Small Voices of Reason

I have previously opined on the topic of democracy and I suspect there will be a collective switching off as these words are read.  However, such is my love of democracy and my strength of feeling for the need of its preservation, I am compelled to engage yet again with the vexed subject.  Why do I consider it vexed?  Let me explain.

We are surrounded by opinion.  If you pick up a newspaper, no longer do you read factual accounts of happenings but rather journalists’ and commentators’ opinions on those happenings.  In some cases, you can read a journalist’s opinion of what the commentator said about a news event.  Objectivity in print died before the injection of millions of dollars into print and other media to ‘encourage’ the reporting of a viewpoint.  The kind view is that journalism simply got lazy.  Some of us believe it has developed an agenda.

Radio and television are not immune from this malaise and it is difficult to witness objectivity in the reporting of journalists in these media as well.  And, despite the injection of significant capital into these areas in recent times, there appears to be a shrinking of organisations with resources to carry on the activity.  Less competition equates to more of the same from fewer sources.  News delivered as quickly and cheaply as possible seems to be the mantra from those running the networks.

And what does this have to do with democracy?  The oft repeated expression of an opinion becomes the commonly held view by the consumers of what passes for news and the media.  If you say something often enough and loud enough, people listen and start to believe what they are hearing repeatedly.  Sensationalist media outlets seeking headlining stories have little trouble finding material for willing reporters of gossip and innuendo to fill news programmes and our senses can be saturated by opinion if we allow it.

I have a built-in abhorrence for inconsistency and I am overloaded with examples of it on every front.  With very little study it is possible to see credibility gaps in stories that pop up daily on our news feeds and one wonders what the editors of news stories are thinking about the intelligence of viewers.  Either they hold us in very low esteem regarding our cognitive processes or they are engaged in pushing a particular viewpoint.

I often think in terms of the numbers such as what statistics are behind a particular poll result; how many people actually believe what they are hearing; what proportion of the population really subscribe to the general drift of political opinion being suggested by the media; what do the statistics say about who voted for what and for what purpose? 

There are some facts that might suggest a battle for the hearts and minds of the people has been going on.  For example, the burgeoning public service with its inflated ranks of PR people is a case in point.  NZTA is symptomatic of this with a reported huge expansion of communications specialists in the past six years while other government departments share similar experiences.  What do all these advisors do and how much of their workload is aimed at convincing the public they are doing a great job?

There is an old saying about the squeaky wheel getting attention and the principle applies to this discussion.  The squeaky wheels that are attracting attention to themselves at present all seem to represent a particular viewpoint but do the numbers stack up?  One of the matters much reported currently concerns the cause of a smaller section of our society wishing to change the constitution of the country in favour of co-governance and so the question must be asked: ‘How many of the people in that population segment actually want the changes much clamoured for in the media?’  My understanding is that, of the segment in question, the majority did not vote for the parties pushing the policies seeking co-governance.  The noise on the subject is coming from a loud and vocal minority whose motives are clear but their diction of the detail is fudged and obscured.

My earnest desire is that the silent majority would find its voice and begin to make clear to the policy makers that democracy cannot exist where all the change comes from the urging of a vocal minority.  Democracy demands that all voices are heard and I support the opportunity of all to be heard, even voices with messages I find abhorrent.  All I ask is that all sides of the story get an airing, as it was in the days when journalism was an honourable profession and hacks took pride in getting to the bottom of a story and were not satisfied with glossing over the truth.

Third Time Lucky – Or Was It?

Three years ago we finished the Otago Rail Trail, our second attempt at that, and began the Clutha Gold Trail with the section from Roxburgh to Millers Flat and return.  That night we received news of my sister’s distressing decline in health and my brother-in-law’s stroke suffered that day.  We immediately made plans to return to Nelson and left the Clutha Gold Trail for another day.

A year later we again attempted it and completed the two sections from Alexandra to Roxburgh dam, both ways, after completing the Dunstan Trail from Clyde to Cromwell.  We had plans to do the next two sections and relocated to Lawrence for two nights for that purpose but were thwarted by the failure of a bike battery that required us to return home to pursue replacement of it.

This year our return to the fray was preceded by two nights in Christchurch with friends and a week in a timeshare in Queenstown.  My navigator has a predilection for picnics (it could be worse) so, armed with thermos and salad, we set off from home with bikes carefully strapped to the back of the car. 

What nearly threw me, as I prepared the vehicle for the trip, was that the new bike, purchased thoughtfully for me in preparation for the trip, is about 100mm longer than its predecessor and, accordingly, the back wheel stuck out the driver’s side of the car alarmingly.  Our circumnavigation of the South Island was characterised by fearful hugging of the painted fog line to the left of the road and I have to confess to a few anxious moments when approaching wide vehicles on narrow bridges.  I’ll have to do something about that.

The purchase of a replacement velocipede was brought on by a combination of circumstances.  I had had some suspension bearings replaced on the previous trusty stead but complained to the bike mechanic the original noise that prompted the replacement of parts was still present.  He examined the bike and pronounced it had a cracked frame.  A second opinion confirmed to me it did not and that the noise of which I complained came from another suspension bearing not yet replaced.  However, this all enjoined a domestic discussion which, having reflected on the fact my trusty stead had travelled in excess of 25,000km, led to the purchase of a replacement.  Which is now too long for the car’s bike rack.

Our one day in Christchurch was spent playing tourists with our hosts – and how that city is coming back to life! – and shopping for a replacement window for our bach at Carters Beach.  The things you do when on holiday.  We also spent some time ‘dealing with’ the uncooperative staff of a furniture shop in Moorhouse Avenue where we had been asked to uplift a small table and transport it back to Nelson for friends.  It all started to go wrong when the surly staff member told us they didn’t wrap, didn’t have provision for wrapping and weren’t prepared to do anything to assist us protect said table from the ravages of travel around the bottom half of the country.  Finally, someone produced a large scrap of bubble wrap but we were firmly told they did not have tape.  Customer service indeed.  I used a quilt we have on the back seat of the car to affect a safety wrapping and that had to do.

Day three found us heading south again with a visit to a brother and sister-in-law in Ashburton.  We had lunch in Geraldine in a park (of course, another picnic) and then the interminable trip to Queenstown.  Fortunately, we arrived in time to catch the timeshare office person so could claim our key and begin the great unpack.

Some people have perfected the art of travelling light.  We are working on perfecting the art of travelling heavy.  Not only are there bikes on the back but the boot is fully loaded, as is the back seat.  It takes a lot of stuff to furnish a three week trip around the South Island, apparently.  We unloaded and set up camp in the same unit we occupied on a previous stay, only to find the incredibly hard bed we complained about last time was still there.  After one night on it I was very sore; after two I was virtually crippled.

The first thing we did after arrival was to seek out somewhere to eat, it being late in the day and the picnic having provided the sum of our sustenance to date that day.  Queenstown is now awash with places to eat although I discovered one or two have not remained since our last visit.  Joe’s Garage, for instance, was not hiding down the lane in the position it had occupied previously.  The place we chose turned out to be relatively fine dining – I’m in shorts and tee shirt – and we were ignored for close to 15 minutes after sitting down.  I suggested we move on but the service person at the front desk caught my eye and enquired if we were not staying.  When I pointed out the apparent busyness of the place and the lack of attentiveness, he personally took our order and we got to eat, but only after a further significant wait.

Our time in Queenstown was relaxed and pleasant.  We visited two cousins, one for a cuppa and catch up and the other to give a day to packing china, pottery and kitchenware in preparation for their removal to Nelson.  Yes, it’s true.  Even people living in Queenstown can see the light.  Another day was spent biking from Arrowtown to Gibbston Valley winery for lunch along the picturesque Arrow River and over the old Kawerau Gorge bridge where the screams of dare devils bungying off the bridge gave me cold shivers.  Another day we did the obligatory ride around the side of the lake to Kelvin Peninsula and explored the gardens which have undergone a remarkable tidy up over the years.

Day 11 dawned showery and cold and with a fresh dust of snow on the Remarkables.  We did the heavy transfer of possessions from timeshare to car, strapped the bikes on the back and headed out for Beaumont.  The weather was clearing by the time we got to Cromwell so we had to stop for fruit followed by coffee while She enjoyed her favourite spring rolls from the bakery.  Apparently spring rolls don’t have the same appeal when packed in a picnic.  It’s something to do with the temperature, I’m told.

Another stop at Alexandra preceded the winding trip to Roxburgh for lunch, then on to Beaumont where we found a surprisingly good old fashioned pub room waiting for us.  The girl looking after the bar was a local farm girl home for university holidays and she had the country hospitality thing down to a fine art.  We enjoyed our overnight there in a very comfortable bed and set out the next morning in cold overcast conditions for the ride to Millers Flat and return.  The ride there was enlivened by a pet lamb that responded to my ‘baaa’ and chased us for half a kilometre down the track.  I can only assume it was a pet as it came running towards us then followed but why it was on a public bike track I can only guess.

The pub and café at Millers Flat were both closed – thank goodness for prepared picnics – and the cold rain set in on our return journey so it was fairly unpleasant riding back.  The track surface is a lovely golden sand that sticks to everything moving on a bike and turns into a type of grinding paste so much water had to be applied at the first opportunity, which was on our arrival at Lawrence.  We had a catch up with the owners we met on our last stay there and discovered they had three days previously handed the reins to new owners of the Prospector Café and Motels.  The new people are just as nice but at that stage were totally overwhelmed with the process of learning the ropes.

Day 12 had us up and about and riding back to Beaumont.  It is a pleasant ride and the weather was much kinder so we enjoyed the ascent up to the tunnel and down to Beaumont for a coffee before the return to Lawrence.  In the afternoon we drove to Tuapeka Mouth to see the ferry we had been told about.  Because it is unpowered it is considered part of the road and there is no cost to use it.

You may be able to make out the wire ropes to the right of the picture where a pulley is attached to rope running across the river.  When a car is loaded the operator moves the rudders to port and that noses the pontoons out into the current, which in turn moves the boat across the river.  Speed is regulated by the pitch of the rudders – the sharper the angle, the faster it goes.  By moving the rudders to starboard the craft slows down and arrival at the other side is a gentle thump, apparently.  It’s all very clever, efficient and based on ancient and natural principles.

The next day we rode as far as Waitahuna where we discovered a coffee cart set up near an old railway siding.  The owner of the cart is rebuilding a goods shed and that will become a café and place to stop and visit.  Our intention had been to ride on to Manuka Gorge which is about halfway to Milton but I was so sore by this stage (revenge of the Queenstown bed) we were forced to return and that was the end of our third attempt at completing the Clutha Gold.  On return to Lawrence we had lunch and drove through to Milton which was to have been our staging point for the last two legs of the trail, one to Manuka Gorge and the other to Lake Waihola and the end of the track.  Instead we spent Day 14 driving to Lake Waihola to visit friends there who are completing a house overlooking the lake from the other side from the township. It has a commanding view of the whole lake and surrounds and is quite impressive.

Our two nights spent at Milton were interesting.  Bev and her husband own the St Johns Court Motel near the kink in the road – there’s a story to the kink but you will have to ask someone else for that – and Bev likes to yarn.  Because we got there in good time we got to choose our unit and we tried to find one with an agreeable mattress.  It meant that a) we were there ahead of the dozen motorcyclists (all Harleys – the bikes, not the motorcyclists) and b) we were on the other side of the complex away from the surrounding noise.  All through the latter part of our trip to that point we had been encountering large numbers of motorbikes and we were told that one week was leading up to a Vincent rally and the next week was leading up to the annual Bert Munro meeting.

We tried out the Kink in the Road pub for a very agreeable meal one night and explored the range of tractors available for sale in the town.  A sign leading into Miton promises a town with opportunities.  Maybe if you are an agricultural contractor.  The fire engines went screaming past the motel on one occasion and there was a thick pall of black smoke in the distance but that appeared the sum of opportunities for excitement.  Several kids rode past on their bikes chasing the fire engines but we weren’t tempted.  Her bike had a flat tyre by that stage anyway.

Day 15 was threatening with rain again as we headed back along the road we had previously travelled and we had few stops as we were on a mission to be in Wanaka by 10am.  We met up with friends from way back – haven’t seen them for 11 years we worked out – and caught up over coffee at our favourite Wanaka café, appropriately named ‘Ritual’.  She had organised yet another picnic so after saying farewell to our friends we headed for Makarora where DoC has created a great roadside facility with picnic shelters and toilets.  All that is missing is a firearm suitable for shooting sandflies.  If they don’t carry you off they’ll eat you alive.

The view from the Gates of Haast bridge was as beautiful as ever and we had little rain before arriving at the Heartland Hotel in Haast where we settled into a motel unit, next to about 20 Harleys and Indian motorbikes, all on the way to Invercargill for the Bert Munro.  The pub was satisfactory in all respects except when I asked for a Caesar Salad and was told it didn’t have anchovies or an egg.  I mean, how disappointing is that?  Steak and chips made for a tasty replacement along with a heap of witty repartee with surrounding tables.  It happens wherever we go and if you can’t have a picnic, use the opportunity for a chat with the surrounding people.  It’s only a matter of time and you will find a point of common interest – people you know, are related to, have lived next to, who went to see the same film etc etc.

Day 16 started fine and without sandflies as we headed north towards Hokitika.  We were pleasantly surprised by the buzz of tourist activity at both glacier villages and we contributed to the economy of one by stopping for coffee and a very ordinary scone.  There really is an art to making scones and I don’t think it has filtered through to that part of the world yet.  Arrival at Hokitika was in time for lunch and we settled ourselves into our daughter’s house and awaited her arrival from work.  She had been to Canterbury for a load of logs so we didn’t expect her home too early but were pleasantly surprised when she appeared before five.  It’s a long day but she copes with it.

Day 16 started without too much early morning noise as they headed out to work long before we were out of bed.  We rode into town along a new part of the Wilderness Trail, down the side of the river behind the dairy factory.  We wandered the town looking to see what was new before buying groceries and riding back to where we were staying.  Of course I had to take the photo.

As you can see, the day was fair.

Day 17 found us on the road again, this time heading for Westport.  We visited friends in Greymouth before stopping at the dementia ward of Grey Hospital to visit a very good friend who resides there.  His wife lives in Westport but faithfully travels to see him three times a week, staying overnight on one occasion each week.  It’s a huge commitment and we admire her for it.  Pat was in good form and made us laugh a few times and it is good to see he is being looked after so well.

Then it was lunch and on the road again, arriving at Carters Beach by mid-afternoon.  It is always good to arrive there and the bonus was to find the lawns freshly mowed by a kind neighbour who keeps an eye out for our place.  There was little to do this time in the way of maintenance and, apart from some gib stopping, we largely had a few free days of visiting, entertaining people, relaxing and riding the Kawatiri trail.  Very good.

Day 21 finally arrived and we were packed ready to go so early we were ahead of the washing machine.  We made a quick trip into Westport to say goodbye and, after returning to hang up washing, we shut up the bach and headed for home.  Our arrival was greeted by people from all sides and we discovered our dear neighbours had not only looked after the garden but planted more for us and there was an invitation to an evening meal, to save us cooking.  How good is that?

In summary, my reflections of the three weeks include being grateful for a wonderful ‘backyard’ in which to recreate, great weather in which to do it, lots of friends to visit and places to see, and kind neighbours who really care about us.  Who could ask for more?

And Whether Pigs Have Wings

Just over nine years ago I was persuaded (read ‘told’) I was writing a blog to chronicle our planned adventures in Europe and Asia.  It started with a trial run, the subject of which was cycling, and the reason for that was twofold; I needed a topic for my trial and I had recently begun riding with a friend on a semi-regular basis.  Three bikes later and quite a few thousand kilometres travelled, I’m still enjoying the experience.

Perhaps I should refresh memories with a quick reprise from part of that initial attempt at emitting into the blogosphere.  One paragraph went thus:  ‘The first few attempts at being upwardly positioned and forwardly mobile at the same time on two wheels caused great discomfort to the seating arrangement of my person.  I was forced to make frequent stops for the relieving of pressure on that part of my anatomy I refer to as my situpon.  Foam rubber inserts in the seat of my pants were tried but were ungainly to retain in position and looked suspiciously like incontinence aids.  The embarrassment was almost worse than the discomfort so it was cold turkey treatment for me.  The pain in my legs was concerning and the lungs cried out for air in coughing fits that caused me to pause the activity or fall off.  Each small incline took on the proportions of an Everest and I was frequently running out of gears.  I began to realise just how unfit I had allowed myself to become.’

And so it continued in similar vein with reference to progress towards first, reconciliation with the activity, then enjoyment.  It’s been a long nine years but I’m still enjoying getting out and doing it.

It hasn’t all been without its share of interesting excursions from the straight and narrow however.  My current stead has traversed nearly 24,000 kilometres and I have to confess that some of that distance was accompanied with painful incidents.  There have been more than a few tumbles, some cracked ribs and lots of bruises and scratches, a few bent and broken parts on the bike and some parting with cash in repairs, all of which were painful.  I’ve been knocked over by a car, had my bike eaten by another when a distracted motorist was backing and ran over it, I’ve been attacked by hedges and tree branches when I wasn’t paying sufficient attention and I’ve bounced off a number of extraneous objects cunningly planted to do me harm.  Would I change anything?  Never.  I have benefitted hugely from the experience and have met some great people.

Best of all are the interesting memories gleaned along the way.  There have been close encounters of the canine kind, not all of which have left me smiling.  Many of the dogs’ owners left me shaking my head in wonderment.  There have been peculiar people and places and lots of sites, scenes and a few herds.  I’ve delighted in collecting photos of funny signs that pop up along the way, some of which have made it into my collected memories. 

And here’s one that has intrigued me for some time.  See what you think.

At first glance it appears to be an instruction to dogs and it begs the question of how well they are equipped to comply.  After all, cows have bells and some even have horns but can they use them to sound a warning?  Then there’s the matter of thumbs and apposition and all that theoretical nonsense that educated people argue for the sake of it.  One has the opportunity to consider such matters of gravity as one cycles merrily along.

Biking in different parts of the country affords opportunity to meet people one would not otherwise have a chance to converse with and many have been the times that impromptu companions are acquired for however long the moment allows.  In a motel complex in Lawrence we met up with the sister of someone we know well in Nelson.  In a café in Wanaka we chanced upon a good friend of friends of ours, also from Nelson.  On the banks of the mighty Lake Taupo we bumped into someone who had taught with a close family friend of ours from Mangawhai.  Each of these, and many other examples, came about because a conversation was embarked upon and the connections were established.

I’ll leave you with the account of a little incident that took place at a café not far from here but sufficiently out in the country to denote we had biked some distance.  A group of us feel into conversation with a young couple who were obviously travelling through and who had stopped for refreshments.   When asked where we had biked from, I replied in great seriousness, “Do you know where Picton is?”  “Wow!” came the astounded reply.  “You biked all the way from Picton?”  “No.  I just wondered if you knew where it was.”

The Nine Bed Tour of Almost Everywhere

It was a tour of miscalculations.  Even the period of absence from our habitual domicile was anticipated incorrectly and our neighbours, bidding us a fond farewell on a sunny Monday, did so under the misapprehension we would be returning in a fortnight.  Three weeks later, we did return, but only after engaging in a number of other mathematically misaligned adventures.  Details to follow.

Thinking we would avoid a very early uprising on Tuesday morning followed by the inevitable dash to Picton to catch the (occasional) Interislander, we arranged with friends at Renwick to spend Monday night with them, which we did.  Paul was in the middle of the grape harvest, starting each morning at 3am, so we bid him an early good night and goodbye.  After all the unpromising publicity about the non-service of the ferries we were prepared for almost anything and asked our hosts to leave the sheets on the bed just in case.  To our amazement, the ferry went exactly on time with the sea in the Strait as flat as a mill pond.

We stayed that night with friends who live in another Arvida village, this one on what was Athletic Park, in Wellington.  They had a nosey around ours a couple of years ago and were so impressed they sold up and moved into theirs.  We were given the tour next morning and got to meet some of the staff, whereupon She moved into sales mode and sold them all on the ideas on which our village is based.  The concept of resident-led self-government of lifestyle and activities seems not to have occurred to residents of other villages and there was much oohing and aahing as She shared our way of life with various staff and residents as we encountered them.  She even persuaded one staff member to visit our village and see for herself what it is all about.

Overnight, the Wellington wind had water blasted our bikes and I was of the outspoken opinion that, had the electrics drowned, I was shouting myself a new bike.  After all, mine has only done 23,000 km and should be good for another similar distance but if it failed, I was setting myself up for a new one.  I had attempted to cover the bikes in the howling wind and rain the previous evening but the cover was threatening to tear to shreds so I left them to the forces of nature.  It seems strange now that the Cook Strait had been so benign during the day but apparently a southerly storm came in after we arrived.  There were reports that day of 7 metre swells and sailings were cancelled.  We travelled north over the new and much vaunted Transmission Gully road and stopped for lunch at Waikanae, hoping to meet up with my great nephew in his lunch hour.  That didn’t eventuate but we did meet up with a friend just out of Palmerston North who is going through gruelling cancer treatment.  We found her in remarkable spirits and then moved on to the home of a friend living in Palmerston North.

The following day was spent meeting up with more friends and acquaintances and walking the central city area of town.  We had lunch with a former colleague from the tertiary sector, now at Massey University, and explored the square and inner sectors of Palmy.  The following day it was time to get on the road again and, after breakfast at Bulls, we traversed the desert road to Turangi for coffee and on to Taupo where we checked into our timeshare unit for the week.  Other weeks spent there have tended to drag a little as there is a limit to the number of times you need to walk the length of the foreshore, and Craters of the Moon tends to lose its attraction after the first visit.  With bikes, however, we were out and about and really enjoyed exploring a little further afield with the ability to break outside the confines of walking distance.

The weekend did not boast the clearest of weather and the temperature was cool so we didn’t venture far, apart from walking, until things cleared with the new week.  Then it was out on the bikes equipped with thermos to see what we could see.  We settled for a clockwise rotation of travel around the lake and found our way to Five Mile Bay where I discovered that geographical naming and actual distance of travel sometimes bear little resemblance.  When I went to school five miles roughly equated to eight kilometres but the speedo on my bike told a different story entirely.  We also discovered some interesting and entertaining people with whom to converse.  First there was a sprightly 83 year old who was out on her bike every day and, in company with her daughter, rode to the same picnic table with her thermos to survey the other end of the lake from a distance.  We quickly discovered there were people and places of interest in common and we undertook to keep a watch out for them on a daily basis.

On another day we loaded the trusty steads on the carrier and drove the circuitous way to Kinloch.  Had I used the GPS we would have been denied an interesting but rather long journey that at one stage had us heading for Taumarunui.  At the fairly insistent advice of my co-pilot I finally loaded our intended destination in the satnav and found our way to Kinloch by the lake.  Our intention was to bike the track to Kawakawa Bay and return but poor signage had us heading in the other direction again until we stopped and consulted some locals.  Then it was on the track and around the side of the lake for a short while before the track headed inland and upwards.  It quickly became apparent there were some mitigating circumstances with regard to our progress.  The track was narrow, winding through scrub, steeply uphill in places and frequented by gungho individuals going the other way at considerable rates of knots and with precious little regard for theirs or others’ safety.  We held a brief trackside conference and decided to return to the parking place and drink our thermos contents in the gentle company of ducks and motor homers admiring the view.

We had on a previous afternoon attempted to find the track to Huka Falls but only succeeded in finding the A J Hackett bungy, something that appeared on neither of our wish lists.  So, after leaving Kinloch on the approved road, back we went to the Prawn Farm for a delicious lunch of prawns where we watched the Huka Falls jet boat driver doing his best to scare the living daylights out of a dozen people on each trip.  On the way back to Taupo we looked at the tracks that make up the Falls hub and decided we might try something a little less dangerous, like swimming with piranha.

Our final day at the timeshare started with another visit to Five Mile Bay where we encountered the same cyclists as well as making the acquaintance of a few more likely people out and about on bikes.  One couple from Auckland knew some of our family friends – what are the chances? – and another couple had just returned from visiting Nelson and knew our area well.  They related how they had ventured out on the tracks around Huka Falls and that’s what they had had.  More than one each.  I felt vindicated in our avoidance of them. 

Then it was Friday and time to pack up and leave, this time heading east.  Our original intention had been to circumnavigate the East Cape and we should have been heading north to Tauranga where friends had been waiting to make us welcome but recent weather events made that impractical.  We decided we didn’t need to spend four or five days looking at flood damage so decided to head to Hawkes Bay and on down to the Wairarapa.  She made a booking to stay in a Masterton motel for four nights and we knew we needed to stop off somewhere on the way so another motel was booked in Hastings for one night, allowing us to catch up with friends in Havelock North and enjoy a meal with them.

The GPS took us through Hastings suburban streets until we ended up in a quiet cul-de-sac outside a nice new home.  This was our motel.  It turned out to be an AirBnB and was absolutely delightful.  We enjoyed a lovely meal and catch up with our friends, the Carsons (no relation) and a comfortable stay at our ‘motel’.  Then onward again to Masterton.

I neglected to make mention of what we experienced as we approached Napier.  We had heard lots of news reports of what happened in Esk Valley but nothing could prepare us for the sensory overload.  Because of ongoing road works, the two hour journey from Taupo took us three and a half hours and what a heart break it was to see such devastation.  Vineyards with silt up to the top of the vines, fruit trees with high water marks in the top branches, houses pushed off their foundations and filled with flood debris, farm vehicles including tractors, utes and trucks overturned and washed up against obstacles such as fences and shelter belts.  There are no words to do justice to the damage we saw and the personal loss those people must be experiencing.  It was indeed sobering.

Masterton was to have housed us from Saturday night until Wednesday morning but the great planning debacle was yet to unfold some more twists and turns.  On the way I casually mentioned that in my humble opinion the stated dates did not line up with my impression of reality.  It seemed we were booked in the motel from Sunday.  To add insult to uncertainty, She had arranged for us to visit family in Upper Hutt on Wednesday evening but we would still be in Masterton then and it would mean another trip over the hill.  Fortunately, someone I know is very handy with a wide selection of apps on her phone and it wasn’t long before She was working her magic with Booking.com or some such.  She reasoned that if we could visit family in Upper Hutt on Saturday night we could stay over that side of the hill until Sunday when we could go back to Masterton and take possession of our allotted motel.  However, it seemed all the motels were full in Upper Hutt and a lot of the BnBs had a ‘minimum of five nights’ policy so She drew a blank.

The upshot was that She contacted people we know who operate a BnB near Upper Hutt and asked if they were booked, which they weren’t, so we were able to stay there at short notice and it was handy to where we wanted to spend the evening with family.  On Sunday we were at last permitted to take up temporary residence in Masterton and we spent that evening with former workmates of both of us from NMIT days.

Monday morning had us out exploring the town of Masterton on our bikes.  There proved to be a good selection of tracks along river banks and around parks and we also checked out the timetable of the train service into Wellington.  Tuesday morning was spent exploring further tracks and interviewing the driver of the bus that filled in for the trains during the day.  Our interest was in learning if we could get ourselves and our bikes over the hill to Maymorn railway station to begin the Rimutaka rail trail ride.  Having satisfied ourselves it was possible (the driver asked if I could drive his bus while he rode my bike – but I called his bluff by showing him my licence!) we spent the afternoon exploring Martinborough. 

Wednesday morning we loaded the bikes and drove to Featherston where we had an ordinary cup of coffee and waited at the station for the bus to come.  The general opinion of towns in the Wairarapa ranges from interesting to uninspiring.  Greytown has a certain vibe and seems to have a lot going on, particularly in the weekend, but places like Carterton leave much to be desired.  I failed to find a lot to attract me to Featherston and even Masterton doesn’t have me champing at the bit to return.  I feel it was a case of ‘been there, done that’.  I will say, however, that everyone was friendly and even one traffic cop seemed to want to flash his lights and wave as we approach.

The bus driver, who had just returned to work from a visit to Central Otago to ride the Dunstan track and a visit to in-laws at Riwaka, was sympathetic to our cause and seemed not to mind wrestling our bikes into the luggage compartment under the stairs in the double decker bus.  We were both very impressed with his handling of such a large vehicle over the winding road of the Rimutakas and we were deposited on the side of the road at a place called Te Marua where there was a shop and not a lot else.  I sought directions to the rail trail from a young man who immediately asked me directions to the nearest poo pond.  He was driving a septic tank cleaning truck and knew as little as I did about local features.

It was an interesting period of an hour that passed before we finally found ourselves on the rail trail, having missed Maymorn Station and the first section of the track, including the first tunnel.  It was a relief to find that the slog up through a bush track after a long gully road lead us to the relatively gentle incline of the rail trail.  Relief was slightly dampened when it started to rain and it was quite cold.  The higher we got, the colder it got and finally I had to resort to an almost dry jersey in my saddlebag that at least kept the cold wet of my jacket off my arms and body.  Then my battery failed but I also had a spare for that so it was onwards and upwards to the summit.

The track is quite an historic piece of engineering and on the previous Saturday night we had viewed a ten minute video of the railway in the 1950s with the four Fell engines slogging their little hearts out lugging a train up the incline on the Wairarapa side of the hill.  While the Wellington side is moderate in slope, the other side really is not and we were constantly on the brakes as we descended rapidly.  There is one very high swing bridge that She was game enough to ride over but I walked, all the while carefully avoiding making eye contact with the plummeting depths.  Consequently, I have no idea how high it is but I’m sure it is way about my sense of propriety.

At a place called Cross Creek we took another wrong track and had to double back to a misleading sign that told us the track end was two kilometres ahead.  Again, my sense of time passing and the bike’s speedo both witnessed to the fact the sign was telling porky pies.  At last we arrived at the road where a sign advised it was 10km into Featherston so we decided to turn on the power and get there as quickly as possible.  We had ridden well over 40km in total and through cold wet conditions and were both ready for a hot shower and home, not to mention a bite of very late lunch.

Back at our motel we showered and dressed and walked the short distance to the local club where we were welcomed like old friends by people we had just met and given a place of honour in a large circle of friends who met there on a Wednesday evening for a meal.  I was given a tour of the facilities and admired the magnificent billiard tables as well as a rather fine collection of trophy heads, most over 16 points with good span and heavy timber.  We enjoyed a convivial evening and a good meal and walked back to the motel to prepare to pack and leave in the morning.

I should pause and make comment on some of our neighbours in the motel complex.  There were five units across the back of the complex and they all appeared to be inhabited by beneficiaries of the social housing scheme.  I was sad to see young people, as young as primary school age, sitting around with devices in their hands all day while the adults came and went in cars or on a Harley Davidson motorcycle carrying liquid supplies in large quantities.  Two young women came and went each day and on their return were habitually swigging on wine bottles as they walked.  It felt sad that life can contain so little purpose that there is nothing more than that to look forward to each day.

On Thursday we headed once more over the Rimutaka hill, this time again on the road, and made our way into Wellington where we had arrangements to lunch with one friend and visit some others.  Then it was out to Petone where a former workmate of mine was waiting to host us for the night.  Next day at the appointed time we were lined up waiting for the Interislander and low and behold, it was there ready for us.  In addition, it left 20 minutes early.  This time there was a gentle swell in the Strait, just enough to discourage me from reading, but not enough to inhibit other activities such as enjoying lunch.  We docked on time but took forever to unload so any time we gained leaving early was well lost at Picton. 

Our friends in Renwick welcomed us again and I left bikes and some of the freight we had picked up in Masterton for my brother-in-law in our friends’ shed.  Then we loaded up a large machine that cracks walnut shells and next morning headed for Kaikoura where we stayed with friends and spent two afternoons and evenings shelling walnuts for a fundraiser in aid of an Indian orphanage.  She had posted a message on our village’s FaceAche site advertising shelled walnuts and, as a result, we spent until 10.30 on Sunday night filling all the orders! 

Monday morning we were away bright and early and, after dropping off the machine and retrieving bike and freight, we headed for home on the last leg of a really delightful break away.  I have to say there is no place like home and it was capped off by the welcome we received and the beautiful roast meal waiting for us cooked by neighbours.  We are truly blessed.

As a footnote, I have an idea some of you might be making a mental tally to see if my heading is accurate.  Technically, we had 10 stops but because one of the beds was the same one twice, I only counted it once.  It’s good to know there is accountability and that someone is checking to see that what is written is accurate.  I wish the same applied to the media.

Contemplations on Confinement

Whoever coined the phrase, ‘splendid isolation’, had not suffered the privations of Covid.  What can possibly be splendid about the confinement that accompanies, of necessity, the accoutrement of that dreaded bug?  What can be laudatory or uplifting about all that goes with enforced separation from anything remotely ‘normal’?  I’m at a loss to know.

I’m in day three of my ‘splendid isolation’ and believe I’m in a good position to comment.  Perhaps it has something to do with the physical symptoms that are so much part of the virus – the sore throat, headache, hacking cough and sneezes, feverish hot and cold alternate attacks or maybe the running tissues – and certainly feeling slightly better than death warmed up does not enhance ones view on life.  Perhaps it’s something as simple as looking forward to a week without Christmas.

But I believe there is something in being separated from the normal that throws one out of kilter more than somewhat.  We are social animals, after all, and we thrive on contact with our fellow travellers in our part of the planet.  I agree there are the few exceptions we meet from time to time who are best left to their own devices and I myself can usually exist quite well in my own company – for some time.  But I prefer it to be on my terms, not having it enforced upon me and I think the element of compulsion is the determining factor in this fascinating equation.

If we trace the evolution of our country’s response to the outbreak of the current pandemic we find an interesting phenomenon in the public’s attitude.  At first there was shock and all that goes with it but largely there was acceptance.  This was new, unknown and surely our government had access to the best advice so what they required in the way of isolation seemed reasonable.  People hunkered down and did as they were instructed, in most cases. 

But then came the long periods of waiting and further compulsions in the form of requirements to receive a vaccine that we had to accept with a little blind faith.  I myself was convinced of its safety by someone who had been personally studying the developing technology behind the vaccine for a number of years and who was able to satisfy me that I was not risking my life or health by being injected with it.  There were others, however, who did not have access to this scientific data and they were required to follow the ‘blind faith’ path, which was quite scary for many.  The mandating of vaccinations for continuance of employment was the final straw for many and the last vestiges of universal compliance began to crumble.  We saw open riots in the streets of our capital for the first time in many years.

I do not wish to debate the many complexities of the peripheries to this pandemic but I am convinced of one thing: it has brought out the best and the worst in society.  It has made me question my own response to small and annoying things that should otherwise not concern me; it has made me think about tolerance and acceptance and free speech and it has made me question whether or not our post-Covid world is the one I’m totally happy with.

Maybe I’ll feel differently next week when I’m better and out of isolation.

Hold Up At a Gun Shop

This week I saw a news report of a burglary at a Gun City shop in Christchurch and it reminded me of an incident that involved me earlier in the year.  While I do not agree with or have supportive feelings for any sort of dishonesty, it occurred to me there was an element of irony linking the two events.  There is some background to the story so I hope you can bear with the narrative.

When I was a high school student my father promised me that, when I passed School Certificate, I would inherit his vintage Remington pump action .22 rifle, which I was then using for shooting rabbits on the farm.  At the appointed time I took possession of the rifle and have legally owned it from that day.  Recently, I made the decision I no longer wanted to own it and decided to have it valued.  I visited an independent dealer in a nearby village and saw a similar rifle for sale with a tag bearing the legend $825 on it.  With my hopes somewhat raised I approached the dealer and he asked to view the item.  I went home and packed it carefully in the back of my truck but before venturing out I made the mistake of mentioning to a significant other my intentions.  She insisted I get another opinion and subsequently I found myself in the nearby Gun City shop before going back to the independent dealer. 

The young man who served me at Gun City inspected the rifle and asked how many rounds of ammunition it could hold, to which I replied that it had always held nine longs and ten shorts.  Without a word he took it out the back and was gone for some time.  When he reappeared he proceeded to load it with plastic replica bullets and pronounced at the completion it was capable of holding 11, much to my surprise.  I had not been counting so was unable to verify his tally but I knew that recent law changes meant it was no longer legal if indeed it could hold that number of rounds.

I decided to retrieve my property and fulfil my original intention of obtaining a valuation from the independent dealer but was told that before I could remove my own rifle from their premises I must first show my firearms licence.  I began searching the many pockets of my wallet but was unable to locate it and was told I would need to leave it there until I could produce the licence. 

Feeling somewhat aggrieved, I withdrew and returned home to search our house from top to bottom only to discover there was no sign of my licence.  I immediately began the process of obtaining a replacement licence but found that police stations in places smaller than Nelson city are no longer manned.  I eventually travelled into Nelson and presented myself at the police station counter with the necessary fee to pay for a replacement.  After filling in a number of forms and paying the fee, I was given a receipt and the number of the licence – which, I later discovered, was available to Gun City staff members had they consulted their database – and I returned to reclaim my firearm.

Imagine my surprise when I asked for my rifle to be advised that, because it was a noncompliant firearm, I could not take it out of the shop.  I decided to cut my losses and, thinking I could shorten the agony of the exercise encountered to that point, asked what price Gun City would pay for my rifle.  They had explained they could make the necessary modifications to make it legal so it seemed one way out of what had become a most unpleasant experience.  The young man serving me informed me regretfully that they could only offer $25, despite having just told me they could make it legal very quickly and easily.

I was forced to withdraw and consider my options, one of which turned out to be the option I chose.  I contacted a local gun smith who agreed to pick up the firearm and make it legal, whereupon I was able to uplift it from him.  I took it straight to the independent dealer who showed interest in my story of dealing with Gun City, commenting that I should have taken it to him first.  Initially I agreed wholeheartedly but changed my tune as the conversation progressed.  He asked me how much they had offered and I foolishly let slip that it had not been an offer worth considering.  He then offered less than he had, at our first meeting, indicated he might be prepared to pay me for it.

Them’s the breaks, as they say.

Decline of Democracy

Someone once expressed the following sentiment: “Democracy means that, while I may not agree with your opinion, I will defend to the death your freedom to express it”.  It’s a noble concept and one that served our society well for many years.  That is, until the advent of something called ‘hate speech’.

I’ve been reading a fascinating book entitled “The School That Escaped the Nazis” and I’m amazed at the similarity in the signs of the times between then and those we face presently.  The book recounts, using reported first-hand experience, how Germany began to change in 1933 following the rise of the Nazi regime.  Over a period of two years many fair minded citizens were convinced there was a section of their community that didn’t fit, didn’t belong and which was ‘sub human’ and division was created in the fabric of that society.  The book explains how ordinary people were led to believe they should shun their ‘non-Aryan’ neighbours and that they were performing a national service by making their lives intolerable. 

During last year we witnessed a farmer-led protest involving tractors and utes up and down the country demonstrating to the government that a section of our productive community felt threatened by policy decisions made in Wellington.  Some might argue they were exercising their democratic right to be heard.  I was part of a conversation sometime after that when I heard a friend reply, when asked what she thought of the protest, that “they are just a bunch of red necks”.  She was referring to representatives of a group that produces around 80% of our GDP and yet felt comfortable righting them off is such a fashion.

I wish to make it clear I am not someone who admires protest action and I will generally avoid it at all costs.  However, after hearing that, I had half a mind to join the next convoy, should there be one, simply to protest against the sentiment.  The idea that you can denigrate in such a fashion a large and productive section of society simply because you don’t agree with them is not something that sits well with me.

It seems that we are being pressed into a mould that allows only a narrow frame of reference for thought and expression.  Millions of dollars annually is now spent on ensuring a particular brand of ‘news’ is reported in our media and this is a fact well documented in the public domain.  Official information requests will, and have, furnished documentary evidence to explain how much money is transferred to media interests and the outlines of how it is to be spent.  The fourth estate was once independent of government and business influence, reporting impartially on the happenings of the day both here and internationally.  I am literally sickened by the mush that is presented at 6pm daily on television.  It is neither balanced nor impartial.

The current lead up to local body elections is another example of social conditioning in action.  Voices For Freedom appears to be a collective of people throughout the country who dislike aspects of the government’s handling of various issues from the nationalisation of water control to co-governance to mandated vaccinations.  I have had nothing to do with this group but have heard comments made about them and their views.  Of interest to me has been the media coverage of just those candidates who appear to have links to the VFF group or their sentiments and I struggle with the idea that one group of aspirants for office is singled out for attention while other candidates are ignored in the media.  Where is the balance and impartiality?

I have been criticised for expressing my thoughts on such matters previously and I have no desire to be provocative.  However, it does appear the mood of our nation is changing and it is difficult to fail to notice the links to a more pervasive government with stated intentions to enlarge the parameters of its influence.  Having read of the experience of others in a similar situation nearly a hundred years ago I can’t help but wonder if it could all happen again.  I hope and pray it does not.

The Nine Shower Tour of Oz

There are many ways of categorising trips overseas and I’ve attempted a few in my time.  On this occasion, however, I thought I’d go for something a little different.  And before you ask, no, I did not limit my five week trip to just a handful of showers; rather, I counted up the different facilities whereby one effects full body cleansing that were used in our stay across the ditch.  The varying quality of these shower facilities was enormous and surprising and ranged from the drippy ordinary to the most salubrious of rain head sensations.  I do not intend to bore you with a run down on the score but be assured I was keenly aware of the differences.  Perhaps, by way of illustration, I’ll give you a sample of best and worst but you will have to wait until we get to the salient part in the narrative to learn more.

On the morning of our departure our longsuffering number 3 granddaughter was dutifully waiting out in the carpark at 4.45am – yes, there is such a time – and conveyed us to Nelson airport where we found there were other likeminded souls braving the early hour and the growing seasonal coolness of temperature.  Even more surprising, there were staff members there to answer questions and assist check in.  We settled in to wait until our flight to Christchurch was called with coffee and chat.

Number 1 daughter, who was accompanying us, caused the first incident when walking the concourse towards our appointed departure gate in the Christchurch international airport.  A border official with dog in tow was walking in the other direction and as our groups met the dog did an abrupt about turn and headed straight back to our daughter.  He did not ‘display’, as they say in the trade, but merely walked close with his little nose very close to her person.  The handler hauled him away and it was only then that our daughter remembered she was wearing a jacket she last wore to puppy play school and it still had some dog treats in a pocket.  I’m as keen as anyone to meet new people but not if they are wearing an official uniform and wish to take an active interest in my personal liberty.

Landing in Brisbane was a trip back in memory as the warm moist air greeted us outside the air conditioned building.  The first pleasant surprise was to find various members of Her family there to greet us.  The second was getting upgraded to a larger, newer rental car by a young man working for the rental company who had spent time as a ‘wwoofer’ (willing worker on organic farms) in the Nelson area a few years ago.  We caught him up on local gossip and he reciprocated by making sure we got the best car available.

Our first night was spent in an apartment organised for us by bro-in-law, suitably close to his place for meals and other entertainment but also close enough to walk into the city next morning, which we did.  Number 2 daughter, also accompanying us, had spent time there but number 1 had not so we spent a couple of hours getting her familiar with the centre of town and some of the landmarks.  Then it was a train ride back to pick up our car and head for Toowooba, the scene of the weekend’s nuptials.

It is fairly hard to accurately describe the establishment chosen by the bride to celebrate her wedding but I’ll start with rustic.  Imagine, if you will, your granddaddy’s farm barn and tidy it a little – but don’t remove the possum living in the rafters – and build a kitchen at one end.  Work your way around the group of houses and other assorted farm buildings scattered around and convert all spaces within each into places to put beds.  Ensure there is a toilet and shower, plus hand basin, in each building but do not remove livestock or insects from any of them, especially the little green tree frogs that adorn walls, pillows and under toilet rims.  Ensure there is a building that may have been designed to house a blacksmith’s forge and deck it out as a chapel and you are in business to run wedding weekends.  I might add that it was here we encountered a shower that features at one end of the appreciation scale.

The owner of this place was a real character who dispensed wit and wisdom in equal amounts and who advised us that if we went hungry it was our own fault.  He wasn’t wrong; there was food for a small continent and it was very good.  He also shrugged his shoulders when challenged about the weather and said he only promised there would be weather, not that it would be fine weather.  Various party frocks were swapped for more suitable clothing and I wore a jersey in place of the planned lighter clothing, as did many others.  It was cold and wet but the bride looked beautiful in her bridal gown and only lifted the hem enough to reveal her cowboy boots while dancing a planned first dance with her dad.

After two nights of catching up with rellies and friends, plus the wedding celebration, we found ourselves heading to a much more temperate clime on the Gold Coast.  Low 20s is a nice temperature and we enjoyed doing what Kiwis do when they are on holiday at Surfers.  Number 2 daughter only got to enjoy about three nights with us before we had to deposit her at the departures entrance to Brisbane international airport and she flew home to the Big Wet.  At the end of the week it was off to Noosa for the three remaining holiday makers.  All three of us had caught bad colds at Toowooba and She was the only one who bounced back quickly.  I felt as if I’d been run over by a bus followed by a heavy farm implement but despite regular testing, I showed no signs of having contracted anything more sinister.

Noosa is a lovely place and we had planned to spend time with family and friends there.  Her bro and his wife were there to share a couple of days with us but others who lived locally had gone down with Covid and we were prevented from spending time with them.  However, we managed some walks and visits to places of interest and even made the trip to Maroochydore to hear Her nephew playing in a jazz band at a club.  One morning was spent at Tewantin where we speculated on the average age of the residents.  The name of one main street business probably gave a clue – ‘Fifty Shades Hairdressing’.

On Friday morning we were on our way to the airport again and dropped number 1 daughter at the international while we ventured to the domestic terminal to take our chances with Qantas.  Canberra was a very different climate when we arrived there just after dark and were met by Her nephew and his partner who helped us find our rental car, another Subaru.  After two weeks of Queensland coast warmth we were a little shocked by the low single digit daytime temperatures of the capital.  It was good preparation, however, for what was to come after we crossed a couple more borders and arrived in Northern Victoria.

Gary and Nic spent two days showing us Canberra and what a thorough job they did of it.  We visited every landmark and point of interest and spent a delightful couple of hours in the old parliament building, including sitting in the debating chamber.  It was chock full of historically important displays set out in aesthetically pleasing array.  I now have a better appreciation for some of the decisions made there that impacted their country over the years.

They both had to work on Monday so we visited a friend in the morning and spent the afternoon in the National War Museum.  This sits at the other end of ANZAC Parade from the visually impressive Parliament hill and contains an amazing assortment of displays and artefacts.  We chose to do a tour and it was very worthwhile as we would not have learned as much from merely wandering.  At 4.45pm we were met by Gary and Nic and witnessed a moving Last Post ceremony with wreath laying and representatives of other nations.  It was cold and rain was falling but I would not have missed it.  Then we took our leave after joining them for a delightful and tasty Thai meal at their ‘local’.

Tuesday we headed out in the rain and crossed a number of borders.  The ACT border came up fairly quickly but leaving NSW took a while longer.  Roading systems are superior to ours, probably because they carry five times the traffic, and we enjoyed 110km speed limits for most of the distance travelled while in that part of the world.  I have to pause and clarify what ‘most of’ means.  She does not like the simple, straightforward or run-of-the-mill.  Therefore, it transpires on regular occasions that we get ‘side tracked’ by interesting signposts that detour our progress from the straight and narrow.  I rather like that singular experience that occurs only in places like Australia where you set the GPS and its first instruction is: “After 163 kilometres, turn left.”  I’m content to let the car have its head and merely drive it along a smooth and easy road at a satisfying speed knowing I’ll achieve my target in good time.  But that is boring, according to the navigator, and we need to intersperse such boring passages of time and place with some local excitement.  This usually means finding ourselves winding through tortuous narrow roads, the sides of which are littered with signs warning of the danger of kangaroos.  I usually find my peace and equilibrium upset by such environs.

On one deviation, one I did not mind as it led to breakfast, we found ourselves at the dispensary of what was advertised as ‘Victoria’s Best Coffee’.  Heaven help the worst is all I could think after tasting it.  The breakfast was good; I always find a breakfast delayed is appreciated twice as much.  But coffee in Australia in general is another country from our experience.  It almost made me start to add condiments and milk to disguise the slightly muddy taste.  I may become a chai drinker before next trip.

Another detour took us to a northern Victoria town with the intention of finding lunch/afternoon tea, as it was by that time mid-afternoon.  There began the slowing dawning realisation that cafes in small towns often shut an hour or so after the lunchtime rush and an extended walk ensued in which we finally found one open and ready to serve us.  But not with a scone.  Afternoon tea must be accompanied with an obligatory scone, in my humble opinion, and my case was valiantly taken up by my navigator who informed an unsuspecting young café owner that he really should get his act together and make an effort to delight his patrons, especially those from New Zealand, with a scone in the afternoon.  Surprisingly, he admitted he had been asked about scones several times lately, thereupon was joined a lively five minute discourse in which secret recipes and baking techniques were enthusiastically shared by a willing and helpful navigator-cum-business advisor.

After more back country roads, we made it to the sleepy little town of Numurkah where resides my cousin, Gill.  She lives happily with a dog, a cat and three happy chooks, all with interesting names.  We spent four nights with her, enjoying immensely her bounteous hospitality and getting to see around her neighbourhood, which included some painted silos depicting various themes.  That diversion engaged most of a day as the round trip was somewhere between 200 and 300 kilometres.  Numurkah was also where I decided, with encouragement from my navigator, to invest in some thermals and a woolly scarf, all of which got well used before leaving Victoria.  Let it not be said that I always shy away from listening to good advice.

The next move was to Kyneton, about two and a half hours south.  Again, we had to explore a little as we traversed territory and it was to a cold and wet woodland timeshare facility that we presented ourselves.  The unique feature of this establishment was individual houses scattered at intervals throughout a large tract of scrub.  We were determined to make the most of it and got out and about each day but the heat pump was turned on when we arrived and only turned off as we left at the end of the week.  One morning, as we headed out to explore surrounding districts, I noted the outside temperature was 5 degrees and it only rose to seven throughout the day.  Most of the week persisted with cold squally showers that felt like snow so wandering happily about playing at being tourists was seldom an option.  Gill’s oldest brother lives just north of Melbourne and he was kind enough to drive out to Kyneton and pick us up for a day of sightseeing.  He also lent us cards to facilitate easy travel in and around Melbourne, a thoughtful and appreciated gesture.

While we have been to Melbourne half a dozen times and have even travelled through parts of Victoria on more than one occasion, finding ourselves in the north and centre of the state was a new experience.  My navigator decided it was too good an opportunity to miss so each day we were in Kyneton we got to see a number of small – and large – Victorian towns.  We visited Bendigo, Daylesford, Heathcote, Woodend, Maldon and a heap of other equally interesting places but one, named Kimbolton, remains elusive.  All maps consulted referred to this particular place but neither my GPS nor her Google maps could take us to a town.  The GPS delivered us to a side of the road spot among trees, triumphantly declaring, “You have reached your destination” while her Google maps took us to a nearby lake.  We were left with the conclusion it was a forest park but not a town.

A highlight of our time at Kyneton was watching foraging bush kangaroos outside our window at dusk one evening.  They seemed not at all concerned about the proximity of humans and took their time in moving on to the next spot of grazing.  I suppose there are advantages in being parked up in bushland away from the temptations of urban entertainments.  And we were within proximity of the much vaunted Hanging Rock.  Of course we had to have a picnic there but less than halfway through the first bun the decision was made to retire to the comparative warmth of the car to finish eating.  At least the precipitation held off long enough for the scramble up to its summit.

Our next migration was south towards Geelong where we took up three night residence at the beautiful home of another cousin and her husband.  They treated us to five star hospitality and explained in detail the joys and delights of renovating much of the interior of their substantial home.  The guest bathroom was a work of art (winning the best shower award), as was much of the rest of the house and gardens and it was a pleasure to be warm, the outside air temperature having ascended to a more acceptable level.  We enjoyed being driven around for two days in a Genesis, genuine luxury travel, and seeing sights the average person doesn’t get to see, including the view from the inside of a working lighthouse.  David is a recently retired harbour master from those parts and still has access swipe cards to all key navigational facilities.

Taking our leave from them we drove the hour or so into the heart of Melbourne and visited another cousin, the sister of the one we had been staying with at Geelong, and had a catch up with her in a coffee shop that featured rather good jazz as background music.  Then it was time to park our car at a small hotel just east of the CBD we had booked into and use our borrowed cards to venture forth into the city on the tram.  Where else to start than where one of our previous visits had started, on Lygon Street.  We walked the length and back again and relived our awe from 1998 when we began researching setting up our Ambrosia.  Some things had changed but a surprising amount had not.

That evening we had one of those experiences all travellers wish for when looking for authentic food.  We were out walking and looking and found a Chinese restaurant that appeared to be populated solely by people of that ethnicity and, guided by the belief that you go where the people who understand the food go, we entered.  Soon we were approached by someone bearing menus but before we could begin the process of choosing, another man swept up to our table and deposited a teapot and two little cups.  She asked him what he recommended and he replied, “You like prawns?”  After her affirmative answer he turned his attention to me, and I simply said, “Pork”.  Without too much more conversation he disappeared with our menus.  It was a while arriving but when it did, the food was simply superb.  She graciously shared hers and I reciprocated.  It was one of those special times one remembers.

Our last day was spent on the trams again, travelling first to the end of the line at Box Hill to meet the son of old friends from our courting days, then back into town to wander in the busy CBD.  We discovered some areas and old malls previously unknown to us before climbing back on the tram for the last time.  During a rest at our hotel She discovered there was a fancy Italian restaurant within walking distance so at the appropriate time we set out armed with her Google maps leading the way.  With few false leads, not a lot of backtracking and only one reference to a dog walker who knew the area, we found our destination.  What a delight.  Throughout our nearly five weeks we had self-catered as much as possible and enjoyed generous hospitality so we felt emboldened to splash out with a fancy meal.  Wow!  We were not disappointed and the exorbitant price was fully justified in my humble opinion.

We settled down to bed at the usual hour presuming we would wake in plenty of time to be packed and on the road towards the airport by 8am next morning.  For some reason I was awake at 1am, unable to return to sleep but I was not prepared for the fire alarm that erupted at 2.10am.  We leapt out of bed, clothed ourselves and made our way downstairs through quickly thickening acrid smoke to the front of the building where it was not long before an assortment of fire and emergency vehicles and personnel were assembling.  At last count there were seven fire engines, an ambulance, a police car, a vehicle for setting up an incident control point, various emergency commanders and a number of paramedics.  It seemed someone had an electric scooter in their room with them and the battery exploded and started the fire.  Well, that’s the story they were telling but I have my suspicions. 

At 3.30am we were allowed back in the hotel but the alarm was still sounding and the air was thick with the smell of smoke and burning.  We tried to rest but it was clear sleep was not going to be a possibility for the remainder of the night.  After a short discussion we were showering (a surprisingly good shower) and packing and we vacated the hotel to extricate the car from a very tight carpark.  At 4.30am the roads of even the busiest cities are usually quiet and so it was we were able to make our way to the airport in very good time.  We had planned to hand over the rental car at 10am but beat that time by about five hours!

She likes to be at airports in plenty of time and we had a couple of Koru Club passes to use so the plan was to get through preliminaries and make our way there.  The best laid plans etc and you know the rest of that quote, I’m sure.  You cannot proceed to anywhere until you have checked in your luggage and deposited it at bag drop.  The machine that dispensed the bag tags didn’t open until 9.10am so there we sat.  And waited.  People-watching is interesting and a good book helps but four hours is a long time in anyone’s language.

Finally on the plane we were advised by the captain there was a delay with freight loading, that announcement followed half an hour later with a similar announcement and so it went on until we finally took off one and a half hours late.  Which meant our arrival in Auckland was just in time for us to run to the necessary places to have our cases accepted for the Nelson flight and for us to scramble on board an already full and waiting aircraft (never a good look).  To be greeted at the home airport by the smiling face of our neighbour was an experienced we gratefully enjoyed and arriving home to a lighted and heated house was the icing on the cake.

And so our tour of inspection of all things plumbing came to an end with some resolutions partly formed in our collective heads.  Five weeks is probably just a little too long for any future planning of trips; take more warm clothes when visiting parts of Australia with which you are not familiar in winter; be sure to assemble and collect such important items as passports when leaving a hotel in any emergency (I sweated a lot until it became clear the whole building was not in danger of consumption by fire), and be ready for the unexpected as it can appear at any moment.  Even April has showers, according to the song.

Wanna Car?

It started with a hissy fit.  Not just a grumpy glance and sharp retort.  A right royal tanty, it was.  Apparently I was responsible for misplacing an ‘essential’ item that was required for the chilly bin – a divider of some sort – and heaven and earth had to be turned upside down to find it.  The interesting thing for me was that, when it was located, it was proved to be unnecessary and everything settled back into its own orbit without major calamity.  Not an auspicious start to a long distance trip, I thought.

However, by late morning we were on the way to two delightful nights staying with a part time car dealer who used us as decoy for an inspection visit to a retirement village in Christchurch.  To all intents and purposes, we were the couple from out of town who wanted to look through the establishment with a view to purchasing.  In reality, he and his wife wanted an excuse to sus the place out.

On Friday morning we bid farewell to our hosts and headed south to lunch at Geraldine.  It has become a favoured place in which to take time out of the car and sometimes to overnight at the camping ground.  Later, as we approached Omarama, I was appraised of the fact that it was time for another stop and so we got to make the acquaintance of a couple of lively ladies running the Glider Café.  Someone there had a sense of humour.

While we learned the hard facts of managing a hospitality business in Covid conditions, the owner sparing few details in the narrative, a couple sitting near us casually took their leave and sauntered a few metres away from the seating area and proceeded to fire up a plane, the prop wash of which had us grasping for all soft furnishings not nailed down.

Suitably refreshed and aerated, we carried on to arrive in Wanaka in time for a late check in at The Pines timeshare where we were booked to stay for a week.  We had stayed at another timeshare facility around the side of the lake previously so it was good to try an alternative and compare benefits of each.  One major advantage this time was its proximity to the shopping centre and our favourite coffee dispenser, ‘The Ritual’.  There I spotted another attempt at explaining some of the current lexicon, if not cause for confrontation.

   

  The Pines timeshare

Saturday had us on our bikes and re-familiarising ourselves with the town and lake front area.  The first thing we noticed was the paucity of punters and we began to understand the impact being felt by business owners in an area right in the thick of an Omicron outbreak.  The café owner of yesterday had given us the good oil, it seemed, and the crowds were conspicuous by their absence.  The supermarket was visited for stocking our self-catering department and the movie theatre was cased for upcoming attractions.  It seemed there was a showing of ‘Belfast’ that evening so a booking was made as that was on our viewing list.  Then it was a quick blast out to Albert Town to check our bikes were still in good working order.

Movies in small centres can be interesting for a number of reasons and Wanaka’s version did not fail to entertain.  As we arrived to claim our tickets we were asked if we wanted half time refreshments and the necessary arrangements were made.  Half way through the film it suddenly stopped and the theatre lights came up.  We filed out to the foyer where two hot cups of coffee waited, plus a still warm biscuit fresh from the oven – as ordered.  Others were served the meals they had ordered and we all sat in the adjoining café to consume our delectables.  We, personally, had completed the process of consumption when we were advised it was time to re-enter the theatre and the diners, who had not completed their meals, gathered up their plates and cutlery and we all filed back in to resume the showing to the accompaniment of muffled eating sounds.  PS.  It was a very good movie but incredibly sad.

The following days took in various activities such as a drive to Glendhu Bay where we were amazed by the size of the camping ground.  Because it was the local anniversary day on Monday there had been a sizeable crowd camping and at the end of the weekend it was just beginning the process of dispersal.  We marvelled at the brave souls swimming in the lake and it afforded an opportunity to quiz some of the caravan owners about the delights of their particular model.  I’m unsure why we do it but we do.  At every camp.  We are creatures of curious habits.

We also rode out to Hawea where we got into conversation with a couple who had been in Wanaka at the time of the first lockdown and who had stayed.  She purchased a house while he wasn’t looking and they then began the process of selling in Auckland and transporting their possessions south.  When asked what they did it transpired that she was a brewer for DB for some years and he flew cargo planes to America.  He casually mentioned he was flying from Auckland that evening and I checked my watch and did some mental calculations.  Just as well there is a busy airport in Queenstown with direct flights to the other end of the country.

A couple of Village People turned up and stayed with us at the timeshare and we did a number of touristy things in the time they were with us and when they moved on we tackled a couple more tracks.  On the way to Hawea on Tuesday we spoke with a couple setting out from Albert Town and they reported they were planning to ride down the Clutha river to Luggate for lunch.  It seemed there was a pub there and they would enjoy a meal and return, they said.  Fortified with this information we set out on the Thursday morning, accompanied by another couple of Village People who were lurking in the vicinity in their motorhome.  Some sad but clever person once observed that the best laid plans of mice and men . . . I think you know the one.

At the beginning of the track was a sign that advised, among other things, that we could look forward to a vertical elevation of 149 metres between there and our intended destination.  What it failed to mention was that the elevation was confined to a few brutal sections and that they coincided with washed out sections of track.  It also added insult to injury by repeating the up and down bits several times.  I’m unashamed to confess I resorted to walking and pushing although I mention in my defence that it was an admirable opportunity to check the walk function on my bike.  It worked well.  Having reached Luggate we discovered the pub was shut until 4pm and the sad little excuse for a shop next door (same owners) offered a paltry excuse for takeaway food and very poor customer service.  None of us could face a repeat of that riding experience so we found the bridge over the Clutha and returned to Albert Town via the track on the other side of the river.  That ended up taking us part way to Hawea before we could get back to our starting point.  The view below makes it look like a doddle but I can assure everyone that while some was straight forward, a lot wasn’t.

The next morning our timeshare tenure came to an end so we repacked and headed for Cromwell where the first item of business was to visit the now famous Highland Park Motor Racing track.  I turned down the offer to drive a Mustang at pace around the track – little could top driving a Ferrari in Italy several years ago – so we enjoyed a nice lunch overlooking the track.  If you visit, you will be encouraged to visit the Loo With A View.  While some might find the exercise tasteless, it was interesting, to say the least.  A small sample is added for your optional edification.  I hasten to point out that the glass is definitely one way mirror glass.

Our intended destination was an old hotel in Alexandra, the Criterion.  It is now owned by young Indian men who appear to be doing a really good job.  We were amazed by the coolness of the room in a 27 degree afternoon (very thick stone walls), the low cost of our self-contained room with ensuite, the full kitchen facilities that allowed us to self-cater, and the friendly customer focus.  We set up for four nights and reacquainted ourselves with the town. 

It wasn’t long before it was discovered a nephew and his partner were camping at Bannockburn so the next morning we drove through Clyde and Cromwell to meet up with them at the much vaunted Bannockburn sluicings.  I was frankly sceptical about the virtues of this walk and the signs in the carpark were far from reassuring, given the heat of the day.  Before half an hour was up I was a convert.  The gentle breeze wafting the scent of wild thyme added to the atmosphere as we viewed what can only be described as gargantuan engineering efforts made in early times in the search for gold.  What those old timers must have endured in privations and sheer effort can only be imagined. 

     

   

Our next adventure was a little more of the wonderful tracks that follow the course of the mighty Clutha River.  Matt and Andy came through to Alexandra with their bikes and the five of us (I forgot to mention Mose the dog) rode from Alex to Doctor’s Point where one has the option of paying $125 per person and be transported to Shingle Creek, further down the river, where the track resumes for the ride to Roxburgh.  We passed on the jet boat experience and returned to Alex for a picnic lunch and then a ride into Clyde along the first section of the Otago Rail Trail and return to Alex around the river track on the other side of the river.

 

   

  The Narrows is named for a very good reason.

Matt and Andy met us at the Clyde end of the Dunstan Track next morning.  We rode through to just past half way where we stopped for refreshments, a bacon butty and a very acceptable coffee, each from a moored boat.  I can’t let the narrative proceed without mention of my trepidation.  I do not have a head for heights and, while the track is well engineered and constructed, parts of it are simply way over my head, if you get the drift.  I set out at a brisk pace while others stopped for photo opportunities because I was determined not to be holding others up with my not infrequent sessions of determined close examination of the here and now immediately around my bike.  These were sometimes accompanied by straddle walking, particularly on the downward sections where a portion of the cliff face was traversed by a zigzag track running back and forth across its face.  It would be fair to say I wasn’t a particularly happy camper on occasions.  I’m glad we took the advice of someone who declared it safer to travel against the flow because you can keep close to the uphill bank and it helped.  We rewarded our efforts with lunch at a winery we found along the track.

We had arranged for Cromwell Cabs to pick us up from the centre of town and take us back to the start of the track, which they did, complete with bikes.  This for the same price as sitting in a crowded shuttle van.  A no brainer, we thought.  Again, good advice from some who had gone before.  On the way back to Alex we paused to admire the colours beginning to be in evidence around us.  Central Otago is a beautiful place when the weather is good.

Next morning it was time again to pack up and move on.  First stop was the Roxburgh Dam where we joined the trail from the opposite end from the one we had taken earlier in the week.  This time we rode with a woman called Lynne who was about to start a new job in Christchurch the following week and who happened to be attempting the trail on her own.  She declared herself glad of the company and encouragement as she said she wasn’t a confident rider but was giving it a go.  We rode all the way to Shingle Creek and back, again with interesting zigzag manoeuvres to be negotiated.  There was a hut at Shingle Creek with all the modern conveniences, although some were of rudimentary design.

Next stop was Roxburgh where I amused myself with studying cards for sale while struggling with an indifferent lunch and fellow patrons who continued to sneezed loudly.  It really is quite hard to ingest food while mask clad.

Our plan had been to stay two nights at Lawrence and do two days biking on the lower sections of the Clutha Gold Trail, a track on which we had enjoyed one section early last year.  On the first morning we headed outdoors to mount our bikes with freshly charged batteries, only to find that her bike’s battery was dead and no attempts at resuscitation were successful.  There was nothing for it but to change back into non cycling clothes, load the offending bike on the back of the truck and head for Balclutha where we found a kind and suitably qualified bike mechanic to check it out.  He went to all manner of lengths to help us, including travelling to a relative’s house to borrow another like battery to ensure it wasn’t the fault of the bike.  On finding it was the battery solely to blame for the power outage he also rang the Bosch wholesalers in Christchurch to see what might be the best remedy.  After profuse thanks and handing over a modest sum for his troubles we headed back to Lawrence.  The afternoon was spent exploring the environs and we even got to poke our noses up into Gabriel’s Gully, much vaunted for its namesake’s discovery of gold at the beginning of the Otago gold rush.

The following morning it was on the road again, after learning the fascinating story of the motel proprietors who promised us the best room when we return for another attempt at that track later in the year.  Before Dunedin we detoured to the back of Lake Waihola to visit friends building a solar passive house on a lovely section overlooking the lake and the town on the other side.  Then it was into Mosgiel for lunch and a look around as neither of us could remember visiting the place before. 

At the appointed hour we lined up to take possession of The Old Sunday School, our AirBnB for the night, in Dunedin.  It was quite cute and everything we needed.  A quick sojourn across town to the student quarter found us in a student flat visiting a nephew studying physiotherapy.  Then we braved the vagaries of First Table and lucked in with a very good meal at an older hotel near the Octagon. 

Before leaving Dunners we took the opportunity to do a tour of Olveston House.  I was blown away by the features built into a house that was designed by an architect in London 100 years ago.  Also of note was the collection of art, fine furniture and other decorations.  If you haven’t been, it is highly recommended.

There followed a procession of one night stands, first in Oamaru where we spent the night in a large motor hotel/motel complex largely occupied by power company workers who had been staying since January and who decided to party late into the night before heading for home early the next morning.  I would not have liked to guess the blood/alcohol concentration of most of these workers, all driving the firm’s utes.  Again, the ownership of this complex had passed to Asian people who clearly had the stamina for long hours and high delivery of customer service, under sometimes trying conditions.

Next came the wallaby capital of New Zealand where we deviated to visit a cousin, before making the obligatory stop at Nosh, on SH1 at the turnoff to Waimate.  Although local gossip has it that ownership has changed hands, the standard of food was still up there.  Timaru had us in one of the best AirBnBs we have encountered to date.  It was called Rose Cottage and had the best bed we have slept in for ever!  The outcome of that was that, on arriving in Christchurch, we went straight to the purveyor of such furniture and ordered one to be delivered to us at home.  A pleasant evening with friends in Timaru was followed by the continued drive north, going out of our way to visit a cousin in West Melton before descending on car dealing friends in the leafy suburbs of Christchurch.  She had to have a tooth attended to so we paused for a couple of nights before travelling to Lincoln to stay with friends there until the end of the week.

Our return home was uneventful and we now look forward to a new bed being delivered tomorrow.  Wanna car?  No, wanna bed.

Bucket Lists

I was challenged recently about the contents of my bucket list and I had to confess, on reflection, that I was unaware of possessing such an item.  Admittedly, there are things I would like to see, do, experience and participate in if the world was truly ideal but none of them represents a burning desire for accomplishment.  Perhaps I lack ambition – or perhaps I am simply content with my lot.  I’ve travelled the world and been privileged to meet some truly remarkable people and that is enough, it seems.

So when asked if there was anything more I really wanted to do my reply was negative.  And then I got to thinking of some of the things I had talked about doing way back when.  There is the one peak in our district I haven’t scaled – Mount Owen – and it would be nice to think I had collected the set.  Then there were the simple and quirky things that had crossed my consciousness and which I’d made a mental note to ‘see about that’ sometime in the future.  One was the Hopai sports day held in the Marlborough Sounds each year early in January and I’m happy to report that the opportunity availed itself a few years ago and I really enjoyed the event.  It reminded me of the stories I grew up with about New Year sports days at Maruia. 

Pioneer families in remote areas were resilient people who relied on their strength of character as well as their neighbours’ good will and support.  Life was simple but hard and their entertainment was made, not downloaded.  Apparently, each New Year’s Day was marked by the cessation of all farm work and with gathering at a suitable area in the valley for a picnic and sports events of all manner.  Young Johnny Creighton invariably cleaned up the chopping while a mystery entrant from Christchurch named Bing Lucas surprised everyone on one occasion by clearing away from the pack in the cross country and winning by the proverbial country mile.  Bing was my mother’s cousin staying on the farm for the holiday season and he belonged to a harrier club back home.  He later became Commissioner of Crown Lands and was instrumental in the creation of boardwalk access to much of the conservation estate.

It was in reflecting on some of these memories that a couple of ‘occasions’ presented themselves recently.  One arose in a shared conversation with some of our close neighbours in the village when the Kumara races were mentioned.  General accord resulted in the booking of accommodation in nearby Greymouth and we were off.  What a fun day.  Nothing could be more simple and entertaining than a ‘country’ event that has some history attached.  The Kokatahi band was there in its regalia and the local ladies were selling refreshments – teas, sandwiches and savouries – at refreshingly modest prices.  Of course there were corporate tents but pleasingly situated away from the rank and file public who were there for a day out and some old fashioned entertainment.  As I’m not an aficionado of anything racing, I was merely a spectator of the activity around me and what a day of enjoyment it was.  The entrance fee and some refreshments were the sum of my expenditure for the day and I believe I derived good value for money.

By comparison, another opportunity availed itself last Friday and this could not have been more different.  We were camping at Marahau near Kaiteriteri and someone suggested we head over the Takaka Hill to Collingwood and do the Farewell Spit tour.  I have recollections of travelling there with my family approximately 65 years ago and recall being somewhat in awe (read fear) of quick sands.  It was pointed out that we needed to be careful where we walked as the soft sands of the spit could swallow us up.  I think I had nightmares for years after that experience.

The booking was made and we duly left the camp at some unearthly hour to be in Collingwood by 9am.  At 9.30 we were directed onto our allotted bus by Paddy Gillooly and shown our seats – in contrast to the other bus where passengers filed on and found seats of themselves.  Then commenced six and a half hours of dry commentary that was probably rehearsed for 35 years but which was not improved by having to wear a mask the whole time.  Some jokes were clever and I liked hearing about a New Zealand fur seal named Lou who moved away from the bus as it approached.  Paddy’s response was, “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lou seal”.

The majority of the commentary centred around birdlife with a little of the history of the place thrown in.  We ate the lunch we took with us at the lighthouse and Paddy and his other driver provided us with a hot drink and a muffin.  Then it was time for the return journey and we were deposited back at Collingwood at 4pm, grateful to be able to remove masks and breathe freely.  As we drove back over the hill to our caravan at Marahau we reflected on the value of our day and whether or not we would recommend it to others.  The general consensus was negative on both counts as the fee of $165 per person was a lot given the experience and what we got out of the day.  However, we agreed it was something we wanted to do and, while it failed the ‘bucket list’ test, we had no regrets that we had done it.  It won’t be repeated and we won’t be recommending it to anyone.

In the meantime, I’ll keep working on my bucket list.  Maybe like Liza’s bucket, it may have sprung a hole.