Reality check…

We’d only been away for just over a fortnight; about 16 sun-ups and scarcely 4,749 episodes of Hollyoaks had gone by since we were soaked in Kennington.

Yet so easily had we adopted this life that I was already brushing aside the cobwebs of Heathrow; straining to recall the movements that led to the deserted and almost southernmost point of civilisation, Curio Bay in New Zealand, in our camper called Bazil.

This was the start of our whistlestop tour of the most Southerly points of New Zealand.  It’s a packed itinerary and we’d our work cut out to squeeze it into the 2 days planned. Leaving the warmth of Balclutha and our new friends behind we joined the Scenic Highway and headed for the coast.

It was a sunny day  but we were well aware of the growling clouds westward and how many times Bazil would gobble up the horizon in that direction in search of our photographic prey.  We were in pursuit of the yellow-eyed penguin, planet Earth’s rarest species of the flightless water-scooter.  First stop was Kaka point, and shortly after, Nugget Point.  Both glances over countless miles of ocean into the deep nothingness of the Antarctic reminding me of a crisp Cornwall coastline, lush greens still colouring the vista under the patchy overcast sky.

Further on, Roaring Bay was home to a Penguin hide, so we hid a while.  I guess being as endangered as these chaps are, you’d forgive them for going easy on the theatrics and staying well hidden when the shutter-jockies come tramping down the steep gravel path.  Sadly, hiding at neither dusk nor dawn had ensured our quarry would elude us here.  We took some solace in the beauty of the crashing surf that gave the bay its name.

Still pre-noon we forged ahead, giving up on the penguins for now, seeking a larger and more fearsome subject.  500kgs of angry grey whiskers and blubber were commonly seen basking further West at Surat bay (no not my Uncle Frank, sealions).  They weren’t home either. We consoled the loss of another marque on the checklist with a beautiful beachside walk and some corking pictures of the bay itself.

After two disappointments from New Zealand’s fauna, we thought we’d add some certainty to the day’s activities, seeking out instead some permanent fixtures, and with that we  made beelines to Purakanui, Matai and Mclean Falls respectively.  The walks to each reminding us that we were still in the rainforest.  Temperate (read; cold) rainforest granted, but rainforest nonetheless. Purakanui and Matai falls were beautiful, having seen both Niagara and Victoria Falls we ignored volume and height, concentrating instead on their personalities. Purakanui: stepped, regimental and secluded.  Matai almost prehistoric: strands of water clambering down through the rich green water mosses that clung to the precipice.

McLean was a great final surprise though, 15kms of gravel road and a 30 minute bush walk peeled back the thick forest to unveil the most beautiful of grottos, uncovering the many levels of McLean Falls, each flowing more water than the last.  The coin of a further 100 metre climb was repaid with interest by the topmost cascade of the sequence,  a 50 metre wall of water crashing onto and dispersing across tables of yet-to-be-eroded flat rock forms.  Hundreds of thousands of years of nature’s force went some way to numb the frustration of the penguin and sea lions’ evasion.

Despite missing out on the marine wildlife it was a good day and we headed for Porpoise beach to pitch for the night, the most remote spot we’ve yet stayed, literally on the point of New Zealand.  It was beautiful with each pitch secluded by six-foot spiky plants on 3 sides, a lovely change from the overcrowded parks we’d been in recently.  On checking-in the owner mentioned that there’d been 8 whale sightings off the coast in the last 5 days, “another creature to elude us” I shrugged.

Sensing my obvious deflation the wooden cabin held a pregnant pause.  Then,  as if trying to further convince me that the folded notes already in his hand had been well spent, he glanced at his watch.  “Once you’re set up you should head down the road to the petrified forest at Curio Bay” he said amongst the standard description of the park’s facilities.  “It’s almost dusk and it’s a great spot to see the yellow-eyed penguins”.  I hid the excitement already tingling in my ears.  Curio Bay was just a few hundred steps away from us.  A final chance? Another disappointment?  Who knew?

Unexpectedly, we joined a coach party at Curio Bay’s petrified forest viewing platform.  Much of the fossilised woodland had been taken by the relentless waves , or more recently, over-zealous tourists.  Short stumps of the prehistorically-preserved forest were impressive but mere distractions from our mission.

Other people irked us.  Their noise, their squeaking shoes, their thinking it’s okay to sprint 200 metres across the fossilised plateau to get a picture of the pengu….

That’s right, there was a barely perceptible speck of a penguin, ungainly waddling until his yellow eyes caught sight of the looming black shape sprinting towards him, he froze.  We gasped.  Without the zoom lens of a paparazzi sniper we were stuffed.  Slowly the penguin started to turn seaward and the bus driver yelled out to the hooded black shape. We’ll call him “The Knob”.

Sheepishly The Knob backed away and the penguin, finally secure, trundled shoreward once more. He was still impossibly far away for our feeble compact lens. Our senses rendered acute by the excitement and my glasses cleaned of the light rain, we spotted something.

On the cliff overlooking the opposite end of the bay peeked a short section of wooden fence shrouded in huge spiky plants.  It clicked, we were looking at an elevated corner of the caravan park we’d just walked from, which was directly above the penguin’s path into the undergrowth.

Another stir amongst the bus-plebs.  A second and third penguin had joined the party.  We pegged it back up to the caravan park as dusk was fast drawing around us, giggling and crashing through spiky plants and empty caravan slots.  We found the spot of fencing, penguin #3 and newly alighted penguin #4 were right below us.

This was the point I realised that we need a new camera.  Despite this we crouched and silently chuckled at the penguins manner.  Such a funny little chap to watch.  We got some good snaps and then some terrible ones as the sun was finally doused in the freezing ocean horizon. We slept contently at the end of New Zealand, surrounded by those spiky triffids.

What was the funeral you ask?  Between Matai and McLean Falls we hit a small bird with our wing mirror and I’m sorry to say he probably didn’t make it.

I wish we’d hit The Knob.

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.

Finally, we found internet robust enough to upload our 200-odd pics, check them out:

CLICK ‘VIEW ALL’ TO SEE THEM IN ORDER or view them here

SCENE:
Fresh faced traveler enters small, lakeside town offlicense

Handsome traveler: Good Morrow Shopkeep, one is stocking up on energy drinks for a fantastical voyage, have thee any Relentless™ or Mother™?

Shopkeep: Sorry bro’, We have VK in the small cans only bro’ is that Mother™ stuff any good bro’?

Handsome Traveler: Verily; one finds it more effective if imbibed before  the  comely mistress fatigue comes cradling at thy brow.  Consumption is futile upon acceptance of her warm bosom.

Shopkeep: Sweet as, choice, bro’.  Where you headed today bro’?

Handsome Traveler: A winding jaunt ’tis true.  We aim to reach the port of Milton, most 100 kilometres yonder.  We seek more agreeable conditions.

Shopkeep: Awesome, I think they just reopened the road from Alex (Alexandra) to Roxy (Roxburgh); you got ‘chains?

Handsome Traveler: Egad!!

END SCENE

Snow chains?!

Yikes, only 5 days into our campervan adventure and I’m going to need freaking chains on the freaking van, I’m freaking out.

I calmly inform Delyth of the good news only, the road is open.  She can tell by my quivering voice, lip, hands and resolve that there’s something else.  I come clean and we set off.

The signs start to pass:

ICE/GRIT
BEWARE ICY ROADS
ROAD CLOSED TO HEAVY VEHICLES

Whilst the signs were becoming increasingly stern, not a single one had the decency to tell us the truth or try and dissuade us from pressing on.  After all, the road *was* still open.  About 15kms outside Wanaka we passed another sign:

CERTAIN DEATH LIES THIS WAY

“Should’ve got more VK”.  I tossed the first of many empty cans over my shoulder into the sink in the back.

I’d like to say the alpine views, snow-covered fields and mountains were stunning; the geologically unique passes beautiful; the hairpins grippingly splendiferous; but to tell you truth I didn’t see any of them.

My only recollection is eight knuckles gleaming white beneath my windscreen-flattened nose and my now-bloodshot eyes frantically scanning the next 18 inches of road for some grip.

Frightening is not the word.

Imagine driving on a wet skid pan.  Now imagine that skid pan has frozen over.  Picture that skidpan on a 1:3 slope; on a ravine; with no barriers and your car appears to have lubricated dinner plates for wheels.

Now you can imagine the ‘Alex to Roxy’ road in winter.  We inched, ooed and ahhhed our way through almost 30kms of alpine deathscape before reaching Miller’s Flat, a section of road we’d dreamed of; hoping beyond hope that it’s name was as descriptive as it seemed.  I swear at one point we were going so slowly that the odometer went backwards and the second hand on Delyth’s watch stopped.  Ironic that surrounded by so much ice, our pace was best described as glacial.

Fortunately, Miller’s Flat was just that; flat, beautifully flat, level and more importantly completely devoid of ice.  After pulling in to lever Delyth’s grip from the armrest we set about reeling in the next 70kms with relative ease.  Although I’m pretty sure a WRC stage would’ve passed as ‘relative ease’ compared with the previous 30kms.  Check out this terrain map of the route:

View Larger Map

As SH8 came to an end we skipped Milton and headed into Balclutha as it was more inline with our ultimate destination, the Catlins. A section of the South coast served by the ‘Scenic’ and therefore ruthlessly fuel-inefficient Southern Scenic Highway.

Unfortunately the steep drop in temperatures led to few photo ops on the way up to Mt. Cook.  Thick fog masked Lake Pukaki most of the way, clearing up with around 20kms of flood plains left to Mount Cook, fortunately we managed to capture a few snaps of Lake Pukaki’s astounding turquoise water.

The lake is fed from a glacial valley, a huge body of prehistoric ice, grinding away at the rock beneath over millions of years. This fills the water with millions of superfine fragments of rock, called rock flour.  Rock flour refracts the light passing into the water and creates the brilliant colour of the lake.  Every day’s a school day eh?

Mount Cook Vanishes

Disappointment is really the only word for the few hours we spent at Mount Cook, hopes that the bright sunshine of 20kms ago would follow us up into Mount Cook Village were doused with drizzle and low cloud.  We could barely tell which mountain was Cook, let alone view its 3,800m summit.

Rather than stay in the wet and overcast village overnight, we elected to work our way back down Lake Pukaki’s length, through the Lindis Pass into Wanaka, a trip we’d planned for tomorrow.  So after a coffee and a look around the few exhibits and tributes to Sir Edmund Hillary (excluding the five dollar note, we’d already seen that), we cut our losses and made our second trip the length of Highway 80 and Lake Pukaki – this time under bright sunlight with many chances to stop for pictures all the way down to join State Highway 8.  We’d take this road around 130kms through the Lindis Valley and catch Wanaka by nightfall.

We made great progress through the other-worldly landscape of the Lindis Valley.  It is truly amazing how quickly the landscape changes in New Zealand, over the course of only 20 or 30 kms we went from alpine lakes and soaring firs; through vast, grassed valley flats and into the arid, alien-brown landscape and dotted bush of the central valleys.

Creepy Holiday Park

We just managed to catch the information centre before closing, winter opening hours sternly dictating our evening itinerary.  In the interests of variety and budget we decided to stay at the Lake Outlet Holiday Park which was lakeside but around 6km from the centre of Wanaka.  Lovely, quiet and scenic park by day; freakishly remote, empty and scary by night.  I can’t  really work out what was more upsetting, the fact that it was so close to town yet so remote, making it an easy walk for nutter transient murderers; or the dilapidated and empty live-in caravans dotted around the park, past owners having met the sticky end behind every bump in the night perhaps?

We awoke, alive, to a fantastic view of Lake Wanaka.  Our frugality repaying us with all limbs attached and essentially a private bay on which to enjoy the morning sun glistening off Lake Wanaka’s waters.  Reflecting over bacon and eggs on the picnic bench we concluded; a long night but worth it in the end.

We changed parks that afternoon.

After hooking up in the centrally located Holiday Park Generico, we enjoyed a day of window-shopping, lazy coffees in the wintry sun, brief encounters with cheeky sparrows and free pool at the pub.

All was going swimmingly.  Unsure of how many ATMs we’d see in the upcoming, more remote, surroundings we thought we’d better stock up on cash.  After trying 5 different machines, each one more reluctant to give us money than the one before, we called the UK enquiries line again.

At this point I think I was pretty close to exploding with extreme customer miffedness.  Or at least tutting very loudly.  “If they’ve locked our accounts again..” I impotently raged whilst the music tinkled on the line.

After a very brief chat with the kind lady at the call centre it became apparent that  we’d jumped a bit too quickly to our conclusion.  It was 2pm in Wanaka on a Monday.  That would make it 3am on Monday morning in the UK, a common systems-upgrade window.  No drama, just updating their systems ‘s’all so no cash points or online banking for the next couple of hours.  Blood pressure back to normal and our hungry wallet sated by tea time.

Even though it wasn’t strictly on the way to Lake Tekapo, Sumner had been recommended to us as a pretty little town on the coast and it didn’t disappoint.  Although it was  cloudy, the sun was highlighting an eerie mist across the whole bay, it caught the light in such a unique way and gave the beach such an ethereal quality.  On top of the beach’s large rock was a group of people, I decided to take a climb up and see what the fuss was about, “must be a good view from there” I thought.

About half way up I recognised one of the people in the group, then two, then I saw a drumkit.  I said to myself, “A drumkit? Up here on a big rock?”.  The penny dropped.  I was standing on the set – and in the way – of Sam and Eric’s real band’s latest music video.  After shouting my approval for their set last night and spotting the cameras far below on the green I made my way sheepishly out of the limelight and back to the van.

Over the hill was what we’d later find out to be the hometown of Zaproot’s presenter Jessica Williamson, a beautiful bay called Taylor’s Mistake.  We breathed in the vista and the fresh sea air and hit the road again.  Tekapo was to be the first stop on our tour down through the huge lakes and alpine mountain terrain of the South Island’s heart.

Following on from our brief detour to Sumner, we rejoined the main artery of the South Island, State Highway 1, running the entire length of the island it’s largely straight and well maintained, something I won’t be able to say very often on the rest of the trip.

We followed this road for 100-odd kms South from Christchurch, through small town after small town, stopping only for some groceries and to take advantage of a DVD shop that was sadly closing down to feed our portable DVD player that was included in Bazil’s hire price, 3 5-dollar DVDs later (Sexy Beast, Pursuit of Happyness and The Cleaner if you’re wondering) we were turning onto the more shapely highway 79 to start our ascent  to Lake Tekapo’s 780m elevation.

The next hour passed without event, other than seeing our first real mountain.  Initially the Two Thumb Range and further into the pink dusky fog we could just make out the Southern Alps, or Ka Tiritiri o Te Moana in Maori.  We arrived at Lake Tekapo under cover of a beautifully clear and star-filled night sky.  The imaginatively-named Lake Tekapo Motels and Holiday Park would be our hookup for the night and we hit the sack hopeful of some clear lake views in the morning.

After a freezing night we were thankful for the electric heater that we found stowed in Bazil’s bowels and for the relatively clear sky.  Lake Tekapo was a beautiful sight in the crisp morning, muted grey-blue water under a sky that hinted at the bright blue beyond the white-capped mountaintops, it was the first of many stunning alpine views that we’d enjoy over the next few days.

Today’s itinerary was to reach Mt. Cook, about 45kms away as the crow flies but a good 90kms by road, the upside being that we’d be driving the length of Lake Tekapo’s larger and arguably prettier sister, Lake Pukaki.

Having had a good night’s sleep in the Olympian beds we divvied up Somer’s fantastic tips for Christchurch, but where to start?  Dmitri’s for Souvlakis?  Dux De Lux for their fabled ginger beer?  Or check out the cathedral?

The hostel staff also booked trips, campers and travel for the inmates from the front desk so before leaving for the city, I asked whether our warden could get our camper quote any lower, hoping that maybe they’d throw us in a few days insurance.  She surpassed those expectations by a country mile.  We ended up with a quote for literally hundreds of dollars less than mine for a better equipped 2-berth camper with sink, hob  and an electric hookup that would later prove itself as a must-have.  With the camper booked we eventually set off to explore Christchurch.

The Jailhouse is on Lincoln Road, about 20 minutes walk out of the city centre and five hundred yards from the south east corner of South Hagley Park.  We walked the length of the park and turned left past the hospital into the Botanical Gardens.  The gardens were beautiful and a good hour passed as we were surrounded by the crisp autumnal colours and memorial gardens.  We stopped at the river Avon to watch the ducks, both of us thinking and talking about home, feeling far away from it; how Tomos would love the duckies, how Mum would love the gardens, how Parry would love that it’s free to get in…

We left the gardens and crossed by the Punting shack onto Oxford Terrace, taking another ornamental bridge onto what we’d later realise was “the strip”, a line of riverside bars and cafés on the Avon.  The day passed slowly and we enjoyed the shops, the Englishness of the whole place and I was tempted more than once to grab a quick hot dog in Cathedral Square.  I abstained and we both found warm, full stomachs in the bottom of a steaming bowl of Wagamamas.

We managed a complete circuit of the centre until weary legs and dry palettes brought us to the Bog on Cashel St.  Cider was the order of the day in this Irish bar and we added Mac’s Cider to our growing list of Antipodean-stocked apple tipples.  We tried a few other bars and then opted for a cab back to Jail as we’d heard there was a small local nearby for a nightcap.

I don’t know what I thought prison-wardens would do after a jail is closed, but it appears they turn to taxi-driving.  We enjoyed some great stories of our digs from when it was a working prison right from the horse’s mouth, he also kindly gave us some tips about places to visit in the South.

Incidentally, I’d read some complaints on Hostelworld about the Jailhouse being too far out of town, but our leisurely walk in and a paltry cab fare back made them seem pretty unfounded, probably written by Americans.

A quick nightcap and a chat with an odd old lady who’s father was apparently a wallaby sent us to bed.

Meeting Bazil

This, our penultimate day in Christchurch, was our last day in the Jailhouse.  As if the deal on the camper wasn’t good enough, Tanya had also blagged that ExploreMore, the rental operator, would foot the bill to get us into town.  Our home for the next month was waiting for us there.

We said our goodbyes and were shuttled into ExploreMore’s central city office.  A few questions and forms, a swipe of a card and a scribble on the dotted line and Bazil was ours for the month.  I will go into a lot more detail about driving in New Zealand in later posts but I wish I had a picture of my face when he asked if I knew how to fit snow chains.  Nothing prepares you for the moment when the penny drops, you will almost certainly be driving in thick fog, snow and ice… on mountains.

To get a feel for Bazil, we took a drive South, out and up.  And when I say up I mean up – winding precariously around the Port Hills road was a breathtaking induction to New Zealand motoring as we threaded our way uphill and down dale to the harbour town of Lyttleton, returning into Christchurch much later through the tunnel to the south east.  We wanted to use Saturday morning to visit the craft market at the Arts centre so opted to hitch up for the night at Stonehurst Accommodation on Gloucester St. right in Christchurch’s centre.

Realising we’d likely not have many more opportunities for a night on the town we set off into yet another Irish bar, Sullivan’s, although this time it wasn’t a xenophobic search for cider that drew us in.  Live music, provided initially by acoustic duo Sam and Eric, then later on the Black Velvet Band capped off a fantastic few days in the South Island’s capital, we sang, we danced, we met some great people there and shall remember it for a long time.  Sam and Eric’s cracking cover of A Boy Named Sue sticks in my mind, as does the fact that it wasn’t the last time we’d be seeing them on this trip…

Slightly heavy heads followed us down to the arts centre on Saturday morning.  There was surprisingly little of note there so after a steal of a breakfast on the strip ($5.50/£2.20 each!) we decided to hit the road and head for the first stop on our Southbound Lake Tekapo leg, Sumner Beach.