I can kind of see the logic of calling Balclutha the ‘Gateway to the Catlins’.  It certainly isn’t part of the naturally beautiful Catlins reserve, but it is right next to them.   Kind of like calling Treorchy the gateway to the Brecons.  Seriously though, it’s grim – think of a Milton Keynes industrial estate wearing a grey tracksuit, that’s Balclutha.

Our hopes weren’t high for the sole holiday park in Balclutha but we had to go there, it was getting colder still so we needed Bazil’s trusty old heater at night.  Who was it who said I wouldn’t need my longjohns?  Much to our expectations, the park was in an industrial estate, the office a mildew-daubed caravan that hadn’t seen the road for a decade at least.

That’s as far as the cliché went.  We got the warmest welcome of the trip so far from John, the owner.  He asked after our health, our journey and plans for the coast, a really lovely man.  He sent us on our way to our pitch with news of another young couple in the park.  Could it be?  Some company other than our own?  We hooked up and as has become customary, had a nosey at the facilities.

What a lovely surprise the facilities were, completely in contrast to the ‘caravoffice’, the main building was communal kitchen and lounge in one.  Homely and warm, with a selection of board games to boot.  A quick browse of the guest book showed that other visitors had thought the same, free use of crockery and showers a cherry on top of an already homely cake.

We chatted a while to JJ and Jess, our newly-acquainted traveling couple who’d been in NZ a fair while and had visited the North and a lot of the South Island already.  It was lovely to find out about other peoples’ experiences and weave some of them subconsciously into our own plans.

New Zealand TV is Bobbins

Ok, a slight diversion here.  It appears that there were some residents who lived at the site (or resos as us hip traveling-types like to call them.  Well okay, only I’ve ever called them ‘reso’s.  In fact, I invented the phrase ‘resos’ and despite uptake not being as virulent as I’d hoped it still makes me feel cool saying it, meshuggah nut?).

Anyhoo, one of the resos shuffled in; sheathed in a dressing gown and clothes he’d been wearing since the 70’s, he sat in the prime seat and switched the TV over without so much as a ‘hello folks, mind if I catch a bit of the ol’ gogglebox?’

We sat with our new friends, each contravention of the unwritten silence rule greeted with a spiky glance, or accusatory sniff.  The evening started with a game show.

Wheel of Fortune in New Zealand is ridiculous.

It’s like a man who’s having a midlife crisis has decided to make people compete to ‘win’ all the crap he bought and realised he didn’t want or will never need.   It’s easily as bad as the American Price is Right I watched in Chiangi Airport,  Awful host, dull dull dull.

Then we were blessed with what we’ve come to affectionately call, ‘the Corrie where David went mental for a bit.’  THE most wooden crud I’ve ever seen, there’s no way that show can be taken seriously as a salt-o-the-earth serial after 15 northerners watched Pinoccio smash or graze a few things with a pole.

I think even in somewhere as wanky as Clifton he’d have had a stiff talking to, or even received a bit of a prod in the chest.  But no; 3 mechanics and several 8-foot Neanderthal builders stood there agog, watching the micro psycho (mychro?) smash up a few things and go to Jail whilst Gail, or Martin Short as I like to call her, blubbed and whistfully melodramatised her non-lationship with her mother.

But I digress.

The reason we are all so familiar with this episode is that we sat in aforementioned stony silence for the entire, hour-long episode, no-one quite gathering the nous to request a channel change, or even just a laughing break.

No respite in the ads either.  I genuinely believe that a Zimbabwean ad exec from the late-eighties could come over here and pass for cutting edge.  Failing that, a one-eyed child from Lithuania would do the job with ease.

We finished the night, you guessed it, in silence watching half-decent Brice Willis run-fest 16 blocks and drinking; Delyth wine from a mug, and me beer from a bottle.

Quietly.