Falling Out of 2006

So.

On New Year’s Eve, these things happened. We arrived at the appointed place at the appointed time and waited some three hours or so, watching people dropping out of the sky before throwing ourselves off the mountain side and taking a surprisingly long time to reach the bottom.

Or that’s how I’m sure Gary is putting it. Probably with a few other elaborations – the “so-called” pilot who steered him down was probably an escaped convict in his version, maybe the paraglide sail caught fire at one point, there was an iffy landing in some shark-infested water, there were storms, life-threatening situations, a hijacking, an imprisoned princess and, well, you know the drill by now.

We actually just went tandem paragliding from the off-season ski-resort at Coronet Peak just outside Queenstown. That is, we strapped ourselves to someone who knew what they were doing, ran awkwardly over the rise of the hillside and let the great sail above us swoop us into the air. From there, we just sat back and enjoyed the ride as they worried about all the important details and we just gawped at the scenery leisurely scrolling beneath us. It’s stunningly beautiful of course, and this was perhaps the best way to really enjoy it: suspended in mid-air with nothing to impeded the view. It’s also unbelievably relaxing – no adrenaline rush here, folks – you just sit back, quite comfortably and enjoy the ride. Certainly every now and then, the pilot clipped on behind engages in a little “fun” (his words) and sends the lazy view into blurry spin as we, he and the great big kite which we’re both strapped to spiral downwards then drift back up on a chance thermal.

So, pretty much the polar opposite of a bungee jump – the flight down the mountain took a luxurious twenty minutes, plenty of time to coo and sigh at the natural wonders spread out on all sides.

Gary’s account is probably more exciting, but … well, I don’t actually remember the flying monkeys attacking to be honest, and with a view like that, who needs them?

"Just the milk"

"Good Evening, How's your day been, up to anything interesting?

I can recall at least four seperate occasions when I've made myself the same promise, and on each of those occasions I've broken it. Yep, as I stand there in my bright blue open collar shirt, close enough to the person standing in front of me for it to slightly uncomfortable for us both, and yet mentally far enough away to keep it superficial....never make sustained eye contact, that's the industry secret.

"Hi there Gary" reading my oversized fonted name badge "Can't complain, woke up this morning so guess it's a good day!"

"Good one!"

Oh yes! Some two years after I set down my Tesco tannoy microphone for the last time, or so I thought, I've gone and again donned my checkout smile and you now read the adventures of the newest recruit of Fresh Choice Supermarket.
I can't completely decide what was the most influencing factor in convincing me to go back, it could have been a security thing, finding a comfort zone maybe? I'm more inclined to think it's my bleeding legs!
We've been in Queenstown now for the best part of a month, and jobs aren't hard to come by, that's as long as your not too fussy and to be fair after managing three weeks labouring in Auckland, I can assure I'm not too fussy.
So as you do when you hit a new town, I join up with the local recruitment agencies. I'm a little wary as there seems to be no agencies that deal with office work, not overly concerned though, it's a small town and they probably can't specialise that much? My first couple of days work go well, just moving some furniture into some new houses, no real stress, and working with travellers, so a laid back atmosphere. Queenstown as a whole seems to carry that atmosphere, this is strickly a "no tie town"

"Hi is that Gary?"
"Yeah"
"It's Tradestaff, you signed up yesterday"
"Oh Yeah"
"We've got a job for you for next week, have you ever done any landscaping?"
"Cool, no, is that a problem? I'm quite happy to lend my hand to anything though!"
"Nah, should be alright, they'll show what to do, just come in and I'll get you a timesheet, and give you the directions"
"Cool, I'll see you this afternoon"

Landscaping! sounds a bit flash, I've watched Alan Titchmarsh though, should be able to blag it, how hard can it be, just planting a few shrubs, laying a deck, airating the soil, pruning the perenials, I'm sure nothing to it, all those long summer days cutting my grannies grass could count as previous experience, couldn't it?

As I stand on the side of the highway on a slope of around 70 degrees, industrial petrol strimmer in hand, pissing rain, slicing at the bairley grass covered hill with muscle wrenching near vertical motions, yet another stone propells itself towards my face, this one not a bleeder, but plenty of it's predicessors have been, my soft office skin in getting lacerated, my face now looks tennager like, and my arms and legs are covered in chicken pock scaring. No more, It's been two weeks and I can't take anymore. I once listed freshly cut grass in my top 5 favourite smells, even that now isn't enough to motivate, I'm at breaking point, where is salvation going to come from? my phone rings...

"Hi is that Gary?"
"Yeah"
"It's FreshChoice Supermarket, you put in an application form yesterday"
"Oh Yeah"
"We were really impressed by you previous experience, how would like a job on the checkouts, you can start immediately"
"Fanbloodytastic!"

The next day I made the very difficult decision to call short my job on the hill and start on the checkout in the supermarket.
The difference is, now..

"Good Evening, How's your day been, up to anything interesting?"

isn't a disconnected line, it's a thank christ I'm not stuck on a bloody hill, in the pissing rain, with my limbs mutilated, very genuinley relieved and interested inquiry into the lives of others, well sort of.

And it's Happy Christmas from him...

A little on the late side as usual. Oops.
Anyway, hope everyone had a very happy Christmas, and will go on to have very pleasant, productive, prosperous new years.
Another anniversary should also be addressed at this point - Gary and Julia have been away from the UK for an entire year at this point - yes, it's a full (very full if you re-read this thing) twelve months since we sat in Far From the Madding Crowd and went "So... you're off then" and other generally encouraging comments. So congratulations on that front.

As I rambled in a comment further down the page, Gary's catering-for-twenty-adventure-spectacular was a storming success, even if the weather in Queenstown did not quite dress for the occasion, the two turkeys and all the trimmings (and I mean all of them) went down very well indeed. Of course it was a particularly North European meal for a Southern hemisphere Christmas - including a number of German delicacies cooked up by Sebastian, but I'm sure some will be pleased to know that we have now converted some people to the wonders of Christmas Pudding and brandy cream. Seriously, we had people prodding the plum puddings in confusion with 'what the hell is this' expressions.

I'm back in Christchurch at time of writing, but will be rocketing back down to Queenstown for the new year, which should be great - especially if the food is even half as good.
You are cooking again, right Gary?

Seasons Greeting to all!

Hi everyone,

Just wanted to say a big hello to everyone and wish everybody a Merry Christmas and Fun Packed New year! Hope Santy was good to everyone and everybody got a pair of socks this year. Myself, Jules and Vince are celebrating this one together. We're in Queenstown working away, Jules massaging and me, we'll I've managed to find myself a job in a supermarket, surprise, surprise, get a discount on the turkey though! Vince is up in Christchurch and he's making the trip south for the festivities, should be a good one, plenty of people coming around, a bit of a group effort required there.
Hope everyones got there New Years resolutions sorted out?

20 goes into 2 how many times?

So how many are we up to now?

I make it 20!

Sebastian my new German flatmate, shows little nerves, I on the other hand am not so confident. We've got a little caught up in the whole excitement of it all, and have been inviting anyone we can think of to the house for christmas day. What started out as a cosy family Christmas dinner for the flat, a little taste of home, it has however now escalated to a full on banquet which is going to require some sort of professional catering service.

"So when do want to go to the Supermarket?"

"I can get the car on Thursday"

"Sounds good"

I've run a few figure through the grey matter and I reckon it's going to take the best part of $400 to get everything, not including booze, hate to try and estimate that one. Not only have we signed up for the logistical nightmare of cooking, but also the nightmare of trying to get money off everyone. Suffice to say we embark on the shopping trip with only our own bank cards in hand, in the hope we get the money back later.
It takes 2 hours to collect the goods in two shopping trollies, trying to keep rigid to the list, haphazardly made up the night before, but inevitably finding things we'd missed off with each turn into a new aisle.
"How much did we get paid last night"
Increasingly getting more and more worried that my wages might not be enough to cover the growing heap.
"It'll be fine"
Now for the most important choice of the visit. Just how many turkey's to get, I reckon 3 to be safe, around the 5kg mark, but we've only got 2 oven? O.k we'll get 2 slightly bigger ones, and pad out the rest of food, and at this point a plan was divised. From a straightish forward dinner of turkey with veg and sausages in blankets... we now have the aforementioned, with soup, lasagne, casserole, trifle, christmas pudding, nibbles, cheese and biscuits, a round of coffee...
So going from a logistical nightmare, we now have the aforementioned logistical nightmare with the additional logistical nightmare of attempting to cook at the same time another 3 main dishes as well as all the little bumff that surrounds it, god going to do well if we pull this one off, not to mention that we don't have a dinning table and only 15 plates and 8 chairs.. We'll see how it goes!

Five Lies Perpetuated by Stray Tour Guides

1. [on the Llamas at Old Macdonald's Farm] They're a genetically manipulated cross between a sheep and a camel. They're called Shamels.
2. The Llamas are very friendly. They just love to be tickled under their chins.
3. [On salt flats] This is where 50% of Australasia's marshmallows are manufactured. They spread it out all over the ground here and when it has reached a certain thickness, they cut it up into the little circles you should be familiar with. The site to your left makes all the white marshmallows. The pink ones are made near Invercargill.
4. The ice of the Franz Joseph Glacier is made from sea-water. While you're on it, lick it - it tastes of salt.
5. Gollum's real name is Dave.

(actually, 5. might be true...)

Other People's Adrenaline

The following day is our last on the bus, and we are due to arrive in Queenstown by four in the afternoon. Before that, however, there are a few stops to make - firstly to drop off a bunch of people at Wanaka, so that they can strap themselves to a stranger and throw themselves out of a plane.
We leave them hyperventilating at the side of the road where a minibus trundles along to pick them up. The rest of us get dropped off at a place called Puzzle World, which boasts a large maze and a series of 'illusion rooms'. If this all sounds a little bit like a kids theme-park, albeit in a science-isn't-dull sort of mode, the big signs posted up around the location firmly declare otherwise: "This is not a children's play park" said one, "Please keep your offspring under control."
Once inside, you could understand why. The adults were clearly having far too much fun to let the kids get in the way.
The Illusion Rooms boast four chambers, each demonstrating a different visual or spatial effect. The first is a straightforward gallery of holograms, but things start getting strange when you step into the second. This is a large, hexagonal chamber with each wall covered from floor to ceiling with celebrity heads. So that's Ghandi on the far wall, Einstein beside him and Elvis to the left. So far, so strange.
The trick is, that each model head is inverted - each being the hole in the wall which might be left should each celebrity be persuaded to walk face-first into a wall of soft cement. Lit in a certain way, if you walk through the wall with one eye closed, the heads appear to be not only protruding out from the wall, but also following your every move. The effect is very creepy indeed, particularly when you become aware that you're sharing the room with a bunch of other people who are looking a little freaked out while winking furiously.
The next room is more fun: a hands-on demonstration of the visual tricks that were used in the Lord of the Rings films to make hobbits look more diminutive than they actually were. The final room is the weirdest of the lot: an apparently normal space, but cunningly built so that everything - including the floor, is constructed at the same 30 degree angle. So, once you have got over the sight of snooker balls rolling uphill, and water dripping upwards, you have to come to terms with the fact that although the room looks normal from the inside, you constantly have to fight the urge to throw yourself against the far wall. Very peculiar indeed.
The maze, we save until last and the blistering sunlight proves to be an impetus to reach the cleverly located cafe near the exit. A little teamwork proves to be required to solve the thing, and even morose-afro-boy seems to be enjoying it.
Perceptions and perspectives suitably altered, we catch the bus and head off to pick up the skydivers, who look (understandably) as though they have been through an experience every bit as enlightening and/or traumatic. As with most of the sky-diving centres around New Zealand, the company offers tandem dives, so that the paying punter is dolled up in a flight-suit and helmet and then securely clipped onto the harness of someone who knows what they're doing. Where once the activity was restricted only to the military and Blue Peter presenters, it is now possible to leap from planes all over New Zealand with pretty much no training what-so-ever.
"It was amazing." Susie tells us, her eyes still darting back and forward. "I'm sorry, my body is still full of adrenaline, I'm going to have to go up and down the bus a few more times before I can sit down."
The jumpers' each received a DVD showing their exploits in their full glory, each is given a chance to plug them into the bus television so that we can all see them. In each, their expressions, focused on entirely by the camera operator who jumps with them, shift from nerves to worry to wide-eyed-oh-to-hell-with-it-terror to awe to elation. My own expression remains set at wistful envy. But hey, we got lost in a maze, right?

Queenstown is the adventure capital of New Zealand, the gateway to a number of long-distance walks and located on the banks of Lake Wakatipu and in the shadow of a mountain range aptly named The Remarkables. It also has probably more waterproof clothing per square metre than any other place on earth bar Keswick in the Lake District.
Here, our tour on the Stray bus trundles to a halt, and as those continuing on the tour down south check themselves into the backpacker hostel, Tamsin and I grab a taxi to our own accommodation, The Hippo Lodge. With the size of the bags we carry, the taxi is a very good idea, as like Auckland (which in no other way does Queenstown resemble) there seems to be an awful lot of uphill walking involved to get from one location to another. The fact that our new hostel is located on a street called 'Anderson Heights' should give an indication of where it is positioned, but gives no indication at all of the gradient of the street itself. Let's just say that here, a snooker ball will not roll uphill, in fact were it to roll downhill, it would gain so much velocity that rather than stopping, it would probably take out at least six rows of houses and a small dog. It's that steep.
Luckily, the hostel itself is worth it, a lively and comfortable place, it also boasts a magnificent view out over the town, the lake and those wonderful - sorry, remarkable mountains.
Queenstown may be notoriously touristy, with cost of living hiked to reflect its seasonal popularity, but it is a startlingly beautiful place. Lake Wakatipu is the second largest in South Island, and much of the town's industry is based upon both it and the nearby mountains. Winter, of course sees the place as a ski-resort, while in the summer months, the landscape shifts to accommodate other activities. Sailing, walking, more horse-riding, cycling and so on and so forth, in addition to all of the 'extreme sport' style escapades which the area has become famous for. Here, you can hare around the rivers in a high-speed jet boat, throw yourself down white water rapids in an inflatable raft, strap yourself to a rather dangerous looking fly-by-wire aircraft and zoom at high speed left, right and centre or any thing else which stimulates the adrenal gland by simulating some near-death activity.
And so, we say our farewells to the bus as it goes on its merry way, and Tamsin throws herself out of a cable car some one-hundred-and-forty or so metres above a canyon.
One of these events is not, it should be stressed, related to the other, and there was a great-big wrist-thick length of elastic joining the cable-car to Tamsin's feet before she threw herself into the void, but you get the idea.

Franz Like These

On the move once more, our destination for the night is a place called Barrytown, which does not seem to show up on any of the maps I have of New Zealand. On the way, we stop off at a handful of locations to gawk at fur seals and get generally wet admiring the coastal structures at Pancake Rocks, before we arrive in Barrytown to discover its lack of charms.
Barrytown is a small community near the West Coast, and we have stopped there for the evening because it breaks up the journey from Abel Tasman to the Franz Josef Glacier. There is no other reason to stop there at all; it seems, other than the fact that they serve beer and chips (by the bucket) to the bus loads of travellers who pass through.
We are staying the night in a row of rooms at the back of the pub - the largest, by some margin, of the village's paltry handful of buildings. It's all fairly basic, but the barstaff (all British, by the sounds of things) promise that a local band will be playing that evening.
Gollum is more cautious about the locals.
"They're all feral." he says, "Check their hands: six fingers more often than not, I'll bet you."
He pauses for thought.
"But you don't tell them I said that." He adds.
We spend the evening watching DVDs instead - it seems like a cheaper, if not safer alternative.
One the road again the following day, the sun emerges in time for lunch and we stop off at the unappealingly named Rock Snot Cafe, which Gollum has never been to before.
The woman behind the counter regards our bus emptying into the cafe and barks a warning.
"We don't do fast food." she says, "We do good food, so it takes time."
Gollum blanches, the rest of us order regardless. We sit outside, relishing the oportunity to do so, sitting on benches beside the roaring river, swollen with the past day's rainfall. The food is not so slow, but it is good and the location - the riverbank surrounded by rolling green hillsides - is exactly the sort of scenery you would expect from this country.
Franz Joseph is a small town fuelled almost entirely by the unusual natural phenomenon of the nearby Franz Joseph Glacier, a frozen river rolling straight off the mountainside down to sea-level - in fact the Glacier pretty much stops where the rain forest starts, which is just a little bit on the odd side.
Of course for the sea-level based tourists who have always fancied doing their best Scott of the Antarctic or Edmund Hillary impersonations but have always been a little bit on the squeamish side about the isolation or the altitude or just the sheer cold, that such activities might involve, the glacier and the series of activities which have sprung up around it, represent a rather intriguing prospect.
We opt for the guided walks over the Glacier and make our way to the tour offices to be suited and booted up in head-to-toe branded Gore-Tex. My group is led by a guide called - pleasingly - Cliff, who has red curly hair protruding from beneath his wool beanie, and even redder cheeks burnt rosy from his time on the glacier. He leads us to the foot of the ice and we stop to fit crampon-like gadgets called ice-talons to our boots. Ahead of us, the ice extends upwards, vanishing into the still-low clouds. A great, almost perfectly circular tunnel feeds the river and chunks of ice can be seen dropping from the ceiling into the current. Blocks of ice float past, it's strange to think that they'll have melted before the reach the sea.
The ice itself if already alive with other red-jacketed guides hacking staircases and opening paths. The glacier is advancing - some one-and-a-half metres a week, and so it is a landscape which is continually changing, not to mention one of the only national parks in which the guides cheerfully - not to mention acceptably - carve great hunks out of the landscape without any penalty what-so-ever.
We follow Cliff and his partner Claire as they take us up the ice. The lower paths are well marked, with ropes and chains embedded in the ice to hang onto. The structure of the ice shifts and changes as we progress with fissures and voids opening up around us. Higher still and we are issued with ice-axes, the ice here is new, the glacier reaching up in layers of frozen waves. On many occasions, Cliff and Claire ask us to wait while they hack out new staircases for us to use, the guides who follow renew the same staircases and the whole thing appears to be a rather Sisyphean task, continually carving the same steps which last only momentarily.
Higher still, and the ice takes on the famed blue colouring of compacted ice within ice. There are caves here, and we are lead through one: a circular tunnel leading downwards - once part of a pipeline leading water through the glacier, separated from the others by the shifting of the landscape.
It is a shame that the weather is not a little better - we are lucky not to have much rain, and the conditions are clearing enough for us to be taken higher than the tour has managed for over a week - however looking at the fragile, rich blue structures rising around us, it is not hard to try and picture them against the blue sky they deserve. As it is, the grey stone faces of the mountains surrounding us disappear into the clouds.
As a full day on the ice, the whole experience is intriguing, not to mention surprisingly warm given the environment, but when the time comes to descend once more, it feels like the right time, as though we have had enough by then.
When I get back down, I find that I too have caught the sun: in fact, the woolly hat which has spent the day pulled down across my forehead has left a horizontal burn line, splitting my scalp into white and pink halves like a brick of coconut ice.

As we leave Franz Joseph the following morning, the sun is already starting to emerge from the clouds, and as we pass the glacier, glimpses of snow capped mountains can be seen surrounding it. It looks utterly beautiful, but there is no time to stop.
"Should have stayed another night." I hear someone murmur.
The weather continues to clear as the day progresses and when we stop near a cafe in the morning, the line of the Southern Alps which has accompanied us along our journey finally begins to reveal its jagged row of summits, each draped in glittering white snow. Even Mount Cook, New Zealand's highest mountain seems to be making itself visible and the bus is delayed further as photographs are taken.
Twenty-five kilometres from Franz Joseph is the Fox Glacier, which is a little smaller but no less impressive. Sadly it is not home to a giant, smiling polar bear, nor does it taste of mint. We stop at the nearby Lake Matheson and take photographs anyway.
Indeed as the weather gets better and better, the bus stops more and more to cater to the demands of the photographers on board. The scenery revealing itself to be as ravishing as one might expect of this country. The mountains here are real mountains: big and spiky, covered with forests and topped with snow. But between them are broad, flat planes - river valleys and grasslands. This is real Alpine country (alps, not muesli) and it is extraordinary.
Some on the bus do not seem to share the sense of awe which the spectacle demands, and at every photo stop, opt to stay on the bus, stretched across as many seats as thy could find - not even looking out of the windows.
"We've been travelling for ages." One of them argues, a flailing-limbed teen with thick glasses and an afro. "We've seen all of this stuff before."
He hunches into the pair of seats he has commandeered and bends back the pages of his Len Deigton novel pointedly.
"But you haven't been here before." Gollum counters, and in frustration steals the boy's camera to take some photographs himself.
One such stop-off involves a short walk to the Blue Pools, which as the name suggests is an idyllic spot at which the mountains rise from water which is a deep, beautiful blue colour. There is barely a cloud in the sky when we reach the spot, and the effect is overwhelmingly beautiful. We drift off across the rocky shore and linger there for as long as we can, just happy to be part of the landscape.

We stop for the night in Makarora, a pleasant little resort in the middle of nowhere. The setting is typically impressive: surrounding mountain ranges dropping down to the riverside, and the accommodation is made up of neat little A-frame structures, each huddled with beds. The atmosphere is relaxed and welcoming, although there is the suspicion that were the weather less agreeable, it would be not so different to the set-up at Old Macdonald's Farm. But on this occasion, the weather is in our favour, and so after a brief walk around the local nature trail (the nature of which primarily consisted of Tui birds - throaty mimics who clearly relished our audience) we idle away the afternoon by stretching out on the grass beneath the sun with a bottle of wine.
The evening is spent in the adjoining bar, where a birthday celebration of sorts is being held for one of our fellow passengers, a girl named Claire. The proprietor of the bar - who wears the same severe expression when enthusing about the local attractions as she does when threatening to close down the bar because people are getting too drunk - announces that there will be a prize draw to win a day of white-water river surfing in Queenstown. River surfing is an activity in which you are kitted out in a wetsuit and flippers and then sent head-first down some white-water rapids with little more than a polystyrene float to keep you upright. Very New Zealand, of course.
Gollum is invited to pick the winner.
"Please may it not be me," Claire mutters to herself, "Please may it not be me."
"Claire!" Gollum announces without even looking at the name he has drawn.
Claire looks mortified.

Land of the Low White Cloud

The Stray Bus is easy to spot. It is the large, orange gaudy vehicle lurking at the end of the car-park of the uninspiring ferry terminal. We approach with our bags looking hopeful and a beaming bald man leaps off and with a cheerful grin tells us to hang on a moment as the bus is getting a new driver.
He vanishes across the car-park and leaves us standing cluelessly by the bus, awaiting instructions and being peered at by a handful of faces inside. A few moments later, a taxi turns up, out of which bundle a handful of characters who - looking as though they know exactly what they are doing - drop their bags into the back of the bus and get onboard. They are followed by a surly looking gent, whose jersey is embroidered with the Stray company logo.
This is our new driver, we learn, and his name is Gollum.
"Apparently I look like him." Gollum says without enthusiasm, once he has noticed we are waiting to be told what to do. "Put your bags in with the others and we can get on with this thing."
The Stray bus - like pretty much all of its competitors in New Zealand - works in a different way to the tour busses I have used in the past. While those followed self-contained itineraries in which a single guide led a core group of travellers through a series of set destinations, the Stray bus runs like a normal hop-on, hop-off bus service, albeit one which covers an elongated loop covering both islands, stopping off along the way at locations determined by a set timetable. Thus, it trundles along, ticking off the attractions around the country and continuing around indefinitely if necessary so that depending on how extensive your pass is, you can see as much or as little as you wish. The trick is, that at each stop, you have the option of staying for as long as you want, catching up with another bus which will be stopping in the same place the following evening - or even one further back still. With a new bus turning up at each stop every day during the summer months, this adds a considerable amount of flexibility to the arrangement, but comes at the expense of qualities which companies such as Tucan in South America, or Adventure Tours in Australia thrive upon. Notably the formation of a tightly loyal group of travellers who begin and end the tour in the same places and thus find themselves enjoying the same experiences at the same times.
A concern in leaping onto one of these busses, of course, is that we are effectively wading into a group which might have been together for some time already, but in this respect we seem to be lucky - the bus we pick up in Picton seems to have an awful lot of room on board, in fact with Gollum included - and his rather gruesome trophy possum skin (whom he affectionately names Fred and leaves hanging over the back of his driver's seat) - there are only about eight of us in total.
Furthermore, almost as soon as the bus sets off, the weather greys and the rain begins to fall. Our first stop for the evening is supposed to be the Abel Tasman National Park, situated on the North-West corner of the South Island. It is a long drive from Picton, and the bus is immediately tense, as everyone hopes fervently that the journey there will take us through the weather front and let us arrive in the sunshine once more.
As the journey progresses, however, this appears to be an increasingly optimistic proposition - one not even enlivened by a brief stop off at a vineyard for some free wine tasting (being Tamsin's birthday, this is probably considerably more welcome than the rather haphazard breakfast I concocted for her in the hostel). By the time we leave Nelson, the numbers in the bus have dwindled, and when we reach Old MacDonald's Farm (seriously) on the edge of the national park, a further handful of our group have decided to move on with the bus the following day, rather than stay the prescribed two nights.

On a clear day, the Abel Tasman National Park is one of those breathtakingly beautiful locations which might even make Richard Dawkins hesitate for a fraction of a nanosecond when it comes to the whole is-there-a-god debate. I know this, because I've seen the postcards, and it’s such a shame that the place seems subjected to the sorts of weather patterns which would probably make the same is-there-a-god question moot. After all, if there was a god, I'm sure s/he would want to show if off and not dump such a staggeringly beautiful landscape in one of the wettest places on earth. The Abel Tasman National Park that we saw was somewhere in the middle of a large grey cloud. A large, wet grey cloud at that.
None-the-less, the range of activities we were offered included sailing, kayaking, hiking and horse-riding and so there was much debate about which would be least spoilt by the weather.
"Horse-riding." Tamsin says, automatically. It's a decision which has been made some time before we got here, and while it has nothing to do with the question of the weather, it strikes me as the best option, and so we both sign up for the following morning.
Old MacDonald's Farm is a cheerfully rough and ready resort which would presumably be more appealing in better weather. As it is, we are offered a handful of tiny huts and the use of a communal kitchen and shower block - of which, the less said the better. Indeed the kitchen facilities are so unappealing that the on-site cafe finds itself with plenty of clientele for the evening.
"It's not really a cafe," one of the guys from the bus ahead of us warns as we discuss the menu (fish and chips, burger and chips or fish-burger and chips). "It doesn't serve any hot drinks, like coffee or tea. Only the food."
"Is the food good?" someone asks him and he nods.
"We only had the hot mud cake." he says, his eyes widening. He tries to describe it further, but tails off into a series of delirious vowel sounds.
His description of the cafe is not entirely inaccurate. It is indeed not much of a cafe. In fact it's really only a serving hatch in the side of a bus, with a series of benches huddled around a brazier beneath an outstretched tarp to act as the dining area.
However the atmosphere is warm and friendly. With the rain drumming on the tarp, most of the farm's residents have gathered beneath, with an ice-box full of bottled beer, and a family of ducklings who seem to charm everyone - even Gollum. Our driver is clearly a regular at this joint, and introduces us to Brian - a bearded man with crooked teeth lounging across one of the benches and wearing a smock.
"He'll be taking you horse-riding tomorrow." Gollum informs us with a smirk."You been riding before?" Brian asks slurrily - he has clearly been here a while.
Tamsin shakes her head.
"Novice." she says proudly.
I consider my horse-riding trip in South America, during which I spent around seven hours trying to control a bored nag which seemed to be biding its time before being sent off to the glue factory. I am clearly prevaricating on the subject for too long.
"Him too." Tamsin supplies for me.
Brian nods unenthusiastically, then excuses himself unsteadily to find another beer.
By the following morning, the weather has cleared up a little. The sun is still hidden behind the clouds, but the rain seems to be holding off. Tamsin and I trot down towards the paddock where Brian lives in a squat little gypsy caravan mounted on a series of piles of bricks. We find him waiting for us with a trio of horses.
"Seeing as you're beginners," he says, "I'm not going to do the whole see-the-park-on-horseback, thing. You'd be spending too much time holding on and not enough time looking at the park anyway, so it wouldn't be worth it, right?"It seems like a smart suggestion, particularly as the weather seems to be conspiring to keep much of park hidden anyway. We are assigned a horse each.
Tamsin is partnered with Star, an elderly shire and I am given a chap called Joe, who - mercifully - spends most of his time obediently following Brian, which makes my job rather an easy one.
All sorted out, we set off on a brief trip around the grounds of the farm and the surrounding area, Brian navigates us around a series of obstacles to get us to grips with controlling the animals over varying terrain. It's a pleasant morning, with a river crossing being about as challenging as we get, and even the gradual onset of the rain does not wipe the great beaming grin off Tamsin's face.
"I should have bought sugar lumps." she says afterwards, patting Star on the nose. Star agrees, Brian says something about beer.

Abel Tasman is the man who named New Zealand and almost discovered it. As it happens, he sent an envoy to greet the locals awaiting them on the beach, only to beat a hasty retreat when he realised a little too late that the welcoming dance being performed in their honour was not actually a welcoming dance at all and the envoy would not coming pack in one piece.
"Good thing too." Gollum puts it, "Otherwise I'd be wearing clogs."
The Abel Tasman coastal track, on a clear day, is one of the South Island's most famous walks. Reasoning that we are going to have to walk at least one day in the rain on the Milford Track, we take advantage of a brief lull in the rain and start along it regardless to see how far we can get.
"Practice." I say, and hope to heaven it isn't.
The walk is fairly easy going, following a well maintained path in and out of the trees, the view is largely uninspiring given the weather, but gives a teasing indication of how good it could be in other circumstances. On better days, it is possible to pick up sea-taxis from along the coast, so that you can get dropped off at the distant headland and hike your way back.
We meet others on the track, heading in both directions. As we pass, we grunt greetings from beneath our hoods and move on with impatience. Now and then, a path leads down to a pleasant looking beach, suggesting that were the weather any better, the walk would be continually interrupted by welcome and lazy sojourns on the sand.
After about three quarters of an hour, the sun finds a weak-spot in the cloud layer and bursts through triumphantly. Suddenly, the colours of the coastline right themselves: the unclouded sky adopts a crystal blue colour, the sea an emerald green, the beaches become gold and the hills a vivid jade. All of a sudden, we are offered a precious glimpse of exactly how beautiful the place should be. Ten minutes later - the same ten minutes it takes to hurry down the nearest path to the nearest beach - and it is all gone again. But it was enough, and although we turn around there and then, to tramp back towards the farm, we do so with a certain satisfaction, having at least seen something worth seeing before the view and the weather was snatched away once more.

South Specific

Christchurch is regarded as New Zealand's most English city, and a single glance at the layout of its commercial centre is enough to understand why. True, the streets form a rather new-world style uniform grid, but the grey-brick gothic architecture of the arts centre and the cathedral, favour a more English style than the colonial trappings of Auckland or Queenstown. Additionally, the shallow river which snakes its way through the city centre is named The Avon and flanked by streets named after Oxford and Cambridge. Just to rub it in further, it comes complete with punts. Christchurch isn't simply the most English of New Zealand's cities, it's also the most home counties.
I arrive on the last plane of the evening from Auckland and meet Tamsin in the lounge of the Rolleston House YHA. She has been here for four days on her own, while I pursued a paltry two-day work contract in Auckland to help fund the trip we shall be taking in the following three weeks.
Enthusiastic suggestions to find food are hampered, however, by my late arrival. Timing things poorly once more, it is Race Night at Christchurch and by the time we set off into town, every place selling food seems to have shut up shop so that the staff can spend more time propping up the bar with all the other revellers. We resort to fast food instead and while waiting for burgers to be passed across the counter towards us, a cheery young man tries to sell us some lettuce. We decline politely.
"I like it here." Tamsin observes as we leave, "Even the drunks are lovely."

The original planned route for our trip was to take us in a broad loop covering much of the South Island from Christchurch to Christchurch, however a glitch in the system means that we have been left to find our own way to the north coast of the island, so a late night is not in order given that we now find ourselves with a seven o'clock bus journey the following morning.
This change of plan means that we are missing one day of the trip, a day which should have been spent in Kaikoura, a small strip of a town on the East coast which offers choice activities such as whale spotting and swimming with dolphins. Our back-up bus stops here briefly and gives us the chance to decide - in a particularly fox/grapes sort of way - that the water looks very cold and the whole experience would probably be a disappointment anyway. Instead, we have lunch at a pleasant little café, which sells us a hunk of freshly baked bread each, and then we hop back on the bus to set off towards Picton, our destination for the evening.
Picton is the 'maritime gateway to South Island', so termed because it houses the port frequented by the inter-island ferry from Wellington. Our guidebook describes the town as a 'sleepy little place which becomes a hive of activity when the ferry arrives', but as far as I could tell, the town wakes up grudgingly when the ferry intrudes on its sleep, before dozing off contentedly once more.
The weather when we arrive certainly bodes well for the trip: a bright sun lights up a rich blue, cloudless sky as we hulk our rucksacks towards our accommodation of choice. Sequoia Lodge is a cheerful and very friendly backpacker's hostel which to our considerable delight, seems to have replaced its advertised 'giant chessboard' with a much more sensible spa pool.It is still fairly early in the afternoon when we arrive, and having dumped off our bags, we take a walk up the forest-covered hill overlooking the town. From the top, the viewpoint gives a good idea of how Picton Harbour is arranged: a broad and jagged estuary eventually leads to the Cook Sound, crowded along the route are rolling hills which drop down into the glorious blue swell of the sea. A series of long-distance walks follow the peninsula Northwards, but we are booked on a walk further south, and with the bus arriving to pick us up the following afternoon, we do not have time to explore too far afield. The hilltop walk is a good substitute though.
"Practice." Tamsin puts it with satisfaction when we reach the top. "Although The Milford Track is a valley walk, right?"
I look at the view.
"Look at that view." I say.