Must try harder.

You know how sometimes you feel like doing something? Something which takes a bit of effort but which you enjoy doing, provided it turns out all right? And so you do it and it all turns out dandy; you're glad you made the effort and happy with with the result? Yes? But then other times you feel like you should do that same something but your heart isn't really in it? So you give it a go anyway but are glad only that you made the effort as opposed to being glad at the resultant outcome? You know, yes? And there're also the times when you really don't want to do that something? However, you make yourself do it and you dislike the outcome and you feel bitter at having wasted the time? So then you dig your heels in and don't bother with that something for a while? Still with me, yes? Oh, I'm being vague am I?

This blog is my 'something'. I haven't wanted to update it for a while - reason stated above. Every time I wrote a draft it read badly and sounded miserable and I deleted it. Chronicling my Radventures became something I dreaded. Indeed, a self-slung millstone cutting into the back of my neck. I wanted to use an albatross analogy here, especially as New Zealand is home to the globe's northernmost colonies of these weighty flyers. But I haven't read Coleridge's best-known work and was wary of missing a glaring flaw in the comparison. Anyway, in acknowledging my desire to combat the aforementioned vicious cycle I sat down an half an hour ago and tap-tap-tapped and delete-delete-deleted away until a promising start revealed itself. Feeling better already.

Recently, I must confess to having felt rather Eeyore-esque: It's winter (albeit a bit warmer now); I can't get a job (that's can't, yes. I won't be granted a Work Permit - exonerating me from the shackles of my Working Holiday Visa - unless I find an accredited employer who is willing to pay little unskilled old me way over the average wage. NZ$55,000 since you ask); I miss my friends (well, anyone under 50 actually); I'm stuck in a cultural wilderness (local am-dram and YouTube do not count) listening to my parent's "conservative" record collection; I wear overalls most days because I have precious few clothes, and also because I hold most of my conversations with a chainsaw and a selection of felling axes these days. It wouldn't do to wear a blazer and tie, they'd think I was soft.

On the plus side: It is very satisfying to cut up wood; I have taken log-stacking to levels of precision which would reduce an OCD-ridden Swiss to cold sweats; I'm learning how to make stuff out of wood; I get to drive my Pa's ute to collect more trees to cut up; I get to destroy my parents' garden under the pretext of 'clearing the weeds'; I don't have to pay for beer.

The hope is that the more regularly I update this blog, the better I'll feel and the less I'll mind about my sloppy prose- and graceless grammar-based insecurities. With a modicum of good fortune I might even feel like I'm making some progress in these disciplines. Being as I now am a gentleman of enforced, impoverished leisure I propose to sit myself down in this manner on a weekly basis. If fortuitousness abounds, I may actually feel happy with the results.

High time for pie time.

I have been slacking, there can be no denying it. I could run off a list of excuses of why I don't have the opportunity or inclination for regular blogging but I'm sure you don't want to hear them.

Anyway, following on from my last post, I have responded to the overwhelming number of requests for a pie blog. I hope that the 3 of you who wanted it are not disappointed. Jon, sorry that you were outvoted. I will endeavour to chronicle Maxine's erstwhile adventures in due course.

If you haven't already seen it, you may like to click on www.piesofnewzealand.blogspot.com

Rain stops play.

Waves of drizzle pitter-patter in from the ocean, swirl through the deco streets like graveyard ghosts. The colourful, characterful harour town of Whakatane becomes enveloped and greyed by the ragged shrouds of wind and water.

Autumn yawns, stretches its arms, rubs its eyes. The usually clement Bay of Plenty warily, wearily regards the approaching season as one might a cantankerous landlord calling last orders. Enjoy your final glass of fun in the sun people; closing time draws ever nearer.

Glorious blues, greens and golds are shrugged of by the beaches to make way for their woeful wintry wardrobes of miserable monochromes. The steely sea and sky shuffle and swirl in uneasy unison like emos at a shoegazing gig. Not 10kms offshore the enigmatic Moutohora or Whale Island is veiled like a curvaceous belly dancer. Coyly, she waves away the adventurous imaginations of would-be explorers, their idle musings kept to themselves until a fairer day.

The weather is the coercive nudge I need to get me into the cyber extortion centre: An hour's internet usage costs the same as a glass of chilled premium grog, and in warm sunshine the choosing of beer over bits and bytes is a no-brainer. Ergo, I am behind with this blog but expert at watching condensation trickle merrily down cold glasses on hot days.

Indeed, there is much for me to tell you about since my last post from Marlborough over a month ago. Too much for me to tackle in one post (and I daresay too much for you too) and too much to warrant keeping things in chronological order.

So... I'll get all interactive on your arses and let you decide what to tell you about next! Below are 3 subjects - contenders for the topic of the next post. Please leave a comment on this post with your choice and I shall accordingly prepare the next installment.

The choices are:

1. What we've seen, me and Maxine - Road-trip adventuring around North Island with Sicky and Prev & Cat.


2. Weatherproof in Warkworth - Kirsten & Tim's wonderful watery wedding


3. Pies of New Zealand - a "pie-ary", if you will, chronicalling my love affair with the Kiwis' national snack and the thrilling quest to find Badcliffe's Supreme Champion Pie of New Zealand.

Fingers on keypads, audience. Please vote now...

Maxine's warm-up

My good friend Will (aka Senor Enfermo Puerco) arrived a few days ago so we decided on doing a small road trip as training for the big one. We set out on Friday (Waitangi Day - a big deal public holiday that no-one really seems to know what it's for except that a treaty was signed between Maori and whities and there's always been rioting but this year there wasn't and the government was really pleased, read: relieved) lunchtime from my olds' place near Havelock and went to Nelson, stopping for pies and paddling at Pelorus Bridge. Nelson is a big town by NZ standards (pretty pokey by other) but rather picturesque with quite a few art deco buildings and a high density of attractive young ladies. We found a campsite of dubious legality in the car park of the City of Nelson Highland Pipe Band Inc. We had picked up a quantity of greenshell mussels in Havelock to eat that night and dined al fresco on moules marinieres with bread, butter and a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.

We then went into town to The Vic pub and got heartily pissed on Mac's (a local brewery) Sundance (a summer beer with lemongrass in it) and I think I might have nearly unwittingly offended a young Maori lady. It was all fine though - she was drunk too and I squirmed my way out of it before long.

The next morning we were treated to an early close-proximity bagpipe practise that we took as a sign for us to leave the Highland Pipe Band's car park.

We met my parents for brekkers at Lambretta's and had what Kiwis let pass for a full breakfast (Oh okay, I admit it was excellent. But no beans or black pudding?!). Then we weighed anchor and made for Golden Bay, at the northernmost tip of South Island. It took a few hours but the views along the way were stunning.

When we got to Golden Bay the views were still stunning, which was nice. We pressed on though, heading for Wharariki Beach of which we had read good things.

We got to an unsealed road (a stoney track to you and me)and drove for 6km to a car park. We had driven as far as it's possible to drive northwards on South Island. Then we got out of Maxine (she's the van by the way - I'll introduce you later) and walked for 2o mins through fields with haphazardly shorn sheep, through woods that crackled deafeningly with cicadas, through sea-grassed dunes edged with windswept trees. Then we got here.

Choose your own adjectives please - superlatives are inadequate for me. The pictures don't do the place the slightest justice. So I took the video but that didn't do it either. I think that Wharariki Beach is one of the most amazing places I'm ever likely to go, certainly that I've ever been.

Overnighting isn't allowed in the beach car park so we found a secret hideaway off the unsealed road and made spaghetti with courgettes and onions in a cream, garlic and white wine sauce.

On Sunday morning, we had a quick look here as it was just around the bluff from Wharariki.

Did you see the cows on the clifftop? I wonder how many have peeped over the edge only to find they can't fly or swim. See the sealions basking on the rocks below? Here, I'll give you a slightly closer look...

Then we started back to Havelock but stopped here (below) for a look at the Pu Pu Springs.

They are the clearest body of fresh water outside Antarctica and a very sacred Maori site. They are also very special for the Department of Conservation who manage the site they're on. The clarity of the waters is quite astounding, indeed a 3m pool will appear only 1m deep due to the light refraction only possible without the usual murk. The DoC have recently banned any human contact with the waters (you used to be able to swim there and by God did that water look inviting under the scorching sun ) in order to try to stop the influx of the Didymo bacteria (or 'rock snot') which is the scourge of South Island's waterways. Didymo rapidly spreads on human skin or equipment and clogs the waters, choking the wildlife and unbalancing the delicate ecosystems. To put it mildly, the DoC are bricking it: Didymo is only 3km away in the Takaka River. A lone lady from the DoC was there to "chat to people about why the waters are closed to people". She was helpful, friendly, cheerful and was very delicate in her approach to enforcing the non-contact. I couldn't help but think how different things might be if the springs were in the UK. They would probably have been patrolled by private security firm monkeys with mock-cop uniforms keping visitors behind a fence several metres away.

There end the exciting bits of our jaunt, apart from the views from and weather on our return journey but you've seen the best bits already.

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.