyage, and locals went out in canoes to give the traditional Maori ‘gritting’ ie throw spears at the ship. Cook tried to persuade them to come on board but as they did not understand him, Cook just cleared off. That was in 1778. Fifty years later the Maoris saved everyone the trouble of dealing with them by slaughtering each other on the beachfront in an inter-tribal war. Then came the bad news for the Maoris and even worse news for the whales – a whaling station was established and stayed here until they had killed virtually all the whales in the area. Hopefully I will see some of the descendents of those they did not get tomorrow.

Kaikoura is famous for one other historical thing. Before the Europeans arrived and started slaughtering the whales and the Maoris, the Maoris themselves were busy slaughtering the moa, the biggest flightless bird ever to walk this planet. It is now extinct of course, as it had no defences against the onslaught except its manners which the hunters ignored. It is a pity that it did not fly even a bit as it could have dropped its gigantic eggs on its pursuers, giving them one hell of a headache. At a site near Kaikoura, near Fyffe House ( no banana jokes please) the biggest ever moa egg measuring 240mmx178mm was found buried. How Mrs Moa forgot something that big I don’t know unless it was buried by some gigantic prehistoric squirrel we have yet to discover! For the mathematicians amongst you there are ten mm in a centimetre and 2.5cms in an inch, so altogether now it was……nearly ten inches long and about six inches wide. Some chicken that!

Saturday 28th November Kaikoura

‘Whale meet again, don’t know where don’t know when!’

It’s whale-watching day today so as you would expect when I wake up it is tipping it down. Had a disturbed night as I got a call at 1am from one of my Burnley schools to say that they were being inspected next week. ‘I know you probably don’t give a rat’s wotsit at this point,’ chuckled Martin the Head, ‘but it says on my instructions that I have to let the NCA know , so now you know!’ Thanks Martin, I will find a way to get you back for this! When I say rain it is raining cats, dogs, sheep – the lot. I roll over and try to go back to sleep for a while but no dice. The whale trip is scheduled for this afternoon at 3.30pm so with a bit of luck it might clear. I am suppose to be going on a two to three hour walk along the headland this morning, but I have nothing that will keep me dry in this for long so I mentally write this off. I had trouble loading my blog last night so I try again and this time it works. I sit and read my guide book and the books left by the motel for visitors. They are very useful if it wasn’t raining because all the activities are outdoors. Walking, kayaking, ski-ing, snowboarding, riding, swimming with dolphins and seals and birds if you wish. Kaikoura is outdoor city – not today, Jose. I twiddle my thumbs until after 10 o’clock when I start to feel pressure from the cleaners who keep pausing outside my door despite the fact that I have put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign out. Eventually I think blow it, I will risk the rain. Outside it is now drizzling so I kit up and head off down the Esplanade towards the headland.

The road sweeps around the end of the town which is situated on what used to be an island many thousands of years ago, but which was joined to the mainland by debris swept down from the mountains by rivers and storms. So Kaikoura is effectively built on a promentery and stocks out into the Pacific Ocean. Its main roads are quaintly named Torquay, Scarborough and Brighton, but apart from the rain the similarity ends there. The road at the end of the Esplanade leads to Fyffe House, the home of the first white man to live here and he who set up the first whaling station ( boooo!). Not only did he do that but he built his house on foundations made from whale bones, particularly the vertebrae from their spines. Remnants of the old whaling station can be seen along the road past the house along with ancient black and white photos of whalers and their catch. As I said before they killed the whales until it was no longer economically viable to do so. That was the only reason they stopped. Today all marine mammals are protected in New Zealand and Kaikoura is making up for its rather bloody past .

On past the whaling station is another large Fur seal colony. This one is very popular with tourists as you can get very close to the seals. There are notices advising people not to get within ten metres of the seals, but when I was there people were ignoring that. They were following the advice not to touch the seals or poke them to try to get them to move, but apart from not putting their arms around them and saying ‘smile for the camera’, they got pretty close. The seals really did not seem that bothered. There were huge numbers all around the headland, but at this first point the seals were predominantly males. At first I thought I had wandered into an outdoor branch of Kaikoura working men’s club. Weighty males were lolling about in large groups, puffing out their chest to each other and no doubt bragging of their latest conquests, whilst at the same time downing copious amounts of Seaweed Ale. The walk up onto the headland was semi –strenuous and when I got back three hours later I certainly felt it. The views were worth it and the chance to see more of the seals was good too.

The story of the New Zealand fur seal is one of success against the odds. The local seal population is largely transient - but some do breed here – so there are a lot of males. They don’t have blubber but have thick fur – hence the name – for warmth. Males can be 2 metres long and weigh 200kg! You don’t want that falling on you, especially of you are a female and weigh just half that! A bull seal’s ‘harem’ can be up to 30 females! That keeps him busy, in more ways than one. But in a sense he is lucky to have a harem at all as the fur seal was hunted to near extinction for the sake of hats, stoles, coats etc. The statistics are just mind blowing. In 1824 one expedition killed an estimated 80,000 seals! When the killing was at its peak no less than 400,000 seals were killed in one group of islands, the Antipodes, alone. It was just not sustainable for the seals and in 1946 the NZ Government stopped the trade.

So, on to the whales. I was not feeling optimistic as for the whole of my morning walk I could not see the mountains behind Kaikoura as they were shrouded in mist, and similarly the sea horizon was not visible. Although the rain had stopped for most of my walk it was drizzling again when I arrived at the ‘Whaling Station’ meeting point. The notice board said that the 3.30 trip was still ‘pending’ and when I enquired about this I was told they were waiting on a conditions report from the captain of the boat out on the earlier trip. So it was a waiting game. The notice board also said that there was a half-metre swell in the sea, and that it was a bit blowy. It recommended sea sickness tablets for those prone to it. It said the earlier trips had seen between 4-5 whales about 12-15 miles from shore, so that was encouraging. There is no 100% guarantee of seeing whale – after all this is a wild creature with its own agenda – so they would refund 80% of your cost if that happened. While we were waiting for the decision yea or nay, they played an information video about the whales and their link with Kaikoura. It’s down to the geography of the surrounding ocean floor in that some of the deepest ocean canyons that can be found are very close to the mainland at Kaikoura. Whales like these depths so they pass through on their way to other breeding grounds or they stay a while – sometimes for years – before moving on. The largest of all whales, the 29metre Blue Whale is a passing visitor, and not at this time of year. Humpback whales, Right Whales and Orca ‘killer’ whales also drift on by. But the one we are hoping to see today is semi-resident – the Sperm Whale. These are the third largest whale in the world, and the ones that are here tend to be young males ‘fattening’ themselves up over many years before undertaking huge breeding journeys to other parts of the Ocean. Its head contains the largest brain in the world – about the size of a basketball – and you are advised not to play Trivial Pursuit with sperm whales. They dive to depths of 1000-2000 metres and can stay there for 45 minutes to feed. They are only usually on the surface for between 10 -15 minutes so this is why spotting then is not guaranteed.

The clock ticks by and then suddenly the notice changes to ‘Check In’. We are on! I make the decision to buy one of the anti-sickness tablets on offer as a safeguard. I have not been sea-sick since I was a teenager on a very rough ferry crossing to Ireland, but I don’t want to take chances. It proves to be a wise decision. We get a safety briefing and then are put on bus to take us to the boat. The group of Japanese tourists are double-checked for harpoons. A solitary Norwegian protests as his bag is searched that he is member of Greenpeace! There are no Icelanders on board. The boat itself is a bit like a luxury coach – very plush seats. We are instructed to remain in our seats for the outward journey. Given the sea conditions I think we would do very well to get out of them whilst the craft is moving. It speeds off, skimming the tops of the waves and crashing down into the troughs with great swathes of spray dashing against the sides. We are well protected from the elements inside thank goodness. Our guide gives us a running commentary, including advice on avoiding feeling sick – keep looking at the horizon – and what to do if you have to be sick. The girl beside me is clearly uncomfortable but is not sick, whereas a few others are. We pass some Dusky Dolphins but only get a glimpse, and the boat is shadowed by all sorts of birds but it is hard to see what through the spray. After what seems like forever but what is in fact only about thirty-five minutes, the skipper revs back the engines and we slow down. That does not mean the boat stays still. Quite the opposite – it now starts rolling quite strongly from side to side in the swell. There is bit of panic amongst the female passengers when it is announced that the skipper is about to get out his personal ‘whale sonar’ – but relief when this turns out to be a long stick with a microphone at the end and headphones. He dips this in the sea, nods seriously then climbs back into his seat, seconds later we swing round to the right (starboard I think!) and our guide informs us we are off on a whale hunt! She tells us to keep a lookout but not to shout ‘thar she blows’ as most likely we will spot a male! Spoilsport! A few moments later and we see our first whale. The boat stops dead and we pile outside on deck. It is about fifty to a hundred metres away and travelling away from us but we can clearly see it ‘spouting’ and see the dorsal fin and parts of its back. It looks big even from this distance. People are trying to take photos but I decide just to look through my binoculars. After about 3-4 minutes it just slides under the waves and does not resurface. We have to return inside the boat and the skipper heads off in another direction. About ten minutes later the lookout reports more ‘spouting’ and we swing to port. Again when we stop we see the ‘spouting’ the dorsal fin and parts of its back. After a few minutes it disappears. We are all feeling pleased having seen two whales, and the seasick people are hoping it is time to go back home, when the cry goes up again ‘Whale ahoy, Cap’n Ahab!’. Ok I made that bit up but the excitement was getting to me. We had found a whale that was not travelling like the other two but was on the surface ‘oxygenating’ in preparation for a dive to feed. It looked like it was just floating and nothing much happening but the guide said lots of activity just below the surface. We remained watching this one for 10 minutes at least. The guide felt confident that this one was preparing to dive so she told those who wanted photos to have their cameras ready. I had gone up onto the top deck this time for a better view but decided that the photo was not what I wanted. I just wanted to look and take in the moment. The boat was heaving from side to side quite strongly so there were only brave few on the top deck. But it was worth it. The guide suddenly said ‘Get ready, he’s arching his back’ and the whale did exactly that, then up came the tale in that classic picture image and down he went. Amid all the camera clicks and ‘wows’ and ‘fantastics’ it was moment to savour. I found myself saying, ’Just look at that! ‘ We were no more than fifty metres away. The return journey began in an almost reverential silence at what we had witnessed. The power, the grace, the majesty of this sea creature! I have heard people say they felt it was a quasi-spiritual experience witnessing such a magnificent creature in its domain. I can see why some say it is a privilege.

As a bonus we had seen lots of Albatross, the most travelled bird in the world, the biggest of which have a wingspan of over 4 metres – as our guide said this is wider than this cabin! We also saw some more of the Dusky Dolphins and this time they were leaping in and out of the water alongside the boat. The sea had decided to calm down so the return journey was less hazardous. Tired but contented we were deposited safely back at Sea Bay.

I have mentioned Sperm Whale before when I was writing about Australia. They were given their name because the whalers thought that the whale’s head, which contained a semen-coloured substance, was where the whale’s sex organs were. It was only when they killed some females and found the same stuff in their heads that they realised they had got it wrong but the name stuck. Their oil was used for lamps and another substance, Ambergris, was used for perfumes. Everyone wanted in on the act and in less than 200 years after the discovery of New Zealand the whale populations had virtually been wiped out. Although we can level blame at the Maoris for the extinction of the moa, they had not hunted whales before the white settlers arrived. However they did join in with gusto!

Sunday 29th November Kaikoura to Fox Glacier

I am facing a long journey today as I am crossing from the East to the West coast, and will cover around 400kms. On the M1 this would be a doddle but here the roads almost force a slower pace with the scenery to take in and the twists and climbs. It’s all mountains in between start and finish and no road goes straight across. In addition you have no choice about which route you take – there is only one road. So knowing I could have between 8 and 9 hours on the road I set off early just after 9am. I have mapped out the route and looked for likely towns that have petrol stations. It is overcast as I leave Kaikoura to take the R1 for a short while and then off on R70 to go over the mountains. I have a request from my travelling companion to stop at Mouse Point where the R70 meets the R7 which will take us to the West coast. The first couple of hours is fine as we travel increasingly steep roads but they are all sealed so the going is easy. It’s I-pod time and I put it on random so it brings up a selection which includes the soul-aching ‘Dolphins’ by Tim Buckley (Jeff’s dad), the deep base driving rhythm of Jefferson Airplane, and the tear-jerking poignancy of Tom Waites’ ‘Burmah Shave’. The music is a constant companion and certainly helps the long drives. When I get to Waiau the fuel gauge is showing less than half full so I follow the sign for petrol. I arrive at a sort of square and spot the toilets so pop in there. Mine is the only car around. When I come out there is very little activity apart from a sun-wizened man sitting smoking outside the café across the street. I enquire about the garage. ‘Oh you won’t get any petrol here on a Sunday, ‘he says, ‘everything is shut on a Sunday.’ He can see the panic on my face. ‘You could try Kaikoura,’ he suggests, ‘there might be some there.’ I am beginning to think I have picked the town lunatic when he goes on, ‘But there’s always Culverden. They have it 24/7 at Culverden.’ With some trepidation I ask where Culverden is. ‘It’s down there ,’ he says pointing in the direction I wish to go, ‘ on the way to Christchurch. Not very far.’ I tell him how much fuel I have got and he says ,’Yeah, that should be ok to get you there.’

I set off for Culverden after a quick check on the map. To get there will means going past the point I was to join the R7, but needs must. I have already said that nothing is near in NZ. Well going to Culverden was the equivalent of driving from Nottingham to Mansfield and back – twice! – just to get petrol. When I reached Culverden there was a garage offering fuel 24/7 but on card only. It would not take my card! Panic, panic! I looked at the map and estimated I could probably make Reefton and hope that it had an open garage. I was turning round and looking up and down the highway where I could see shop etc in the distance when I thought that there must be an ordinary garage here! On spec I drove further down the road. If I was wrong there was vital fuel being used up. At the other end of the town there was another garage! So, fuelled up I headed back to the R7.

Mouse Point was interesting. It consisted of two signs about half a km apart, one junction, and lots of fields. We paused for photos and then went on our way. The next section of the route followed the trail of the Lewis River through the Lewis Pass. Huge mountains surrounded a very deeply cut river valley. The road took a route West, then North, then West again as it wound through the mountains. After Springs Junction it clung to the Inerungahua River to Reefton where it swung south West towards the Tasman Sea, where the land began to get a bit flatter. All in all the mountain roads from Mouse Point to Reefton had covered around 185kms. On the route down from Reefton to the coast at Greymouth, I passed through Dobson and Kaiata. Once I had got to the mountains the sun had shone, but as I neared the sea it disappeared. It was dull at Dobson, cloudy at Kaiaita, and yes you’re ahead of me, grey at Greymouth! I am sure the honest citizens of Greymouth do a stalwart job in selling their town, but take it from me don’t go there on a dull Sunday! I was out as quick as I could, but had to stop soon after as I passed a sign for ‘Gladstone’. Well, you just have to don’t you!

The coastal road is called the ‘Glacier highway’ as it leads to Franz Joseph and Fix Glaciers. In itself it is pretty featureless until it leaves the coast and heads inland through forests. I stop at Whataroa for another coffee break and see a Maori Art Gallery across the street. I pop in and no-one is about. The owner appears about ten minutes later and says he didn’t hear me come in. I have been looking at some Maori weapons in a display case that says they have been carved by the owner from some whale jaw-bone that has been carbon dated at 3462 years old. There are lots of other whale bone and teeth items on display so I ask the owner if he has to have a licence to use these materials. He says that as a Maori he does not – he can freely use them. I say I think a British artist would have to have a special import licence. He asks me if I liked the weapons and would I be interested in buying them. I know he is only toying with me when he tells me the price - $800,000! I say he will have to find an American billionaire to get that sort of money. He replies that he has sold single items to Americans for $80,000. Make way Charles Saatchi! At that point I politely leave.

I am heading for Fox Glacier where I have booked a guided glacier walk for tomorrow morning before heading for Queenstown. This will certainly be a hectic couple of days! There are two big glaciers in the area and the other one is Franz Joseph Glacier, named by its Austrian ‘discoverer’ after the Austrian Head of State of the time. Both Fox and Franz Joseph settlements are small and are only there because of the glacier activities. As I pass through Franz Joseph I see a sign for the glacier 4km to the left. I ‘chuck a leftie’ in true Aussie style, and head down the track. The car park is quite busy and parties of guide walkers are heading to and from the glacier. I follow the signs for the glacier lookout, a ten minute steep climb. But it is worth it. There are two other people there and I am just getting out my camera when a familiar voice says ‘Oh, hello. What are you doing here?’ It is the Plymouth girl ( still haven’t asked her name!) and one of her travelling group, a Belgian lad called, rather improbably, Denis. He had been on the catamaran too so we acknowledged each other. They had tried to get on one of the heli-trips which take you to the top of the glacier but it had been cancelled at the last minute because of the weather closing in. They were a bit cheesed off as they left for Queenstown early tomorrow. Half jokingly we both said ‘See you in Queenstown’, and they left me to take my photos. Even from the distance I was the glacier is magnificent. Explanatory boards give a ‘glaciers for dummies’ explanation. Thousands of years ago both glaciers reached to the sea but since then it has been a tale of retreat , apart from odd flourishes such as in the 18th Century when the world had a mini ice age ( the Thames regularly froze over then ). The glacier can advance or retreat at one metre a day, and this depends on the balance between the amount of snow that comes in at the top to be compacted into ice and the amount of water that runs off as melted ice at the other end. At the moment they think the Franz Joseph glacier is advancing slowly. Even from a distance you can see the power and enormity of it. Through my binoculars I could see the tiny specks of the guided glacier walkers on the edges of the glacier front. They really did look small in comparison. Tomorrow I will be doing that!

When I return to the car park a mini bus driver is ushering a group of Korean tourists into the bus. I know they are Koreans because when the driver suddenly shouts ‘Kia, kia’ and points past them, those not yet in the bus turn and look at a small white car parked next to the bus. They in turn point and start chattering to each other. ‘No!’ says the obviously frustrated driver, ‘Kea! Over there, look, the only Alpine parrot in the world!’ and yes, further along the line of parked cars the dark brown parrot was happily feeding on some scraps from another car. ‘Get in! Get in! We’ll drive by it!’ While he was pushing the last ones into the bus, I took the chance to have a good look at the bird through my binoculars. By the time the mini bus got there it had gone.

Two exhausted looking boys from Belgium cadged a lift from the car park to the turnoff for Franz Joseph. They had not got enough cash for a guided walk on the glacier so had gone as near to it as they could. Glaciers can be dangerous – they have crevasses, and debris can fall on the unsuspected so access is restricted. They had tired themselves out with a long walk. We chatted about the territory and they baulked at my suggestion that they would not be familiar with height coming from ‘flat’ Belgium saying that here was some height in the Ardennes region! Excuse moi!

Monday 30th November Fox Glacier to Queenstown

‘Is that Mount Cook?’ This is the New Zealand equivalent to ‘Are we there yet?’ The trouble is that there are so many big mountains with snow-capped peaks that as far as a novice mountain spotter like me is concerned any one of them could be Mount Cook, and the journey of nearly 400kms to Queenstown passes so many that by the end of the journey I am burbling like a mad-man, especially when I look at the maps and see that I was nearer to Mount Cook when I started my journey than when I finished it! But back to the beginning of the day.

I began another long day with a three hour guided walk on the Fox Glacier. We were told to bring 3-4 layers of warm clothing as it would be cold on the ice, and the company supplied waterproof coats, boots and crampons. A coach took us to a drop-off and then it was a half hour walk over rocky terrain to the front face of the Glacier. It just got bigger and bigger the close we got. We did not go on the glacier from the front as this would be too dangerous as the ‘terminal face’ is the most unstable part of it. Unfortunately earlier this year two people on an unaccompanied walk had gone up to the face and had been killed by falling ice! So the warnings given were not just for show. Our journey was into the forest at the side of the glacier and onto it at a higher more stable point. The climb to above the glacier took us 45 minutes up over 700 (!) steps through the forest. That is more than takes to go to the top of Cologne Cathedral. Our group leader Alice made us go slowly and take off several of our layers so that we did not get too hot. It was a bit hard on the calves but we were soon at the point where we could descend on to the glacier. We were to spend about an hour on the actual ice following a defined track – including more steps cut in the ice – that the company has to re-do each day as the steps melt overnight! Once on the ice we fitted crampons to our boots and followed the leader. At this point we are about 300metres above sea level and the ice is about 250metres thick. The glacier stretches up into the valley above us and we cannot see the start of it as it is round a curve in the valley. Snow-topped peaks loom above us bit none of them is Mount Cook – so Alice says! We walk over the ice for a while, take photos, then head back which takes us an hour. It leaves me a little frustrated. I would have liked to go further up the glacier but this is only done on a day walk during which you spend four hours on the ice and do some rope-bridging across a crevass and go inside some ice caves. Another time perhaps. There is no doubt the glacier is impressive. The area of the glacier that collects the snow ( the ‘neve’) is bigger than the city of Christchurch! And it is 13km long from top to bottom. It is slowly growing by about a metre a day at the moment. One of the ironies is that precipitation that causes the snow that is compacted into the glacier is caused by hot air that comes from Australia, so that by a curious twist it will benefit from global warming! Back down all those steps did not do my knees any good! As we returned Alice told us that the firm doing the guide tours nearly went bust in the 1980s when the glacier retreated right up to the ‘turn’ of the valley, but luckily over the next 20 year it built up again. In the car park I was a little puzzled by a sign consisting of a stick figure that seemed to be trying to ‘lob’ basketballs into a net – was this warning us to beware of Harlem Globetrotters? Silly me! It was warning of the dangers of rock-falls!

It was 2pm before I set off for Queenstown. The route would be very scenic but I knew I would have to keep the stops for photos to the minimum. I also knew that I would have no problems with fuel! One thing did make itself obvious very quickly. The local possums had clearly had too much of the lush vegetation and beautiful scenery because they had hurled themselves lemming-like in front of the traffic on R6. Squished possum were everywhere. Lots of mess on the tire I’m afraid. Mountains, mountains everywhere, and none of them as it turns out Mount Cook. I will get there by the end of the week. I made haste through Haast, wandered alongside Lake Wanaka (careful with the spelling there, soldier!), hugged the shore of Lake Hawea, avoided Cromwell like the plague by cutting across the spectacular Cardrona Valley road, and then suddenly found myself in the Scottish Highlands! Signs for Glencoe and Ben this and Ben that abounded. I felt I might meet my old friends Ben Doon and Phil McCraken, but no they were ‘awa’. The scenery too was Scotland with more snowy peaks. I burst into an impromptu ‘Scotland the Brave’ but realised very quickly that I knew none of the words and even less of the chorus, so ended up ‘da-da-diddling’ the lot! A brief visit from Corporal Fraser of Dad’s Army – ‘we’re doomed, all doomed!’ – and then I reached Queenstown but not before passing signs for roads that would take me to, amongst other places, Invercargill, Dunedin and Invercockyleekie!

Queenstown’s resident population is only 8500 but during the holiday season it is fit to burst. It calls itself the ‘Global Adventure Capital’ and as I arrive there are hang-gliders swirling over the town from the nearby top of the Skyline Gondola – a chair lift that takes you above the town. I catch my breath as I see one swirling out of control but of course it is only the operator getting that extra buzz. This could be Adrenalin City Arizona! No chance of getting bored – if you have the cash that is – as you can bungy-jump, cave, white-water raft, sledge, jet-boat, ski, sky-dive, hang-glide. You can do more sedate things. It is the major starting point for trips to Milford Sound where I go tomorrow. To the West of Queenstown is the massive Fjordland National Park, practically all of which is not accessible by road. Even Milford Sound is a four hour drive! The weather for the next few days is likely to be coolish – no more than 20C, so sunbathing is out! Good driving weather though.
Queenstown is here because someone discovered gold in 1862, but there was not much and by 1900 the population had dwindled from thousands to just 190, two dogs and a parrot called Hamish. After the Second World War it developed as a holiday destination and of course has been boosted as being right in the middle of ‘Lord of the Rings’ territory. It reminds me of a big Aviemore. I noticed that one of the firms that does bungy-jumping offers it free to the over-65s! I’ll be back then! If you are really mad you can spend $425 on a multi-ticket which will allow you to do the 43m jump from the Kawarau Bridge where your head goes in the water(!), the 47m high Ledge Bungy after dark (!), and finally the 134m Nevis High-wire in which you jump from a pod suspended over the Nevis River! As I said, if you are mad!

Tuesday 1st December Dunedin

It is pouring with rain as I limp back into Queenstown after a 645km round trip which has taken me just under 12 hours to do. This place is more Scotland than Scotland is! Rain, rain, rain. I have become something I said I would never become and that is a ‘twitcher’. I have driven across New Zealand to the East coast and back again to see a bird. Not just any bird, mind. The Royal Albatross, a colony of which nests on the NZ mainland at Taiaroa Head on the Otago Peninsula. It is not a large colony, about 150 birds, but it is the only nesting colony of Albatross on any mainland in the whole world! The next nearest nesting colony is on the Chatham Islands which is over 1000kms out in the Pacific Ocean. So this place is a bit special and was well worth the effort. The colony established itself on the peninsula in the 1920s ( they think from Chatham Island juvenile birds that had wandered off course) but did not actually breed until the 1930s – people got too close to them. The birds only actually breed after they are about seven years old and then only every two years. They spend a massive 80% of their lives at sea, and really do circumnavigate the world many times. With a wing span of three metres it soars effortlessly over the waves in search of food an travels huge distances. When a pair mate they stay together for life in most cases, and miraculously find their way back to the same spot each time they need to breed. The rest of the time they spend on their own. They are magnificent birds and I was lucky enough to see them on the nest and flying over the peninsula. I had already seen them when I went whale watching, and their flying skills over the sea were awesome. They really are huge birds and I had my photo taken next to a life-size replica to demonstrate this. Whilst the group I was with were viewing the colony from the special observatory so they are not disturbed we also saw a resident colony of Chatham Island Shags ( like cormorants) and a relaxing fur seal doing synchronised swimming amongst the rocks below. As usual there was a down side in that all 21 Albatross species in the world are under threat in one way or another. 11 of those species are in NZ territorial waters. One huge threat is from commercial line –fishing for tuna etc Birds come after the bait and get snagged on the line hooks and drown in their thousands. Conservationists are working with the fishermen to find a less damaging way of collecting the fish and there is a willingness on their part to co-operate.
My calves still ache from the Fox Glacier walk/climb, and so a twelve hour drive is not the best thing for them! My original plan was to go to the colony, which is near Dunedin, then go along the coast top Invercargill which is about the southernmost mainland point in NZ and then swing back North to Queenstown. As it happens if I had done that I would still be out there somewhere even now. It was a mad plan and would only have succeeded if the albatross colony had been at the junction of the Dunedin/Invercargill Road. As it happens it was an hour’s drive beyond Dunedin so once I realised that I restructured my plan! I can’t avoid Cromwell as the route goes through here to the Cairnmuir Mountains through Clyde and Roxburgh (very Scottish) to Milton (very English). Before I reach Cromwell however I pass the bridge where the really mad bungy jumpers go headfirst into the river – it is too early for the action and when I return it is pouring so again no action – and a little further on the place of my dreams ….a combine winery and cheesery! Noted for a visit! Milton is curious place. There is a Shakespeare Street, a Gray Street ( ‘Elegy in an English Churchyard’) and Cowper Street ( ‘ something about cows in the bower’). I really do see a schoolboy sloping across the road with his satchel looped over his shoulder, and try to remember the ‘Seven Ages of Man’. I did have this beaten into me at school – we learned a lot of stuff that way – but my memory lets me down. I get as far as …

‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players
and each man in his time plays many parts.
First there is the infant, mewling and puking in his nurse’s arms,
…..the schoolboy…..reluctantly goes to school…..
( and then the end bit – old age…)
Sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything.’

I am really cheesed off with myself for not being able to remember more. Homework, boy!

Dunedin is massive, over 100,000 people and has a bit of a motorway into the town centre, which is actually quite nice. This is a pity as I am only here to find out about the colony and get some lunch. It houses NZ’s oldest university which is no surprise given that the first settlers were hard working Scots including the nephew of Robert Burns! A statue of ‘Rab’ takes pride of place in the city and Dunedin residents get their bagpipes out at the drop of a haggis. Links with Scotland include a plethora of drinking establishments. Well worth a revisit! The Albatross observatory is an hour’s drive down the Ortago Peninsula along a very slow winding road that almost tips you into the bay. So doing the maths I spend 3 hours getting to Dunedin, about an hour in the town itself, then an hour to the colony, and hour at the actual colony, then do it all in reverse but missing out the hour in Dunedin again. Soon adds up! You either need a better plan or a light aircraft to get around more easily. As a matter of fact I am off to Milford Sound tomorrow. It will be a 5 hour drive followed by about 3 hours at Milford including a boat trip down the ‘Sound’ , and then 5 hours back. If I was made of money I could go there by coach and fly back in a light aircraft, or if I was really made of money I could fly both ways! There is no other way to get there. The coach trips that are advertised form Queenstown promise to have you back in 12-13 hours!
Finally for today there is actually a Willy Wonka (Cadbury’s) chocolate factory in Dunedin. Our guide at the Albatross colony used to work there as rather oversized ‘oompa loompa’ handing out free chocolate and a life-time’s dentistry and obesity problems to visiting children. He had got fed up of dressing up and eating too much of the ‘goodies’ himself, so he ‘retrained’ as a colony guide. His grasp of the facts etc was impressive seeing as he had only started the job this season, and only once did he offer to dip an albatross chick in chocolate and give to the two little German children who studiously ignored the real albatrosses to play with some furry replicas and all the time shouted ’ Shokalade’ to their bird-watching parents.



Wednesday 2nd December Milford Sound

Another long day and a long drive but oh so worth it! Started from Queenstown at just after 7am and returned at 7.45pm having travelled approximately 600kms. Milford Sound is the only of New Zealand’s stunning fiords that can be accessed by road. At 16km long and 400m deep it is in itself worth seeing for the magnificent scenery that surrounds it including the 1695m high Mitre Peak – so called because it is shaped like a bishop’s mitre. Most visitors come to Milford by coach and an attendant told me that in full season there can be as many as 45 coaches a day, plus all those who like me come by car and camper van. So in high season it is a loaded place. The actual spot where the cruise boats leave for trips down the fiords is quite small and there are no facilities (shops, petrol etc) apart from the café and the trips centre. One road in and one road out. The ‘sound’ is in fact a fiord which has been created by the actions of glaciers over thousands of years. It leads out to the Tasman Sea, and is primarily salt water but there is a permanent top layer of fresh water from the massive 7metres (not inches!) of annual rainfall. Today turned out to be a rare dry day but you would not have thought that on the way over as it rained almost constantly. When we think of fiords we think of Norway, and the lower part of the West coast of NZ is exactly like the west coast of Norway in that it is fiord after fiord after fiord, backed by very dramatic mountains from which the glaciers originated. An anomaly of the ‘sound’ is that the fresh water layer creates conditions where creatures that would not normally live at shallow depth do in Milford Sound.

All the leaflets warn about the convoys of coaches that head down the road to Milford on a daily basis , all aiming to get their cargo on one of the mid-day sailings on the sound so that they can hawk them back (usually to Queenstown) by early evening. I don’t have much choice about timing unless I wanted to leave in the early hours of the morning, but I have booked on a smaller, longer ‘nature’ cruise so hopefully this will avoid the coach ‘rush’. It is not long before I run into a mini convoy alongside Lake Wakitapu which runs from Queenstown. I know it will take me up to five hours pt get there but in this time is time for stops, photos and petrol on the way. I do not hurry to get past the coaches but there are lots of opportunities once we leave the lake behind. The half way point is Te Anau where I get petrol, have breakfast and get some insect repellent – sand flies are the big problem if the weather is dry, and they will make a beeline for me! After Te Anau the 119km highway to Milford really gets spectacular and becomes alpine in lots of ways. There are so many things to photograph that it becomes hard to know where to stop. At breakfast I read a guide leaflet which warns drivers to stop to take photos not swerve all over the road in the attempt, and so am on the lookout for ‘Mirror Lakes’, ‘Pop’s View’ and the ‘Homer Tunnel’. I get as far as ‘Mirror Lakes’ when I run into the first ‘conga-line’ of tour busses. I should have heeded the warning but I pulled up in a space at the roadside between three busses. ‘Mirror Lakes’ is a place of calm and literal reflection so you can imagine my when it is awash with my favourite tourists – yes, the Japanese. I have been thinking about this as I don’t want to come across as racist. Just what is it that annoys me? I suppose the fact that I cannot understand the language doesn’t help. But it is also the sheer noise and energy. They pour off the coaches, not pausing for breath as they swarm along the walkways photographing absolutely everything – and I mean everything : flowers, trees, signs, me (!), water, sky……there just does not seem to be any order to it. If it is there it is photographed amidst lots of chattering and pointing. They also pay no attention to anyone else and can push past quite rudely to get where they want to be. I suppose it spoils the peaceful moment for me. That must be it. One particular group was being followed about be a man carrying a professional-looking video camera and he was one moment leaping into the grass to film a flower and then filming the group taking photos and chattering. I will have to bury this ghost somehow. Perhaps I will have to go to Japan!

There are lots more stopping places along the way, and anticipating that the coaches will stop at them too I find one marked ‘no busses’ and swing into it. I am the only one there for a few minutes then a couple in a camper van join me. As I get back into my car I jump as a large Kia lands on my bonnet with a thump! It then pops down to the open door, clearly looking for food. I think I have nothing but find a choc-nut bar and give it the nutty bits. It eats happily from my hand. Other cars arrive and they start taking photos of me feeding the bird. It is a big bird! Even when I try to leave it sits on my wing mirror as I manoeuvre around the car park. I keep bumping into the couple in the van as we seem to stop for the same views and photos. At one point we both get ‘trapped’ in one stop-off by three tourist coaches, and as I try to manoeuvre out I have to nudge photographing tourists out of the way – as I do so I catch the eye of one of the coach drivers who just raises her eyebrows in sympathy. At the next stop-off the van couple speak to me and say they are trying to get ahead of the ‘Japanese busses’ so it is not just me! I decide to go to the ‘Mirror Lakes’ on the way back when it will be quieter!

The Homer Tunnel is something else. It controls access to the last twenty kms to Milford and has been cut through the mountain for 1207metres. This is no Mont Blanc. This is a ‘carved out of the granite by Scottish hands’ tunnel. Rough and ready is an understatement. It is allegedly the highest tunnel controlled by traffic lights, is one way (thank goodness!) and inside is dark, rough looking and dripping with water. You don’t want to hang about in it. It is shaped on the outside a bit like an empty can of ‘Duff ‘ beer. Notices tell you that the lights change every 15 minutes, and that you are to use your lights. Even with my lights fully on I can hardly see and I am half way through the tunnel in a panic before I realise I have still got my sun glasses on! Doh! The tunnel slopes down as if it didn’t we would come out half way up the mountain! On the other side we are greeted by a posse of Kias who have heard that the Japanese coaches are following. The road then winds down to Milford and my rendezvous with the boat.

The ‘sound’ is made even more spectacular by its isolation. This is what you come here for. I am going to spend the next three hours taking in the ‘sound’ and its surroundings. I watch the planes and helicopters land and take off against the background of spectacular cliff faces and towering waterfalls. On our ‘nature’ cruise we will crawl along the sides of the fiord to where it meets the sea and back again. When I get to the loading area the coaches have already arrived and the loading area is heaving. Luckily most are getting on another larger ship for the one hour ‘rush’ cruise. My boat meanders along and we get close to all the best bits, see seals and penguins, get soaked under a 150m high waterfall, and then I get dropped off at the underwater observatory part ay down the ‘sound’ where I spend half an hour ‘beneath’ the ‘sound’ watching the wildlife before being picked up by another boat for the return journey. The observatory has had seals and sharks – including a Great White come floating by as it has been showing guests around – but not today!

I hope that my plan to leave after the bulk of the coaches will work and when I reach the car park there are just a handful left, including one I followed out of Queenstown this morning. I set off for ‘home’ at about 4.30pm, and amazingly when I reach Homer Tunnel the lights are on green and I shoot straight through, remembering to switch my glasses this time! My guess about ‘Mirror Lakes’ is good too and I have a ten minute repose there. The sun is only partially visible through the clouds but some reflections are good. My return journey takes me back down the shores of Lake Te Anau which is 67 kms long and the second largest lake in NZ. At 417m it is as deep as Milford Sound.

It has been remiss of me but I have not really given any time or space to two other serious features of the South Island – cyclists and camper vans. Camper vans first. You would be forgiven for thinking that almost all the populations of NZ has upped sticks and taken to the ‘vans’ as the roads, beauty spots and car parks are heaving with them. They range from the incredibly luxurious – master bedrooms, showers, servants etc: I call these the ‘Tess’ range – to the very basic ie a VW with a couple of sleeping bags and a surf board attached on top: I call this the ‘Tom n Ali’ range. They can be a bit of a bug on the roads but mostly they will get out of the way to let you past. They are a good, cheap way of getting around so I am not knocking them. A very NZ feature. Now the cyclists. I have nothing but admiration for these people for they are clearly mad! NZ is just distance, distance, distance! Driving it is bad enough but it really takes courage or a loss of marbles or both to RIDE hundreds of kms with all your worldly needs attached to the handlebars and in saddle bag. Us softy drivers salute them as we go past or else knock them into a ditch with our slipstream! I never look back when I pass a cyclist just in case. If it is not a puncture then it is the saddle bags slipping for I see more of them at the side of the road than actually on it. On the way out of Milford Sound this evening I saw a couple – not young by any means – heading for Homer Tunnel. They still had about fifty kms to go to Milford. Have they made it yet I wonder? And then they have to so it all in reverse! Avant mes braves!

Finally, the Wong family from Singapore. They were with us on the Fox Glacier walk. When we started we all introduced ourselves so the guide could try to remember our names. Dad was called Wong Wong, and mum and the kids all had ordinary Christian names eg Jane. Mr Wong clearly found his double name funny, as he kept repeating it and laughing and Alice found it easy to remember. Poor Mrs Wong struggled with the 700 steps and her knees gave way on the way back. Mr Wong kept apologising to me for her slowness. In contrast his son tried to go too fast and ended up colliding with a tree trunk. He acted as if he had not and hoped no-one had seen! Mr Wong had a super-duper digital SLR camera and he asked me to take some photos of the family on the top of the glacier. He was very patient when I could not work it at first. At the end he thanked me for my company on the walk. I mention this delightful family as a contrast to some of the behaviours I was complaining about earlier.

Thursday 3rd December Queenstown

My calves are just about recovering from the climbing of the Fox Glacier when I decide it is time to aggravate another part of my body – or two to be precise: my shoulders and upper arms – or is that four? Who cares! They still hurts. I decide to go White Water Rafting with the Queenstown Rafting Company through the Shotover Gorge and along the namesake river ( described in a very low key way as ‘choppy’ in my guidebook!). This is no punt along the Cam on Sunday afternoon. Although the company’s safety record is exemplary this qualifies as a high risk activity so I have to sign away any rights I might have to sue the company if I end up dead or worse! Legally of course it is not worth the paper it is written on if there is negligence involved but this is little comfort as we approach our first set of Grade 4 rapids ( Niagara Falls rapids just before the big drop are grade 5!). ‘Hold on!’ screams our team leader above the roar of the water. Of course I am at the front of the raft with Dutchman Jens, and we put into effect our ten minute training and throw ourselves towards the centre of the raft and at the same time hold on to the line in front of us, and also our paddle. The raft dives into each hole in the rapids and spray is thrown up into our faces and into the raft. We are immediately soaked, but this is ok as getting wet is what it is all about as our team leader keeps telling us. The raft dips up again for a moment and Tom, the team leader yells ‘Forward’. This is the command for everyone in the raft to paddle furiously despite the fact that we are not yet out of the rapids. We dig deep into the water as the rapids continue to throw gallons of water at us and into the raft. The raft bucks and dives again, and I have no time to think about anything except keeping on digging in my paddle until Tom gives the command ‘Stop!’ and we are through the first rapids into calmer water. This is relatively speaking if course as the Shotover River flows pretty rapidly all the time so we are constantly on the move except when Tom takes us deliberately into the bank which he does now, as we are to wait for a couple of other rafts to come safely through the rapids.

It all began rather calmly in Queenstown with a pick-up at 8.15 and a ten minute drive to the area where we were to get changed and briefed and where we would return at the end of the trip. We were fully equipped with wetsuits – either commando beneath or swimwear, but watch out for holes they said – waterproof boots and jackets, protective helmets, and finally lifejackets. There then followed a rather hairy 40 minute drive to the starting point high up in the Shotover Valley which involved us having to travel in a rickety bus along the old miner’s road through Skipper’s Canyon which believe me went alongside some very sheer drops and was one vehicle only wide. One of our team leaders entertained us with local info, safety data and Kiwi jokes, which were all bad and of the standard of….

‘ Q. How does a Kiwi find sheep in long grass? A. Very exciting. ‘

When we reached a particularly dangerous part of the road, he said this was called ‘bad joke corner’ and asked if anyone had a bad joke to tell. I offered one I had seen in a booklet entitled ‘Favourite Kiwi Jokes about Aussies’.

Paddy emigrates to Australia and ends up in the middle of the Australian Desert where he proceeds to build a pier. A traveller passing by says ‘ What are you doing this for? There’s no water! Only an Irishman would be daft enough to build a pier here. ‘ ‘Ah, well, now d’ye see’ says Paddy,’ that might well be the case, but only an Australian would pay me for the privilege of fishing off the end of it.’

The Kiwis on the bus liked it; the Aussies didn’t! Still, these moments got our minds off the danger of the road we were on! At the launch point the rafts were already at the edge of the water, and we were issued with our paddles, had our life jackets tied by a crew member (a legal requirement), and then sent to be briefed by ‘The Chief’. He was leading the trip, and was an entertaining character of Maori descent with rather wild hair and an infectious grin. He took us through the ‘what to do if the raft goes over’ bit, then allocated us in teams. There were going to be ten rafts on this trip, each one holding seven ‘trippers’ and the raft leader, except the one I was in which only had five ‘trippers’. This meant harder work in managing the raft! Tom, our raft leader was probably in his late forties, and had been doing this sort of thing for twenty years, ten of them in NZ and the other in the USA where he was from, including Alaska. Seemed like he knew what he was doing.
‘Forward, forward. That’s it now, good.’ The only way to keep the raft in position is to face it upstream against the current and paddle forward gently. This is what we are doing waiting for the other rafts to come through. The Chief is the trip leader but Tom has the responsibility of ensuring everyone gets through the rapids so we have to be the last raft as much as possible. Occasionally the current takes us past another raft, thus we have to wait. ‘OK now, back.’ Tom’s command has us paddling backwards and the raft suddenly swings into the current and does a 360 degree turn so we are still facing upstream but now going downstream. Tom has prepared us for this during slow moments and issues the command ‘Forward left!’ that means for me and the two behind me to paddle forwards, whilst Jens and the one behind him paddle backwards. This turns the raft to face forward and when Tom is happy with this he says ‘Stop! Forward! ‘ And we are off again. ‘Stop!’ We just let the raft float along on the current. ‘OK. Well done team’, says Tom,’ Now we will get to some more rapids in about ten minutes. So relax. ‘. In quiet moments he entertains us with stories and information about the gorge which was a big gold mining area. A couple of the team are interested in how often the rafts overturn. ‘Oh they can easily overturn,’ Tom says casually,’ But it doesn’t happen often. Just remember your drill and that we are here to keep you safe. If you do go in the water the rescue kayak will get to you quicker than anyone, but if you are near another raft just grab on tight!’ He points out a rock in midstream. It is shaped like a shark’s fin. ‘That’ll turn this raft over soon as look at it!’ We glide by eying it suspiciously. ‘OK. Rapids coming up in 300 metres and then there are another bunch about 300 metres later.’ We get in position as shown, feet firmly placed against the side of the raft, but sitting on the outer edge as this balances the raft properly. As we approach the rapids Tom shouts ‘Back left!’ as we are getting close to some overhanging rocks. I give it all I have got knowing that Jens will be pulling in the opposite direction. It works and we slide by the overhang with space to spare. Of course we know that Tom and his colleagues know this river backwards but as he says it is its own master and the water continues moving whether you do or not. We also know that he is trying to put the raft in the best position each time we come to the rapids, but he is still partly dependent on our responses to his commands.

‘Forward! Forward! Hold on!’ We crash into the first of a double set of rapids, the raft bucking and rocking like a see-saw. Water pours over the front of the raft and the weight of it knocks me backwards a bit. I have a firm grip of the rope so it does not take me very far. As we emerge from the rapids, Tom shouts again, ’Forward! Forward! Stop!’ We just about have time to take our breath when he again says ‘Forward!’ and we approach the second set of rapids. Down the raft heads into the spray and we hear Tom above the noise shouting, ‘Forward! Forward! Hold on!’ and with another bounce or two we are through! We keep looking at each other feeling pleased that the team is working well and enjoying the thrill of the ride. We have at least ten minutes before we hit the final stage of the journey which includes another two sets of rapids and the tunnel. The tunnel? ’Oh, didn’t they mention the tunnel?’ Tom says casually. No they didn’t. ‘Well, the tunnel was built through solid rock by the miners in an effort to partially divert the river to speed it up so that more gold would be washed downstream. It is very tight and dark so I will need help from one of the two of you at the front. Paul? Jens? Who will it be?’ Jens volunteers! ‘Ok Jens, you will have to sit on the prow of the raft and listen for my commands. I will steer it through. Keep your head low as the rock can give you a nasty bump!’ So glad Jens volunteered! ‘ The rest of you just keep your paddles in the raft and keep your heads low. Oh, and by the way the tunnel pitches us straight out into the final set of rapids so as we come to the end of it I will give you all commands. OK?’ Ok we whimper in reply.

The last but one set of rapids were a breeze compared to what we had done and what we were expecting at the end of the tunnel. We pulled in to the side to await one raft and then Tom said ‘We need to be on the other side of the river. So, forward! Forward! Hard! Hard!’ We pulled against the current which was trying with all its might to take us back to the place we had just left. In fact we were concentrating so hard on moving across the river that the tunnel entrance was upon us before we could even remember that we had to go through it! And then we were in it. Jens leapt up to the prow and I leaned in behind him, as did everyone else except Tom who I assume remained upright in the stern of the raft. There was precious little headroom and given my predeliction for head banging on any low object I was glad I had not volunteered for the prow job! Tom was shouting instructions to Jens but all I could think about was where does this end and what will the rapids be like. I found out soon enough as the light at the end came in sight and Tom shouted to us all, ‘Forward! Forward! Hold on!’ The tunnel emptied us into the rapids like someone filling a bath with a bucket of water. Down we went, front end first, under the raging waters and bounced up and out again, rolled and rocked for a few moments and then all was calm, the raft righted itself and we floated to the gathering point just downstream from the rapids. We were drenched but we were also exhilarated. Shouts of ‘Wow! Fantastic!’ broke the silence. The team after us bucked and braved their way through and then all clattered their paddles together in celebration. Once every team was safely through we ‘mosied’ on down to the collection point and got the rafts out of the water. If they had asked us there and then if we wanted to go back and do it all again there would not have been one dissenter! Great! We could hardly believe that we had negotiated the river, five sets of rapids and the tunnel in one and a half hours. Bring it on again!

I mentioned Jens quite a lot as he was next to me but Jonny the Korean lad was behind me and having a bit of trouble with his co-ordination at first as his paddle kept colliding with mine – yes it was his fault! There was a Kiwi girl, Janine, and Karen from England who occupied the back marker positions just in front of Tom, who as well as giving us every confidence in his professionalism, told some very entertaining yarns. I particularly liked the one about the flying sheep. The sides of the gorge are very high and sheer. Goats cope with this - we did see some – but sheep don’t. As Tom was guiding a party of Brazilians down the gorge a sheep came tumbling over the edge, bouncing off everything as it fell and landed with a thump and a splash right next to their raft. It was certainly dead, and proceeded to float downstream, legs stiffly up in the air. The Brazilians in the raft, men and women, burst into hysterics over this and nothing Tom could do or say would calm them down for quite some time, especially when they had to pass the sheep’s corpse again which had now got itself entangled in some overhanging trees and was hanging there like some crucified figure! It remained there bloated and bloody for a couple of months, a reminder of the agility of goats and the stupidity of sheep!

The afternoon was a bit more sedate. I had spotted heaven on the way back from my visit to Dunedin – a winery and a cheesery combined! But first I had to get past the bungy jump! They say that bungy jumping originated in New Zealand, but what they actually mean is the commercial version of it. Young men have been proving their courage by leaping out of trees and into gorges with only vines tied to their ankles in places like Samoa for probably hundreds of years. In the 1980s two young NZ lads, one of whom was called AJ Hackett, got permission to create the world’s first commercial bungy jump from the hundred year old Kawarau footbridge over the river of the same name. it is a 43metre leap over the river and you can if you wish have the ‘rope’ extended to dip your head in the water! When I was there I saw a couple jump together. Was I tempted? For a millisecond – but it passed. I will come back for the ‘freebie’ when I am 65! I forgot to mention that there is a canyon swing over the Shotover canyon and we went underneath when mad people were being launched into space for a 6om freefall and at speeds of 150kph! Lunatics, yes but it has made AJ Hackett and his partner very, very rich!

Into the cheesery then, and within a very short time I am a babbling wreck. There is just too much choice and once I have sampled I just have to buy. Hard cheeses are given export licences so I can have an ‘Edam’ type, a hard goats cheese, and a ‘blue veined’ cheese. I also but a Brie – but this will not get back to England! Then it is over to the winery for a tour of the ‘caves’. I am actually the only one taking the tour at this particular time so I get solo treatment. My guide is actually the owner so this is another bonus. The winery is most famous for its Pinot wines, so she takes me up to the vines area and shows me the stage they are at. Remember that the seasons are upside down so at this time the vines are not yet in flower but have lots of buds on them. Everything has to be done by hand so it is a hugely labour intensive operation and seasonal workers will be required at harvest time which will be next April. The 2009 crop has already been harvested and is either in barrels (Pinot Noir) or steel containers (Pinot Gris and the Chardonnays). She takes me to the cave where the 2009 Pinot Noir is maturing in seasoned oak barrels, each imported from France and costing in the region of $3000 each! The cave has been hewn out of the rock behind the winery and naturally retains a constant temperature of either 14 or 17 degrees – I cannot remember which – which allows the wine to mature correctly. There are 400+ barrels in the cave all containing only Pinot Noir. Each barrels will fill 300 bottles, and each bottle will retail at about $40. That’s over $5million doillars! And that’s just the Pinot Noir! As part of the tour I get to drink some Riesling ( dull!), some Pinot Gris (interesting!) and some 1988 vintage Pinot Noir ( loverly jubberly!). I come over all Gilly Goolden and think of rubber mats and pink daisies with hints of garage mechanic’s mate with a residual taste rugby sock! This has nothing to do with the wine apart from the bit about it making me a bit squiffy! I think also my cheeses are beginning to hum so I thank the owner, make my own contribution to her wealth by a purchase of some of the 1988 vintage (from a lad who’s mum and dad live in Bingham!) and head for the car park, where I spit copiously as I had forgotten to do this into the spittoon on the cave!

After a well-deserved bit of ceiling watching, I head down town in the evening, my last in Queenstown. I have in mind ‘Ferg Burger’, highly recommended by many on the rafting trio, but first a trip on the ‘Skyline Gondola’ to the hilltop viewing area, and a walk to the beach to catch some sunset photos. The ‘Gondola’ is like an elaborate ski-lift. Think Clint Eastwood and Richard Burton in ‘Where Eagles Dare’. You pay $21 for the privilege of being suspended in mid air on a thin wire as you travel to the top of the highest hill in Queenstown. Once you are up there though the views are magnificent and I take copious amounts of photos. If you go a bit further up on a chair suspended on a wire you can pay a further $10 to come part way down on a metal tray – they call it a ‘luge’, and in some countries it is an Olympic sport as well as a form of punishment. I have a go but as it is my first time I am put on the ‘scenic’ track which is luge-speak for ‘kiddie track’. I am humiliated by a number of five to six year olds who speed past me as I constantly brake to reduce my speed. On the way up in the ‘Gondola’ I chatted to a young man who was going to the restaurant at the top to work. He was a university student doing a holiday job as part of aMaori Cultural group who would sing and dance for the restaurant patrons. He told me this included getting dressed in traditional costumes and doing the ‘haka’. I have explained the ‘haka’ before ( see Rotorua), but not its origins. A Maori king has to flee his enemies and hides in a well. The well opens and he thinks all is over and he is to be killed but it is a friendly tribal leader that has found him. He climbs out and in his joy he sings and dances the first ‘haka’.
The translated words are a bit odd, but……

Kai mate! Kai mate! Kai ora! Kai ora! (It is death! It is death! It is life! It is life!)
Kai mate! Kai mate! Kai ora! Kai ora! (It is death! It is death! It is life! It is life!)
Tenei te tangata puhuru huru (This is the hairy man)
Nana nei I tiki mai whakawhiti t era ( Who causes the sun to shine again for me)
A upa…ne! Ka upa….ne! (Up the ladder! Up the ladder!)
A upane kaupane whiti te ra! ( Up to the top where the sun shines!)
Hi!!!

Once down I head for the town and try to get past a heaving small brewery pub but get caught in the current and soon find myself inside ordering a pint of Speight’s beer. It is cross between lager and bitter but is nice. Most people are outside the pub and under 25! Nearly everyone is smoking. The outdoor life, hey! Beer down, I go to the beach. Lots of other people have the same idea, but this does not spoil the sunset for any of us. Then it is on to ‘Ferg’s’. Our driver on the raft trip had told us that not too many years ago this place was a dive that no-one wanted to go to, then the new owners hit upon the simple idea of one food type – burgers – but making them really special and with lots of varieties and each coasting not much more than ten dollars! So the back-pack travellers flocked there. Tonight it is not quite so heaving but it is still early - it gets really busy once the pubs have shut! They do allow over 25s in so I order and plonk myself in the window next to a couple of similar vintage. They seem relieved to see me and start chatting. Peter and Pam hail from Woolagong which is between Sydney and Melbourne. They are here for three weeks and have stayed extra nights in Queenstown because they like it. When our burgers arrive they approve and Peter says it is good though not quite as good a Paul’s Burgers of Woolagong! They seem to spend half their life on holiday – Bali, Phuket, Vietnam – and have just recently done a 12000km tour of OZ in two weeks. ‘That’s a long way, ‘ I say in my lilly-livered Pom voice. ‘Not to an Aussie it isn’t’ crows Peter proudly while Pam nods her approval. Nice people but mad.

Friday 4th December Queenstown to Mount Cook

‘Is that Mount Cook?’ Gavin turns the glider slightly so that we are facing more towards the mountain range on the horizon. ‘Yes, that’s it at the end of lake.’ This is my first actual view of Mount Cook, and it from a height of over 2000ft, from the front seat of glider piloted by Gavin. It looks a long way away – in fact it is about an hour’s drive – but none the less magnificent. How could I have possibly mistaken anything else for this? Gavin wheels the glider to the left and I lose sight of Mount Cook, but I know – or at least hope – I will be going there after this flight. The bleeper now begins to sound rapidly, but I know that this means we are in a thermal and we are ascending rapidly, the bleeper getting more rapid and loud the faster we ascend. At first I had been alarmed by this , but Gavin quickly reassured me about its function. I cannot actually see Gavin as he is sitting directly behind me but I can hear him clearly.

So how have I ended up in a glider, whirling and sweeping above the hills and floodplains of the Omarama Valley. I did have sky diving on my list when I left England but I had to cancel in Port Douglas because of the Barrier Reef sunburn! Since then I had other things as priorities in each area I visited so I thought I had better get it sorted at Queenstown. I had read somewhere or at least I thought I had read that you could get a tandem flight in a micro-light aircraft and so it was with this in mind that I went to the tourist centre in Queenstown. Nope, they had never heard of such a thing but offered me tandem hang-gliding, and tandem para-gliding, and that was when I spotted the glider flights. So that was it. I checked out of my hotel, and headed for Omarama, but first stopped at Arrowtown. I really don’t know what I was expecting but it was not what I got. It is an old gold mining town and still looks like one. It has two signs on entry – Chinese Settlement one way and Main Street the other. The Chinese were the main mining nation so this is a remnant of that. The Main Street could have been a Hollywood film set. Hotel and shop frontages were well preserved museum pieces – but with 21st century technology behind. I had come principally to breakfast at the Arrowtown Bakery which came highly recommended. I ordered a breakfast bowl of muelsi and fresh fruit with yoghurt, followed by poached eggs on toast. Bong! Big mistake. The breakfast bowl was in fact a bucket size! I looked at it and wondered how on earth I was going to eat it! I was about to cancel my second dish when it arrived. Whoops! I counselled myself by saying that this would be the meal of the day. Nothing else except fruit and perhaps a bit of my brie. Then with a shout of ‘Geronimo!’ I tucked in. admittedly I took a little of the help offered by the crowd of birds that swept to my table once they saw the gargantuan feast on it, but mostly I managed it myself. I only hoped it wouldn’t put me over the weight limit for the glider.

Gavin was great. He met me in the car park, and I helped him get the glider out of the hanger and set it up. The Southern Soaring Company is based at a private airfield so I have to ‘join’ the gliding club for the afternoon to fly. As with the rafting it is classed as a high risk activity so I have to sign a ‘waver’ and declare next of kin! The other thing I have to do is wear a parachute! Gavin fits this on me and shows me how to release the rip cord – ‘But let’s hope we don’t have to do that’ he adds reassuringly. I am to sit in the front seat of the glider. There is only the canopy between you and the outside air so it is a very different flying experience. It is a tight fit. I am shown how to release the canopy in the case of an emergency so I can get out and use my parachute. It has taken me ten minutes to get in! Once set, the glider is attached to a ‘tug’ a single engined plane that will tow the glider up into the air. While we have been getting ready I have watched the white ‘tug’ launch a number of gliders , but then there is a problem. As the ‘tug’ lands one of its wheels goes awry. It is ok but this means it cannot launch any more gliders until it is fixed. Gavin says ‘Oh bugger!’ and goes off to see what can be done, returning a few minutes later with a grin on his face. ‘They’re going to use the CAT’ he says. The CAT is a bright red bi-plane that looks not unlike that flown by Baron Von Richthoven the WW1 flying ace. It has been purchased by the company a week ago and is only available today as the pilot is trialling runs for the tourist season. They are expecting a good response from the public once they advertise the flights in it. We are quickly attached to the CAT, and Justas the line tightens I see the pilot give us the ‘thumbs up’ and I am sure he mouths ‘Good luck, Tommy!’
And then we are off. The bi-plane wobble its way into the air and we follow as it banks to the right and climbs towards the nearby hills where Gavin had pointed out to me the clouds indicated there would be thermals. Very quickly we had reached the required height and Gavin released the cord, and the CAT banked away from us and returned to base. We were on our own. It is weird being in a plane without an engine. The only sounds are the bleeper ( already explained) and the rush of the wind. To gain height the glider has to turn very steeply within the thermal, and this is what Gavin does. I feel totally at ease. The main risk with gliders is them crashing into each other or another aircraft. They do not just drop out of the sky. There are a number of other gliders seeking the same thermals, so Gavin asks me to report any other aircraft I see as his view is a bit stifled by me being on the front. I spot a couple of other gliders as they sweep past us at safe distances. We also note the CAT launching another glider form the airfield. The views are fabulous. There is no distracting noise. The sun is shining, the sky is blue etc! We climb and sweep and fall and climb again! All too soon the half hour flight is over. Gavin expertly guides the glider in for an amazingly smooth landing. The ground comes rushing up, but the grass landing strip is hard and so we come quickly to a halt and the glider tips slightly to one side to rest on its wing. The only problem I have is what I usually have when descending – my ears go funny. It quickly clears though and I thank Gavin for making my first glider flight so enjoyable. I have been taken by the CAT and so enquire about a flight. The price quoted for me alone is prohibitive, but it does take two so they are about to take my number so they can let me know if anyone else wants to fly when Gavin says that someone who is here from the UK on a gliding course would like to have a go and within minutes it is set up. 10.30am tomorrow!

‘That IS Mount Cook!’ I am standing open-mouthed at a viewpoint called Peter’s Lookout part way down Lake Pukaki which feeds directly from the Tasman Glacier just below Mount Cook. It is a classic photo spot and there are many others enjoying the view. I decide to climb down the twisting trail to the lake shore to get a better angle - less trees in the way – and it is worth the trouble. The weather is glorious, the lake is ice-blue and clear, and Mount Cook looks as magnificent as I have been led to believe it is. I take so many photos that I can hear myself saying ‘And this is another view of Mount Cook. And this is Mount Cook from another angle.’ I am staying one night at the Hermitage Hotel, which has been servicing visitors to Mount Cook and the surrounding mountains for over a hundred years. It is a newer version of the original hotel – that burned down at some point – and is right at the heads of the valley below Mounts Cook and Sefton. Everything that is here is to service the visitors to Mount Cook, whether that be the coaches that drive the length of the valley for a brief photo stop at Mount Cook, or the day trippers in their vans, or like me an overnight visit, or the climbers and high hill walkers who will spend days or even weeks in the area. Winter of course it is skiing and ice climbing. There is also a museum to New Zealand’s most famous son, Sir Edmund Hillary, or ‘Id’ as he is known to Kiwis, who climbed the never before conquered South Face of Mount Cook in 1948 and then 4 years later went on to be one of the first two men on the top of Mount Everest. History books tell us that ‘Id’ was first to the top, but Sherpa Tenzing always claimed it was him. ‘Id’ was suitably vague in his biography and would not be drawn on the question for the rest of his life. At the time, 1952, it would have not been politically acceptable for a British sponsored expedition – led by Sir John Hunt – to agree that a ‘non-white’ person reached the top first. ‘Id’ was ok as he was ‘technically’ British! Amazing isn’t it! The museum is fascinating, and has climbing artefacts that belonged to Hillary and other famous climbers. A film about ‘Id’s’ life was showing and I watched part of it. Very sadly as his professional life was ‘top of the world’, his personal life fell apart as his wife and sixteen year old daughter were killed in a plane crash as they were coming to join him in Nepal. He never really recovered from this although he continued to climb to a ripe age and was walking and climbing Mount Cook well beyond pensionable age! Part of the entry to the museum was the showing of a fifteen minute 3-D movie about Mount Cook. Fabulous footage, including some animated footage of the Maori legend as to how Mount Cook or Aoraki ( Cloud Piercer) as they call it came to be. When I went in the audience from the previous showing had all stayed to see it again! Unfortunately for me it was the last show of the day.
Everywhere you looked from the hotel or walking to my chalet, Mount Cook dominated. ‘Id’ had described it in his film as the most magnificent mountain apart from Everest. It certainly looks dominating and powerful. I decided to take one of the valley tracks to get closer. The Kea trail goes for an hour to a lookout below Mount Cook and the Mount Sefton snowfield. I thought that a two hour round trip would be just enough for me. It was not difficult, but was tiring in the end. The views were magnificent and I stayed for a good twenty minutes just taking it in. While I was there I could hear what sounded like gun shots but presumed that there must be avalanches somewhere in the valley - I looked through my binoculars but could not see any. There were more ‘shots’ while I was walking back. I thought about people who climb these peaks and what drives them to it. This is no stroll in the park. It is life threatening, and physically exhausting. The Mount Cook film had noted that there had been over 200 people killed climbing in the National Parks of NZ in the last century. Despite this, I can understand what they must feel like when they reach the top!

Back at the hermitage I am disappointed to find out that the ‘star gazing’ I had signed up for had been cancelled – too much cloud cover! Mount Cook is only 45kms from the Tasman Sea and so the weather can change very quickly. Pity! I still go to bed feeling fulfilled. It has been a really good day. But when I wake up it is so, so cold! Mountains hey, who’d have em?

Of course you want to know, why Mount Cook? If it is 44kms inland then ‘Cookie’ could not possibly have seen it. Well, he did not name it. That was done by Captain Stokes of the survey ship Acheron, but I don’t know when.

Saturday 5th December Mount Cook to Christchurch

Busted! Dammit! I have just been busted for speeding by the Highway police. Full of the joys of my flight in the CAT, a wonderful flat valley vista in front of me, Jefferson Airplane blasting in my ears – well it just had to be didn’t it! – I am heading up the R8 to Lake Tekapo at approx 140kmph. The road is empty, the view ahead is clear for miles (or kms), but I still don’t see the police car until I am right on top of him. What I have gathered so far is that the national speed limit of 100kmph on all roads unless designated slower is routinely ignored by NZ drivers, especially in the areas outside the towns and in the valleys where the roads are flat and straight. I know this is no excuse for breaking the law, but usually the drivers slow down when they see another car coming from the opposite direction just in case it is a police car, then they speed up again if it isn’t. Yesterday I had followed a BMW motorbike across a long flat valley. He got up to 160kmph. I know because I tailed him from a relatively safe distance!

I see the police car late and hit the brakes just slowing my sped slightly. Instinctively I know I am done for even before I look in the mirror and see his flashing lights come on and see him start to turn in the road. I find a suitable spot to wait for him and pull over. The officer is very polite and when he asks me how fast I think I was going I rather pathetically suggest 110-120kmph. No, he says, it was 139! A couple of kms more and it would be an automatic loss of licence! Whoops! In a bit of a tiz I hand him my EEC Health card instead of my licence. The right card in his hands he asks me to wait while he completes the paperwork. It is a $400 fine. Ouch! That’s about £250. He asks me if I have been stopped for speeding before in NZ. When I say no he says that two such offences brings a three month driving ban! Whoops, again! Lastly he asks me if I have been drinking as there is a vague whiff of alcohol. I say that I had a glass of wine the previous night and then he spots the grapes on my passenger seat fermenting in the mid-day heat. I thank him for fining me and apologise for the speeding offence. I say that I got carried away by the moment, and that I will ensure I do not do it again. I drive the rest of the way to Christchurch at 100kmph. Cars pile up behind me wondering what is going on. I need a sign for my rear window that says, ‘Just been busted! Please pass!’
The morning had gone so well. I had arrived at the airfield at Omarama at just after ten for a 10.30 flight in the CAT. I was introduced to the pilot, Darren, who told me that he had been flying the plane for just over a week as it was new to the company. He asked if I wanted to wear the proper flying gear – leather jacket, helmet and goggles and of course I said yes. I forgot to ask him about the wet celery! My flying partner was Martin, a gliding instructor from the South of England who had been at the airfield for a week on a gliding course focussed on gliding in mountainous regions. We did a photo shot in front of the plane and then climbed aboard. It was a tight fit but we were soon strapped in. Strangely enough no parachute! I didn’t ask. Darren sat to the rear and we were supposed to be in contact with him by intercom, but as soon as the engine roared into life we could not hear a word he said! The airfield has a grass runway so we taxied out and off we went. It rose into the air very smoothly and with less of the wobble than when it was towing a glider. The windscreen protected us from most of the slipstream, but it was an effort to take photos as the wind tried to tear the camera out of your hand. Darren had not told us where we were going but we were to be airborne for about half an hour. In the end it was more like forty minutes. We headed along the valley in between the Saint Cuthbert and Glenmore ranges, circling over Lakes Aviemore and Benmore and flying closed over the Benmore Dam. Darren tried to get us into position to see Mount Cook , which he did but we missed his comments , and the photo opportunity was missed too. We then circled once more round the valley and headed back to the airfield. All the time I was in the air I was very comfortable, and felt secure and safe. I could look out over the side of the cockpit to the ground below. I could imagine dropping bombs on the trenches below. I could feel the aircraft responding to the wind changes. I could see the strut supports vibrating with the tension of holding the wings in place. We held our height at around 200ft for most of the flight (Martin told me this), and at the end the landing was amazingly smooth – hardly a bump! Would I do it again? You bet!

Sunday 6th December Christchurch

I have gone to bed and woken up in England a week earlier than I expected to. Either that or I am in Christchurch, New Zealand with its Anglican Cathedral in the main square, its rickety old trams, the River Avon winding its way through the centre of the city, gentlemen and ladies with parasols being punted along the river by straw-boatered ‘punters’, brushing their hands lazily in the still waters, and gazing at the sunshine through the overhanging weeping willow and horse chestnut trees, passing beneath elaborate arched bridges from which other folk are throwing bread to the mallard ducks below. Hang on! New Zealand is the land of volcanoes and earthquakes, of storm-tossed seas and occasional typhoons! What has happened? This city of just over 350,000 souls is the most quintessential English city you can find in NZ and probably the world! Very kindly, my guide book says that Christchurch has been ‘slower’ than other cities to embrace NZs new multi-ethnic culture. This is code for watch out for racists! Its conservatism is now has a cosmopolitan ‘tinge’. I will look out for that! The Church of England was the main driver behind the settlement of Christchurch in 1850, and the idea was that it would be a model of the English class structure transferred to the colonies – not another barbarian gold-diggers town! They built churches not pubs! And the Christchurch elite grew very wealthy from wool. It still is largely a ‘bi-cultural’ society ie white Europeans and Maoris. Funnily enough the few Maoris there are (only 5% of NZs Maoris live in the South Island) are pretty wealthy and own more land per family than their North Island counterparts.

This is my last full day in New Zealand as I fly to Bangkok tomorrow afternoon. I pick up a guide leaflet from the tourist centre , then breakfast at a street café just off Cathedral Square. Preparations are being made for the afternoon Santa Parade which will shut down the city centre for two hours – no trams will run then either. People are already staking their places at the roadside with deckchairs and sleeping bags. I long to tell them that Santa is not real but fear the shock may be too much for them. As well as the parade there is a cycling event around the perimeter of the square. I hope the organisers have got together with the parade organiser or else there will be some damage to cyclists or elves or both. I take a half hour ride on the tram which circles the city centre, the drive pointing out the sites. Back in Cathedral Square I am brave enough to ask a police officer what the consequences of my speeding ticket are likely to be. I had looked at the paperwork and seen that as well as the $400 fine I had been given 50 demerit points. The traffic officer had not explained these. ‘Well, ‘ he said,’ if you get a total of 100 demerit points you automatically lose your licence for three months. How fast were you going?’ I told him. ‘And where did you get caught?’ I told him. ‘Yeh,’ he mused,’ those long straight highways. You just have to put your foot down don’t you, and hope you don’t get caught.’ He could clearly see the look of puzzlement on my face, so added, ‘Of course, now that I am in the police I have to be a bit more careful.’ As a final point he told me that the demerit points stay on my licence for between three and five years! Aggh!

With this wonderful piece of news on my mind, I wander the tourist shops for a while as this will be my last NZ chance to pick up a trinket or two. Amazingly most of the souvenir clothing appears to be ‘designed in NZ’ but ‘made in China’. Is this supposed to make it seem more authentic? I head for the River Avon for a relaxing punt. It is too. I share the punt with three Aussies from Perth who are heading the way I have just come. The more I tell them the less time they feel they have allowed themselves in Queenstown. People wave at us from the bridges and some throw bread to us thinking we are a big duck! I then head for the Art museum, and spend an hour on the guide tour. A walk through the Botanic Gardens follows, and about an hour later I flop into my hotel room and promptly fall asleep! Too much English fresh air obviously!

A final message from New Zealand. I have traced the Shakespeare ‘Seven Ages of Man’ speech from ‘As You Like It’. Here it is below.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the canon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
(As You Like It, 2. 7. 139-167)