Sheep shearing session.

My parents' friend Paul is a sheep farmer and a bloody nice bloke. He has around 8000 head of sheep, and this week the shearing team came to the farm to rinse out. Each of the shearers does around 40 sheep per hour. Not does as in 'does' does, although you might wonder to look at some of them. They start work at 7.30am and finish at 5.30pm with an hour for lunch and 2 half-hour 'smoko' breaks. They each earn about $1.70 per sheep sheared and each sheep produces about 1.5kg of wool twice a year. The finest, best wool (the stuff that the sheep haven't shit on or got matted) has to be sorted from the not-so-good stuff and fetches about $2.80 per kilo, sold in 200kg bales. The shearers are a friendly bunch despite putting me in mind of banjos and buggery and were happy for us to watch them work. It was impressive to see such control of the animals and efficiency of movement. They wear nifty moccasin shoes which help them use their feet to manoevre the sheep without hurting them. They sleep in bunks in a room within the shearing shed and move on to the next farm when they've finished. It seems as much a lifestyle choice as it does a job.

My introduction to NZ.

I want to try to keep up what little momentum I've gained, so here is what I've been up to these first few days. The country has made quite an impression on me so far. More than I can hope to express right now, given the amount of beer I've drunk.




The short flight from Auckland was a wonderful introduction indeed.





The plane flew south along the west coast of North Island, the perma-snow-capped Mt. Ruapehu (2797m) in the distance.





We crossed the Cook Strait then the Marlborough Sounds before landing at Blenheim airport in the vine-carpeted Wairau Valley.

I was pretty tired out from the travelling but ice cream is a good restorative.





Swimming has a similar effect. The fresh, clear water of the Pelorus river was a revelation after the greasy Thames, in which even the rats must think twice before taking a dip.





We jumped and splashed and larked about. It was great.







Above is the early morning view from my parents' patio. The mist just hangs there for a while before the sun burns it and my delicate skin (you're right Prev, it's an ongoing battle!) away. It's nice to stand there and take it all in, sipping tea and munching Marmite on toast, listening to the birds tweeting and cooing.




We went to Picton Regatta (above) and I got sunburnt whilst eating mussel fritters (below) which are much nicer than they look...








...and watching a stingray the size of Steve Irwin's coffin.



Yesterday we went sailing on some friends' boat and went here for lunch...




Then we swam in the sea to counter the effects of the delicious Gewurtztraminer wine. It was all rather pleasant.

The Journey. 19 - 22 Jan.

I checked in and all that jazz, bought a pack of nicotine gum, got on the plane, sat down. And sat, and sat. And sat. For 3 and a half hours. By now it was 1.30am. I hadn't eaten, I hadn't even been offered a drink and the plane was still exactly where it had been when I boarded. It was a brand-spanking-new Airbus A380 (biggest passenger plane ever built, state of the art technology, blah-dee-blah) and the emergency lighting system didn't work. I ate some fag-substitute gum to stop me chewing my own arm off with hunger and frustration. The 12-hour first leg of my journey would have taken me to Singapore. Once there, I would have 1 hour to transfer to a 10-hour flight to Christchurch. In Christchurch, I would have less than 2 hours to transfer to Blenheim (NZ), my final destination, arriving after another 45 mins flying. This delay at Heathrow had already put my entire itinerary out the window. However good looking the stewardesses on Singapore Airlines, I wasn't a happy customer.



2 hours before reaching Singapore, the captain finally announced that my flight connection was one that would not be made. When I disembarked I was tired, hungover and rather grouchy. Then I was told that I would have to wait for 23 hours, then would be packed off to Auckland, then on to Christchurch. I seethed. I told them through gritted teeth that I had a further flight booked from Christchurch and they looked a little worried. "Erm, you may lose that flight sir" Iwas told. "I think not [censored for readers of a sensitive disposition]" I replied. To cut a long story short, I spent an hour and a half to-ing and fro-ing around Singapore's Changi airport printing boarding passes, phoning my parents at 4am their time, queueing at transfer desks, smoking many cigarettes, in order to sort out my onward journey. I was given vouchers from the airline entitling me to a hotel room, meals, taxis. At this point, it dawned on me that I had an expenses-paid day in Singapore, even if without a change of pants or socks.


My taxi driver to the hotel was a legend. I couldn't understand more than a third of what he said but he didn't seem to mind; he was just happy to be able rant to himself. Kindred spirits, he and I. We struggled through a conversation about Chinese new year and why he thought "Year of cow is shit" (his words). As it turned out, he was born in the year of the tiger and disliked the 'cow' (us westerners know it as the year of the ox) because he never won at gambling in these years; the cow bringing him "velly bad ruck". [I know I know, very wrong of me to mock!] He told me about how being born at different times of day will, according to Chinese belief, alter the 'type' of animal you are. For example, he was born at night so is a 'bad tiger', prone to "plowring aroun' after pletty gir' tiger". Like I said, he was a legend.


An international business hotel tends to give a rather sterile and disjointed view of a place, especially given my midnight arrival, but I found the Singaporeans to be a warm and gracious people. The restaurant buffet had been kept open - part of the airline's appeasement programme - and at 1am I was afforded my first taste of soft-shell crabs, battered and deep fried. I loved them, and coupled with oatmeal-coated king prawns, cold beer and pleasant company from other misplaced travellers they made a perfect supper. I retired to my comfortable room, switched on the telly to watch Obama's live inauguration, and fell asleep to the drone of political pundits...


I awoke with my thoughts on breakfast. Western breakfasts in Eastern countries can be rather hit and miss and this was no exception but they had tried, bless 'em. I deftly sidestepped the last remaining frankfurter and the festering franken-beans. I avoided the porridgey gloops and noodley broths with no little shame, feeling as though I really should try a native's breakfast. I just couldn't though. Jet lag and a hangover took the decisions for me.





I had toasted light rye bread with scrambled eggs and ketchup, a tired croissant and a bowl of fruit salad. There were a couple of twists, however. Singapore-style scramble is a wonderful thing. Using a wok cooks it much quicker, leaving more moisture and a wonderful, wispy texture. The ketchup was also next-level, laced with sweet chilli sauce. I ate this fine feast with a view of the morning rush hour, observing flat-bed trucks whizzing past with their cargos of wiry scaffolders and lampost-sized bamboo poles for the scaffolding. I sloshed down a few glasses of orange juice and went out to explore the city.

One of the city's many Catholic churches

Building site, Singapore-style

A different class of slum

Arab Street

Mosque viewed from back street

Old vs. New

East vs. West

Typical food hall/market at lunchtime

Lunch was a somewhat less inspiring experience. My late arrival meant a reduced choice. Most dishes had been removed so I ate plain steamed rice with a chilli sambal with some breaded scallops which had been done no favours by the hot lamps. I also had some MSG-laden soup of seafood sticks and other oddities, which was pushed to one side after a couple of challenging mouthfuls. A glass of cold beer was the saving grace, cutting through the pastiness of my palette with customary ease.

I went back to my room to cool down and the next thing I knew I awoke to find it was an hour and a half before my flight was to depart. I wished I could have stayed longer in Singapore. Just goes to show; delays can be a good thing.

With uncustomary swiftness Igot to the airport in time for a lung snack in the fuggy smoking lounge. The flight passed in a haze of warm beer, forgettable films and several unsuccessful attempts to beat the in-flight computer at the 'Hard' setting of backgammon. A distant view of the summit of Mt. Cook peeping through the clouds signalled the approach of New Zealand and the Auckland vista was breathtaking, as airborne arrivals in unfamiliar places often are. Before long I was gratefully sipping chilled Speight's beer, looking forward to what was to come.

The Off.

It was a cold night in London Town. At least I remember it as being cold as I'm now wearing shorts and t-shirt at 8.30 pm, nursing today's sunburn and insect bites. En route to the airport I was accompanied by some of my lovely friends to the Royal Exchange in Paddington for a very last taste of the good stuff and a ham sandwich. I got on the train to Heathrow and realised that this was it; I was going on holiday for a very long time. I couldn't wait for the journey to be over...