New Zealand - SOUTH ISLAND
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18th November 2004 Up early for the complimentary breakfast and a parking ticket. We drive up to Brooklyn Hill for a superb panoramic view over the city and South Island’s Kaikora Ranges as the huge blades of a 32m high wind turbine whirr overhead. We head back into town where I drop Claire & Moz off and drive round the streets desperately trying to find some parking. At 1pm, we drive on to the ferry to cross the Cook Strait to the South Island. I find a base onboard and type away on the laptop while the happy couple stand outside on deck watching the North Island slowly disappearing and the South gradually emerging. I join them on deck as we slowly motor past awesome bays and fishing boats through the tree-lined blue waters into Picton. After rolling off the ferry and a quick stop in town, we weave up the winding, stomach churning Queen Charlotte Drive to Nelson, stopping briefly by a stream for Mozza to lose a spinner to the rocks. The 35km drive between Picton and Havelock is a picturesque and spectacular back-road sliding past the flat plain at the head of Queen Charlotte Sound and climbing up the hills overlooking Pelorus Sound, where we stopped to admire the views, before descending to the sleepy fishing village of Havelock itself, famous for its green-lipped mussels. The thriving, small city of Nelson set on the coast with great beaches and a backdrop of snow covered mountains. We chuck our kit into the homely Tasman Bay backpackers and crack open a bottle of red while Mozza tries to teach a confused foreign bloke English. After a wholesome pasta we sit around reading, chatting and checking emails. 19th November 2004 After breakfast, a far too enthusiastic Claire bounces out of the front door for a morning jog while Moz and I go for the less strenuous option of cycling into town for some local fishing advice. We drive off to a recommended spot along winding country tracks in the Aniseed Valley, decide the water is far too clear for spinning and perform some spectacular rock dives into the icy waters instead. We meet Claire on Tahunanui Beach to catch some rays and have lunch before all hopping into the car to drive north to the Abel Tasman Park. The road from Nelson to Motueka takes us through regular farmland, later changing to vineyards and local galleries, as we follow the river north. We stop in Motueka, meaning ‘land of the weka’ (an edible bird) to spend an hour fishing on the wide river, resulting in nothing. In the tiny resort settlement of Kaiteriteri we stop for a cheeky beer on the seafront terrace of the Shoreline Café and admire the golden beach, clear blue waters and tree-covered islands. Base camp for activities in the park is Marahau where we book into the Barn backpackers. After a chucking the lines into a small roadside pool down the road and getting laughed at by the locals we drown our sorrows in the local café with a beer. Moz heads for bed early to leave Claire and I to carry on the evening. 20th November 2004 Up at 8am for a brief breakfast before being picked up by minibus to catch the water taxi up into the park. We climb aboard the speedboat in a car park, buckle up our lifejackets and sit in rows as we get towed down the road to the sea by a tractor. The blast up to Bark Bay took us past white sandy beaches in tiny coves and bays, beginning with a brief look at Split Apple rock, a large boulder split in two halves. The six-hour walk from Bark Bay through Anchorage and back to Marahau follows the spectacular coast with a mixture of dense bush walking, gentle climbs to lookouts and walks across idyllic beaches, one on which we stop for lunch and a swim. I complete the second half in record time and wait for Claire & Moz in the sweltering heat before retreating to our change in accommodation for the night, a large tipi. The evening is spent at a reggae night in the Park Café laughing at the various nutters, waving their arms about in a kind of trance on the dancefloor. After Moz falls asleep at the table, he retires early to leave Claire and I dancing the night away.
After a brief stop in town to invest in a very cheap tent we leave Marahau and drive along a valley highway to the west coast and the dispiriting town of Westport. The drive south along the raging wild coast is awesome watching the huge waves crashing on to the pebbles. We stop in Punakaiki and find the Beach Camp for my tent and the Beach Hostel for the couple. I erect my spotless new purchase trying my best not to consult the instruction sheet whilst be watched, and probably timed, by fellow campers. We watch the sunset over the Pancake rocks at Dolomite Point where layers of limestone have weathered to resemble an immense stack of giant pancakes and huge sea caverns where the surf surges in, sending spumes of brine spouting up through vast blowholes. Back at the hostel Moz cooks a great ruby murry (curry) before I borrow a pillow from their dorm and crawl into the chill of my tent, narrowly avoiding treading on a possum outside the ablution blocks. 22nd November 2004 After a very chilly night on the ground I drive round to the hostel and breakfast. Moz gives a German lad a lift up the road before we load up the car and head south to the largest town on the west coast, Greymouth. We park up and take an informative visit to a greenstone gallery to learn about its important role in Maori history. Around the gold town and port of Hokitika we spot the German lad trying to hitch at the side of the road and stop to make space. With the German aboard we continue south through the tiny village of Ross, where a 3.1 kilo gold nugget named Honourable Roddy was turned up back in 1909, and end up in a very wet Franz Josef after missing the turning to our intended port of call, Okarito. The German jumps out before we back track to the tiny hamlet of Okarito. I set up my tent in the community campsite next to the beach, getting peppered by sand flies, while the other two move into the YHA, an old 1860 cosy schoolhouse. I leave them to it and take a walk down the long beach before being accosted by a bible-bashing nutcase. After having to close my eyes and repeat a prayer out loud, which apparently means I am born again or something (what a load of….!!), I am rescued by Claire and Moz to walk back down the beach. In the old schoolhouse we sort their photos out on my laptop, chat with a Dutch lady and avoid a grumpy writer from Taz also staying there and eat dinner. On returning to my lone tent, as I left it, in the camping ground I find it is now surrounded by over fifteen other tents belonging to over thirty screaming and giggling teenagers. I listen to their screams and laughter for over an hour before dropping off to the sound of torrential rain. 23rd November 2004 Up early with aching joints from the hard ground for a nice warm shower, which disappointingly turns out to be broken. After breakfast in the warmth of the hostel 24th November 2004 We wake to the sound of an Irish girl’s alarm clock and have breakfast in the bustling kitchen before walking down into town for a full day of glacier trekking. We meet the two guides and wedge our feet into some old smelly socks and hiking boots, grab some oversized waterproofs and gloves and hop on to the characteristic old school bus to be taken up to the foot of the Fox glacier. In the car park we hover round the more friendly of the two guides, Gavin, stare at the a pair of Kea alpine parrots hobbling around and set off to the terminal face. The glacier looks awesome and asking Gavin, and a geologist also on our trek, questions brings back some GCSE Geography. We hike up the scarred valley wall into thick vegetation, clutching on to a chain to prevent falling down a 100m cliff and up ladders before descending onto the glacier itself. With our trousers tucked into socks we strap on the issued crampons and start the ascent up the glacier using the steps being cut out of the ice by our pickaxe swinging guide. We pass blue crevasses and hear the glacier moving and cracking as we stop for sandwiches on some rocks. We climb to where the crevasses become to large to navigate and watch a couple of pro ice climbers being lowered into a deep crack, wave them goodbye thinking of the film ‘Touching the Void’ and start the descent back to the terminal face. Huge blocks of ice crack off the face into the icy river with an almighty sound. Back at base we hand back our stinking socks and boots and get our rather pointless certificate after a great day. Back in the hostel we stick ‘What becomes of the Broken Hearted’, the equally shocking sequel to ‘Once Were Warriors’, in the video and thaw out with a cup of tea while Claire causes havoc again in the kitchen by cooking up some more delicious muffins. The evening is spent playing more cards and emptying the box of red. 25th November 2004 The rain is still sheeting it down so we leave early heading south towards Haast. At Lake Moeraki , Claire and I do the Monro Beach Walk through lovely forest to one of the best places for spotting rare Fiordland crested penguins which obviously must have been on holiday, while Mozza loses another spinner on the lake. The odd town of Haast is made up of three tiny communities all taking the name. We shoot through into the Haast Pass, the fart lowest road crossing the Southern Alps, and wind through dense rain-soaked forest into parched, rolling grasslands of Central Otago and into the ski chalet town of Wanaka. The Purple Cow backpackers is just like a ski chalet and combined with its amazing views over Lake Wanaka, the snow-covered mountains in the distance and the fresh, crisp air, it felt like I was on a boarding holiday in Europe. I type up some of my diary whilst being pestered by Moz to play pool. We eat, play more pool, watch the end of Braveheart with an amusing patriotic Scottish girl who knew the script off by heart, before retiring to our rooms. Just before midnight two lads come into the dorm, obviously after a few beers, and blame each other for the noises coming from within their sleeping bags – all highly amusing. 26th November 2004 We decide to hire some bikes from the hostel to take full advantage of the awesome lake views but after Claire fails to find a bike small enough for her feet to touch the ground, we head into town and another hire shop. The map we are given is pretty poor and in the hands of Moz is completely useless so after getting lost within the hour we are guided back on to the lake track by a passing professional, whom we lose equally as quickly. The cycle along the lakeshore is amazing providing some superb photo opportunities. After losing the others, I meet them back at the hire shop, have lunch back in the hostel before packing the car and heading south to Queenstown, briefly stopping for a walk through the old gold mining settlement of Arrowtown. In Bumbles backpackers in the adventure capital of Queenstown, overlooking Lake Wakatipu, we chat with a Canadian lady over a cup of tea and Claire’s muffins and watch the 51m long coal-fired TSS (triple steam screw) Earnslaw, the last of the lake steamers, sail off across the lake briefly sounding the steam whistle which echoes beautifully across the icy waters and the surrounding snowy mountains. Claire and Moz go to explore the town while I drive up into the Swiss-like hills to Moke Lake to try and hook a trout and freeze my fingers off. The scenery was well worth the two hours of trying though. I meet the others back at the ranch for dinner before heading into town for free beer at The World Bar. After making the most of the free keg, Moz flakes early to leave Claire and I flinging our limbs about on the dance floor. I end up getting back to the room in the early hours when Claire and Moz are waking up! 27th November 2004 After three attempts by the receptionist to get me out of bed, I pack the car and wander into town to hunt for the other two. I wait outside the hostel chatting to a great Irish chap about his sailing stories until Claire and Moz return at midday. We set off out of Queenstown the wrong way and have lunch next to a pretty nice lake before doubling back and heading the correct way to Lake Te Anau, New Zealand’s deepest, in Fiordland. After four of the beers fall out of the back of the car and smash on the forecourt of a fuel station, we drive through the growing town of Te Anau and find the Barnyard backpackers out of town, a relaxed, rural hostel on a deer farm. Claire and Moz chuck their things into one of the cabins while I put up my tent on the lawns overlooking the surrounding valley and snow-capped hills. It is then when I realise that the effects of the night before have resulted in me stupidly leaving my laptop bag and camera back in Queenstown….ahhhhh! I phone the previous hostel immediately and ask the receptionist if she would kindly give them to the friendly Irish chap who was coming this way tomorrow. She refuses and orders me to fetch them myself. The evening is spent whipping Moz at pool and enjoying his extremely hot chilli con carne outside in a superb evening’s sun. 28th November 2004 I drag myself out of the tent and jump into the car for the mammoth four hour round trip back to Queenstown for my left luggage. The drive is great because the previous day I had mostly been catching flies in the back and missed all the scenery. I pick up the bags, apologise to the lady for sleeping in and head straight back to sunny Te Anau and the others. We pack the car and crack on further north towards Milford Sound on the west coast of Fiordland. We stop at the roadside for sandwiches at the rather disappointing Mirror Lakes before joining the queue of traffic waiting to enter the 1200m Homer Tunnel and naughtily feed the cheeky pair of Kea, the world’s only alpine parrot, which ‘beg’ at the tunnel entrance. As soon as we emerge from the damp, dripping tunnel it feels like we have entered another world and the weather has completely changed to torrential rain. This probably should have been expected as the area does have the second highest amount of annual rainfall in the world, the first being the Tahiti mountain range. We take a brief walk into the trees to the The Chasm where near-vertical rapids tumble down past sculpted rocks and pillars hollowed out by churning stones and the whirlpool effect of flowing water. As soon as I begin to erect the tent outside the Milford Sound Lodge, the heavens open. After failing to secure the pegs in the loose gravel and resorting to rocks and showing off my green ghost impression whilst wrestling with the fly sheet, I achieve a personal best at setting up the tent but get drenched in the process. We drive down the road for a drink at the only pub and to watch the repeated match between the All Blacks and France. We join the other folk, mostly hikers here for the world-renowned Milford Track walk, in the dining room and play cards whilst the rain continues to sheet down outside. We call it a night so I pinch a pillow from Claire’s room, make a dash for it out of the front door of the hostel and literally dive into the surprisingly dry tent. 29th November 2004 I know I slept most of the night because of the length of dream I had but also remember hearing the torrential rain all night – very strange. As soon as I return to take the tent down after a shower, the rain starts again and I receive another one. We literally almost miss the boat for a cruise up the Sound, which is technically a fiord, and have to sprint on deck before leaving the slipway. We pass huge waterfalls plunging hundreds of metres into the fiord and our skipper even dips the bows into Fairy Falls. The weather then sets in, driving us down below decks, as we sail the 22km to the fiord entrance and the fairer weather over the Tasman Sea. On the sail back we pass the huge 1694m Mitre Peak, named for it’s resemblance to a bishop’s mitre, and stop to photograph a colony for Southern fur seals on a rock. After the excellent, but wet, morning on the water we jump into the car and start the long drive across the south island towards the Scottish capital city of Dunedin. We wanted to get the rods out in the brown trout capital of Gore, halfway to Dunedin, but the advice from the local fishing shop wasn’t to bother. We get to the east coast city of Dunedin, meaning ‘Edinburgh of the South’, and check into the Manor House hostel. I spend the evening typing up my diary in the kitchen either side of dinner and chatting to a friendly German girl while Moz grabs a few games back from Claire on the pool table in the garage. 30th November 2004 We do our own things in the morning; Moz and Claire wander round town visiting the museum and eating out at Subway and Maccy Dees while I speed walk around the second hand shops searching for a fleece, eventually investing in a 5 dollar special, and getting my mop cut in the tackiest, cheapest barber I could find. I decide to make sarnies back at the hostel and munch them on one of the fine beaches, St. Clair, south of the city. Off go the sandles for a windy but pleasant walk along the sand before retreating back to the car when the heavens open. On the return journey I sense some movement from the bushes and discover a huge fur seal high up in the grassy sand dunes next to the path. After briefly asking it what on earth it was doing up there I head back into town to meet the other two at the most photographed building in NZ, Dunedin’s railway station. Here, we take shelter from the rain and board one of the refurbished 1920’s wooden cars for a four-hour return journey on the Taieri Gorge Railway. The track stretches for 58km northwest of the city into the high country of Otago penetrating rugged mountain scenery, only accessible by train, following the huge broom and gauze-covered Taieri gorge which runs to Pukerangi. Here we have a brief stop before the return leg. Back at the hostel we fire up the barbi and enjoy a huge feast around the table. 1st December 2004 Claire jumps behind the wheel and shows Moz and I her rally skills round the hairpins of the bending peninsula drive. The road winds its way along the shores of Otago Harbour and its small bays up to the northern point of Taiaroa Head. We walk down to Pilots Beach and see numerous fur seals lounging about on the rocks but unfortunately no blue penguins. At the top of the point we peer over the cliff edge and see seals diving about in the kelp and cormorants, shags and gannets flying below. Red-billed gulls swoop down at our heads possibly to ward us away from nests in the bush. Back in the car we drive to Sandymount for a stroll along the cliffs before watching sea lions on the fantastic beach of Sandfly Bay. Back in the city we find Baldwin St., the steepest street in the World. We leave Moz in the car and attempt to beat the 1min 52 sec record by running up and down only to result in an almost fatal collapse and drinking the water fountain dry at the top. We set off up the east coast and park up at the Moeraki Boulders, a collection of 2m diameter spherical rocks on the beach, which have been released from the mudstone cliffs during their erosion over the years. We head inland towards Mount Cook and cast in the lines at some pools outside the fishermans’ paradise of Kurow. Whilst retrieving my last cast I get a bite and land a pretty small rainbow trout, which brings the overall scores to Mozza 10, Sewell 10. I run across the road to show the others with the poor little blighter still dangling from my hook. After the obligatory photo I decide the little’n needs saving and toss him back into the water. Unfortunately, after thinking he was showing me his back crawl, guilt sets in when I realise he has karked it. The drive up to Aoraki Mount Cook is unreal. The road is lined with purple and yellow lupins and the icy, turquoise waters of Lake Pukaki with the snow-covered mountains as a backdrop. We arrive in the tiny village at the base of the huge 3754m Mt. Cook, or Aoraki in Maori meaning ‘Cloud piercer’, and find the YHA for the other two. I set up the tent in the DOC campsite at the base of the Tasman Glacier and join the others for early doors in the lodge bar. After a cracking stir fry, Moz retires to his bunk early while I beat my sister at an exciting game of cards before driving back to the campsite and literally diving out of the torrential rain into my tent. 2nd December 2004 The mountain roared all night while the rain thrashed down. I wake to find that my 60 dollar tent has almost survived the incredible conditions thrown at it but realise my toes are wet. I make a dash for the car and have breakfast with the others before we leave a very wet and windy Mt. Cook behind us and press on towards Christchurch. En route we stop at another incredible, but white horse-covered, lake called Lake Tekapo before parking up for sandwiches in the prosperous farming town of Geraldine. Moz and I visit the Vintage Car and Machinery museum, which houses an extensive collection of old cars, tractors and a plane, whilst Claire wanders around the various crafts, galleries and food stores before falling asleep on the park lawns. We avoid the chaos of Christchurch and skirt round on to Banks Peninsula and the small waterside town of Akaroa meaning ‘Long Bay’ and known as NZ’s French settlement. We pass through the town and the very Maori hamlet of Onuku to the Onuku Farm Hostel high up on a hill overlooking the spectacular Akaroa Estuary. The staff and current guests are immediately extremely friendly and suggest I set up my tent in the garden instead of in the separate camping area. We decide to give the daily evening volleyball game a miss and opt for a spot of fishing off a beach, an apparently short walk away. We set off with rods, a bucket for mussels and beers and walk across the fields towards the coast following directions given. After losing the white path markers we find ourselves battling against a strong onshore headwind whilst dodging thistles and nettles, ducking under gauze bushes and precariously following a 45 degrees cliff top sheep track. We decide we are lost and in a life threatening danger…. so carry on. We manage to find a more substantial farm track and another beach where we crack open the beers and commiserate. Back at the hostel we amuse the fellow guests with our story and rope a fellow Yorkshireman into joining us for cards. He turns out to be an ex-croupier in a Leeds casino so claims an easy victory. |
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3rd December 2004 The challenge had been set to find the damn beach this morning so we set off with rods and bucket for a second attempt. Down on the rocky beach Claire immediately starts filling up the bucket with large mussels as we cast in the lines using mussel as bait. After no bites I scale the rocks to a better spot and catch a snapper on the first retrieve, chucking it back after the usual photo. Mozza 10, Sewell 11. We wander back up the fields in the midday sun and have lunch on the decking overlooking the estuary. After a brief walk along the French streets of the town licking a delicious ice cream, we jump back into the car and drive into Christchurch and north up the east coast to Kaikoura. This small town is set in the lee of the Kaikoura Peninsula where 1km offshore the seabed falls vertically for another 1km, a phenomenon that brings sea mammals in large and varied numbers to feed on the crill being pushed up the wall. This is the hub for sperm whale watching and swimming with dolphins and seals. We meet the extremely welcoming owners of Bay Cottages on the waterfront of South Bay and settle into our modern self-contained cottage. Moz and I then drive to the New Wharf for a spot of evening fishing off the jetty. Being semi professional anglers we come without weights or sufficient bait, hoping the mild cheddar on our hooks will do the job. After bartering two twelve-year old lads for some weights and scabbing some squid off a fellow angler, we dangle our lines off the jetty for an hour until the beer bottles are empty. We return to the cottage without a prize and enjoy the fresh mussels in a white wine sauce superbly cooked by Claire for dinner. 4th December 2004 The alarm clock sounds at 5am to wake Claire and Moz for their dolphin swimming tour. At 8-30am I get up and find Mozza’s clothes all over the kitchen floor; later to find out that he heard a mouse in the night and threw all his clothes into the darkness to attempt to trap it. I join Graham the owner on his daily routine of lifting his three crayfish pots out at sea. We drop his 4.5m aluminium hulled boat off the slipway and burn out over the swell to the first pot. The current is so strong that it has taken the orange buoy down below the water level. I puff and struggle to answer the questions Graham is asking me as I am hauling up the 30m of rope to the pot, realising my supreme athletic fitness prior to leaving the UK has been blown out of the window. There are two crayfish inside but unfortunately the callipers prove they are just too small to keep. We haul up three in the third pot, which are also not to size. On the way back to the slipway we stop at a rocky ledge to see a group of New Zealand fur seals basking in the sun. Back at the cottages he invites us all for coffee round the garden table. We head into town to enquire about fishing trips and book a trip for after lunch. The friendly skipper and his wife are from Taunton, Somerset and are only working for the boat owner for seven weeks during their travels. We head out over the swell and drop the sea lines over the side to the rocky bottom, fifty metres down. Almost every retrieve brought up another one or two bright orange, spiny Sea Perch, which are apparently delicious on the table. Moz and I hauled in over fifteen each and probably more over the two hours but the skipper’s wife caught blue cod, scorpion fish and a yellow maomao (spelling?) as well. The frantic reeling in of the 50m of line during each retrieve at an awkward angle with the motion of the boat resulted in something giving in my lower back. The skipper and his wife found this highly amusing and offered me the seat to ease the pain. I accept though not wanting to give up the fishing. We had petrels, red-billed and black-backed gulls following the boat and even saw a Royal Albatross in flight and a rare blue penguin diving. When the skipper called time, Mozza thought his last retrieve was the lesser-spotted weed fish but in fact was a large octopus clenching onto the perch bait, which unfortunately dropped off when seeing our faces. Back at the cottage we chuck the filleted perch and cod in the fridge and listen to Claire’s walking adventure after she saw a sheep dying in a field, dead seals on the beach and almost got attacked by a sleeping seal when walking between it and the sea. We all collapse on our beds to read. Claire performs some kind of physio on my back and determines the problem, assigns some odd looking stretches and confines me to my bed. This gets me out of the cooking anyway and we enjoy the delicious fresh perch and cod for dinner. The evening is spent back on our beds with books in hand. 5th December 2004 The apparent resident mouse turns out to be a squeaking blind. The weather outside is outrageous so the early morning crayfishing with Graham is cancelled. We remain in the warmth of our beds to read some more chapters before driving through the rain into town for some email action and a quick and shocking finance check. To kill time we watch a twenty-minute film of Kaikoura at the visitors’ centre before driving back to the cottage. The heater is put on maximum and we relax out of the wind and rain. At 5pm we head to an Irish bar for happy hour and shiver in the back room playing pool with a local fisherman. For a change of scenery we run into another bar full of elderly backward folk and get refused service so head back to the original drinking hole and huddle round the log fire. Back in the warmth of the cottage we fry up the remaining Perch and enjoy another cracking meal. 6th December 2004 Weather still pretty ghastly so after breakfast we pack the car and head south to Christchurch. If it wasn’t for fellow drivers flashing to warn of speed traps ahead, I think we would have collected a few more fines. We drive straight to the huge Stonehurst backpackers, chuck our stuff in and head on foot into town. Walking around the largest city in the south island one can see why it is named after an Oxford College. The boys at Christ’s College still wear striped blazers and punts get poled along the Avon, running through the city, by blazer and boater donning young lads. Moz leaves Claire and I to take a rowing boat up and down the river stopping for sandwiches on the bank under a weeping and feeding a black swan and the ducks which followed the boat, one of which was brave enough to jump aboard. We meet up with Mozza and walk around the streets before heading back to the hostel for the pool and sun loungers. We lie there in the sun for a couple of hours chatting to a Swedish lad and making the most of the happy hour. The evening is spent shooting some pool and having dinner before Claire and Moz head for bed early for their early flight to Melbourne tomorrow morning. 7th December 2004 I take the hire car back and walk round town in search of some replacement shorts and dirt cheap flip-flops. After lunch chatting with an American lad about his past yacht delivering jobs, I collapse in the park opposite and relax in the sun reading up about Oz. Back in the hostel I discover that my food box has been raided and apart from the box of wine going missing, all chances of making a descent meal have just flown out of the window. I resort to rivalling through the ‘free food’ bin and struggle to keep down some revolting noodles and toast – easily the worst meal I have had since leaving home. I team up with the Swedish lad for some beers and town and listen to the most bitter man in New Zealand curse the Kiwi lady, Israelies and diesel 4x4 owners, amongst other topics. An extremely pretty girl then comes over to clear our glasses. The penny drops after I go over in jest to ask her for a game of Pictionary, which we played a month ago together in a Wellington hostel; a small world. Distance travelled in New Zealand : 6100kms |
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