Boogity, boogity, boogity...

I’d heard it long before I’d even left home: the two main islands of New Zealand are a complete contrast.  With the charm of the South Island inexorably linked to a seemingly never-ending series of narrow scenic byways winding their way over mountains and round fjords; the scene from the open deck of the Bluebridge ferry would be very different as Wellington loomed into view.  Out was the green landscape and laid-back attitude to be found on ‘The Mainland’ and in was the hustle and bustle of a thriving port city.I drove off the ferry and joined the mass of road-trains speeding their goods towards their final destination on the busy motorway encircling the city.  Despite the protestations of my Lonely Planet I had no plans to hang around in the city any longer than it took to mail the Christmas cards that I’d written as we crossed the Cook Strait and was heading, as fast as the rush-hour traffic would allow me, towards a campground in the beautiful Hutt Valley.  After three nights in various hotels it was back to basics and it should probably not have come as a surprise that the weather gods decided chose that evening to send a storm the way of what locals affectionately refer to as Windy Wellington.As I packed away my wet tent the following morning I was regretting the promise that I’d previously made to spend my remaining days in New Zealand camping as I struggled not to let my budget run away with itself.   I gave the idea of a quick look around Wellington brief consideration but quickly dismissed it and, instead, drove north towards my intended destination for the next couple of days: Tongariro National Park.  A stop in the town of Taumarunui to stock up with groceries for my stay in New Zealand’s largest national park provided news of a diversion that would provide welcome relief from the tedium of State Highway 4.  The ‘impossibly scenic’ Whanganui River Road, they promised me, would lead me through the wilds of Whanganui National Park before returning me to my route upstream of the once-bustling town of Pipiriki.

 

The people in the i-Site office were right about it being impossibly scenic - the never-ending wet mountain slopes plunging into the brilliant jade waters of the Whanganui River were particularly photogenic - but they were very wrong about the road being a good diversion.  After an hour of spectacular scenery the tarmac suddenly ran out.  If it hadn’t been for the prolonged overnight downpour the unsealed road may just have been passable but, in this state, there was no way that I was getting through in anything less than a Land Rover. Frustrated, I was forced to turn back.

I reached Tongariro National Park just as the visitor centre was closing for the evening and was directed to a nearby campground where, I was told, the owner would answer any questions that I had.  The campground was very primitive and a little run-down but the new owners were, quite rightly, very enthusiastic about the new surroundings in which they found themselves.  They had big plans to turn the place around and their first improvements were to open a restaurant and bar (where I spent the evening sheltering from the heavy spring rain outside) and to invite an outdoor pursuits company to set up shop on site.  I explained that I wanted to hike the famed Tongariro Alpine Crossing - “why else would you be here”, they asked - and was told that the Tongariro Expeditions Company ran a shuttle bus between their office on site and the trailheads.  I was told that I should return at 6am the following morning and they would drive me to the start of the trail and then collect me again at the end of the day once I’d completed the hike (or tramp as they call it down here.)

Unfortunately, as I learnt soon after my early alarm call, they do not guarantee to run everyday and, thanks to the continuing bad weather, Wednesday 10^th December would be one of the days that they would not offer the service.  With dire warnings not to leave your car at either of the trailheads (it was made to sound like some sort of bandit country but, on reflection, was probably a ploy to boost use of the shuttle service) I had no choice but to abandon my plans for the day.  The apologetic owner suggested a series of shorter hikes which started and ended at the main visitor centre and, with nothing better to do, I decided to tackle them all!  I was glad that I did as I was afforded the most spectacular view of Mt Ngauruhoe - Mt Doom in Lord of the Rings - as the rain finally cleared and the clouds lifted.

I did a rough tally in my head and calculated that I’d walked in the region of 30km by mid-afternoon and, having driven to the top of Mt Ruapehu - one of the world’s most active volcanoes, I decided that I’d seen enough of Tongariro.  The time had come to tackle the short drive to Lake Taupo.  On arrival the town was reminiscent of Queenstown but, despite this, I arranged to stay for two nights after chatting with the manager of the campground who reeled off a list of local attractions.

It transpired that the nearby Huka Falls were spectacular and the geysers, boiling lakes and bubbling mud pools throughout the Taupo Volcanic Zone were impressive but the thing that will likely stick in my mind will be suddenly discovering that I had two particularly dodgy looking tires on the car.  More surprising than the discovery was the knowledge that it had absolutely nothing to do with my visit to the nearby Taupo Motorsport Park!  A quick pit stop at a local tyre centre made me legal again and my journey towards the Bay of Plenty was able to continue without incurring the wrath of the local police who were conducting spot-checks less than 20km out of Taupo.

The town of Rotorua is located along the shore of the lake of the same name and in the heart of the Maori cultural heartland.   The tourist industry there is huge so I was surprised to discover that I was made to feel as unwelcome as the eggy stench of sulphur which hung over the town.   I found a campground for the night and, having finally caught up on my laundry, I went off to visit the towering Californian Redwoods in the nearby Whakarewarewa Forest.  The forest was planted around a century ago and, although it remains a working forest, offers some fantastic hiking and mountain biking trails and I spent the remainder of the day there; finally returning to the campground long after the sun had set.

I woke the following morning with just one thought in my mind: ten days until home.  I was done and ready to go home for Christmas.  I’d felt this way towards the end of my stay on the South Island and the feeling had proved difficult to shake; I’d no desire to let the feeling overwhelm me again and quickly realised that I should head for Auckland Airport where I’d arranged to collect my updated flight tickets.  Soon after leaving Rotorua I would realise that it was a Sunday and the ticket desk would be closed until the following morning but, nonetheless, the negative thoughts of that morning had passed (and wouldn’t return for the remainder of my stay in New Zealand) as a result of doing something positive.  It was an important lesson that I plan on taking home with me.

I spent the day exploring the towns of Whakatane, Athenree, Katikati and Waihi Beach which are all located along the shores of the Bay of Plenty.   The highlight of the morning would be the strenuous hike up Mt Maunganui which afforded spectacular views over the towns of Omanu Beach and Tauranga.  As the day went on I would visit the huge open-cast Martha Gold Mine before finding a campground as the sun sank lower in the sky and the hot afternoon edged towards evening.  Spending the evening exploring the nearby Karangahake Gorge in a bid to avoid the swarms of mosquitoes on the campground proved to be less than a hardship - Owharoa Falls were a highlight - and I only returned once the last twinkle of daylight had been snuffed out by the moon-free darkness of night-time.

Lured by the sight of the Sky Tower in the distance I made my way downtown the moment that I’d finished at the ticket desk at the airport.  Auckland seemed to be an interesting city but, like most others, felt impersonal and unwelcoming to an outsider and I didn’t linger long.  I found a place to park down on the waterfront and set off on foot for a whistle-stop tour around the area.  Two-hours later I was driving north once more: I’d heard great things about a road named the Twin Coast Discovery Highway which, as the name infers, takes you up one coast before returning you to the city along the other.   The scenery as I made my way up the Tasman coast was pretty but I just wasn’t into it: maybe I’d seen too many wonderful vistas over the previous months or perhaps my mind was simply elsewhere.

I spent a night in Matakohe before continuing my journey north towards Coromandel but it wasn’t until I arrived at the tiny town of Kuaotunu that my spirit started to lift.  As I rounded the corner and the road turned southward, it dawned on me that I had now passed the furthest point from the UK on this planet.  All roads were now leading me home for Christmas.

There was still a small balance showing on my treat account (kindly financed by ‘Dirk the camper van man’ back in Sydney) and it didn’t feel right to take it home with me.  I really didn’t fancy the idea of bungee jumping off the Sky Tower (I’d seen Auckland, after all) so instead drove out to Paihia - gateway to the Bay of Islands - where I planned to ride a 1600bhp jet-boat out to Cape Brett.  The weather had closed in again overnight so there was some doubt whether the trip would go ahead but I was relieved to arrive at the dock and discover supplies being loaded onboard the Excitor and the engines being steadily warmed up.  Instead of the fall-back tour of nearby Waitangi we watched a compulsory safety video, were issued with waterproofs and lifejackets and then climbed aboard for our trip.

The ride was exciting not only for the two huge CAT diesels roaring away behind us but for the huge waves which we were powering through.  There were other options for getting out into the bay - all of which, it would transpire, were cancelled due to the heavy seas - but not one of them would have been such a memorable way to end my visit to such a spectacular country.  The two islands of New Zealand really are like chalk and cheese but they have one thing in common: they prove there is so much more to the country than the haka, sheep and the Lord of the Rings.  I might be glad to be on my way home but I am sad to be leaving this amazing land of rain forests, fjords, mountains, glaciers and volcanoes.  The oft-spoken claim that it is ‘just the seventh state of Australia’ couldn’t be any further from the truth.

My first task when I arrived in Dunedin was to buy a tent to replace the shredded canvas dumped in the back seat of my car.  Thankfully Dunedin boasted what is reputed to be one of the best outdoor stores on the South Island and, within five minutes of walking through the door, I was walking back out again with an absolute bargain of a tent.  I was very happy with my acquisition and even happier when I discovered that the local campground was one of the friendliest and best equipped that I had visited for several months.  

With my house built for the evening it was time to head out to see the penguins and I decided to take the campground manager up on his suggestion that the best way to see them would be to visit the Penguin Conservation Preserve.  At $35 it certainly wasn’t a cheap option but it was all in a good cause so I handed over my cash and boarded the rickety old bus which would drive us out to the network of hides which they had built adjacent to the beach.   I had somehow expected hundreds of penguins to be confidently strutting about the beach so was disappointed to learn that we weren’t guaranteed even to see a single penguin - a fact only explained to us after we’d paid for our ticket!  But, having waited in the cold for half an hour, we finally caught our first glimpse of one of the world’s rarest animals: the Yellow-Eyed Penguin.   It turned out that they are actually very nervous animals and we had to remain perfectly still and not make a sound in case we scared them off.   We would eventually see a couple of dozen penguins and, although they were further away than I would have expected, I was delighted to finally discover that New Zealand had some cool wildlife after all!

Before setting off towards Milford Sound I decided to have a look around Dunedin - a town that I liked a lot.  It boasts the World’s Steepest Street (at 35 degrees it is significantly steeper than San Francisco’s Lombard Street) and I managed to earn myself another certificate for climbing it.  Quite why I decided to climb the street was a mystery but it is far more understandable than the 19-year old student who decided to ride downthe street in a wheelie-bin in 2001.  She was killed instantly when the bin hit a parked car and, stood at the top looking down, it is hard to imagine what was going through her head (if anything) as she set off on her quest to earn herself a Darwin Award.  To be honest I felt more than a little apprehensive about the idea of going down it in a car so, naturally,  I headed back down to collect my car to find out what it would be like… the answer is it was a little scary!

The Southern Scenic Route is a heavily promoted driving route from Dunedin to Te Anau - the gateway to Fiordland National Park and Milford Sound.  It was labelled by Travel & Leisure Magazine as “one of the world’s greatest undiscovered drives” earlier this year but, apart from a few interesting stops, I was positively underwhelmed by the whole experience and was glad when I finally reached the sign announcing my arrival at the end of the route.I don’t know how many superlatives you can get away with in a single paragraph so I will hedge my bets and split my thoughts on the sublime Fiordland National Park and the exquisite Milford Sound (there are two to kick off with) into multiple paragraphs.  What can I say?  From the moment I arrived in Te Anau I was smitten.  I defy anyone to visit and not fall instantly in love with the place; even the most veteran of seasoned-travellers.  They say a picture paints a thousand words: well, I took several hundred photos and still didn’t come close to doing the place justice.  I think even David Bailey would struggle to capture the beauty of the place in a few photos - you absolutely have to experience it for yourself.

 

The sign on the wall of the campground office said it all: “The road from Te Anau to Milford Sound is the most dangerous in New Zealand.  You will face ice, snow, sudden flash floods, avalanches, rockslides and; most dangerous of all, visitors suddenly swerving onto your side of the road as they reach for their camera.”  I chuckled to myself but, within half an hour, I found myself on the wrong side of the road as I reached down for my camera.  Stupidity, I know, but the road is breathtaking and, particularly as you exit the Homer Tunnel, it is an impossible temptation.  The road is just 119km long yet I took six hours to drive it.  As they say, the drive to Milford is half the fun.

 

I went to sleep excited that, if I’d only had half the fun so far, the next day was going to be a real experience.  It was.  The three hour cruise down Milford Sound was - despite the massive amount of rain falling - one of the most memorable experiences of the past eight months.  I had considered the scenery in Glacier Bay to be awe-inspiring but it wasn’t a patch on Milford Sound.  The low cloud and heavy rain possibly added to the experience by creating innumerable waterfalls seemingly cascading water down straight from the clouds.  Awesome is an overused word but one which is entirely justified when describing Milford Sound.

After a stop at the Milford Deep underwater observatory we re-boarded our boat and headed out towards the open sea.   With the rain stopping and the clouds miraculously being replaced by sun the mood on board changed and people were to be seen strutting around the deck in shorts and T shirts… something that they would live to regret shortly after when the boat lurched sharply to the right and headed straight towards the huge sheer rock face.  There were a number of panicked faces onboard but those of us who had read the literature knew exactly what was coming when they announced our arrival at Stirling Falls.  Rather than slowing down the captain opened the throttles and, as we rushed out on deck to get a better view, forced the bow of the boat right into the base of the falls.  I had donned my waterproofs once again but it made little difference: with water plunging straight down onto the bow of our boat (and onto those of us mad enough to be stood on it!) I guess it wouldn’t!  The noise was insane and the feeling of the cold water falling from 150m above our heads was invigorating to say the least. 

With the doors back into the cabin securely locked, those of us out on the front of the boat started to wonder if we might drown but, with perfect timing, the engines re-fired and we found ourselves backing away from the torrent of water.  As we made our way back into the warm of the cabin we were welcomed back by smiling members of crew who handed us warm dry towels and invited us to tuck in to a tasty buffet which had been laid out for us.  Whilst we ate the boat continued on its merry way out into the Tasman Sea and we didn’t need an announcement from the commentary to notify us of our arrival when the ride suddenly became incredibly choppy.  No-one was in any hurry to leave the free food and drink in the warm cabin but some of us felt we should.  Which was lucky as, having arrived on deck, a shout went up: “dolphins to the left!”   With these sightings a daily occurrence for the crew it was obvious to see why they loved their job.

The return journey could easily have been an anti-climax seeing that we should have seen all the sights on our journey out but, once again, the low lingering cloud had done us a favour and we were able to see another side of the fiord: where before it had felt sinister and menacing, it was now friendly and welcoming.  The imposing Mitre Peak was now clearly visible and Fairy Falls were bettered only by Bowen Falls as we approached our berth back at Milford Wharf once again.   It seemed a shame to rush off and leave the new friends that I’d made onboard but I was determined to beat the tour buses out of the car park for the long drive back to Te Anau.  Once again the drive along Milford Road was quite amazing and I couldn’t resist stopping numerous times for photos: getting stuck behind the slow-moving tour buses in the process!

After another night in one of the cheap cabins offered at the Fiordland Great Views Holiday Park it was time to head off to the fabled town of Queenstown.  As I skirted Lake Wakatipu and approached the town along the road known as the Devil’s Staircase I couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive.  Queenstown has invented itself as the destination in the southern hemisphere for adventure tourism: it is Queenstown where many of those previously mentioned stupidities - such as bungee jumping, zorbing, canyon swinging, jetboat canyoning and blo-karting - originated.  Add its raucous nightlife to the mix and it was going to be a real change of scene from the beauty and serenity of Milford. 

In the end I spent just a few short hours in Queenstown.  Maybe I was on a downer before I arrived but, having parked my car and wandered towards the centre of town, I saw a young girl throwing up in the gutter within a couple of hundred metres of my parking space.  This did nothing to sell the place to me but everywhere I went all I saw were hostels and bars offering cheap booze.  It was Darwin all over again and, with it being apparent that drinking here is a very competitive business, I decided on the spot that it wasn’t for me.  I stopped at the Shotover Jet office to try and rescheduled my  ride on their jet boat through the narrow Shotover Canyon but was out of luck so I pressed onwards across the Crown Ranges towards Lake Wanaka.  This is the highest road in the whole of New Zealand and offers some memorable driving and unforgettable vistas.   Until a couple of years ago it was still unpaved for much of its length and, although it is now covered in lovely smooth tarmac along its entirety, I felt a little sad that it was: compared to all the hype of Queenstown that road would have been the one true adrenaline rush available to visitors.

Having covered such a large amount of ground I wasn’t in the mood to stop when I reached Wanaka.  I restocked with food and supplies and then hit the road once again as I made my way towards Haast Pass which would lead me through Mount Aspiring National Park to the tiny fishing town of Jackson Bay where I would set up camp for the evening.  Such is the nature of the South Island that I was just a hundred kilometres or so north of Milford Sound yet it had taken me a full day of hard driving to get there.  It had been worth it though as, apart from my Queenstown folly, it had been an enjoyable and rewarding trip.  Mount Aspiring in particular was memorable for its numerous short hikes off the main highway.  I personally think that it should be renamed Mount Inspiring.

The plan for the following day was to head north up the coast to the Westland Tai Poutini National Park where I hoped to organise a heli-hiking trip to one of the two glaciers within the park.   Of course I had seen many glaciers on my trip but everywhere I had been people had raved about these two and, well, there was another certificate on offer…!   One thing that I have learned on this trip is that if you plan too much you will end up disappointed so it was only to be expected that my day would be thrown into chaos somehow.  It turned out to be the weather gods who were against me this time following a night of torrential rain. 

I passed rivers which had broken their banks, drove through flood waters and struggled to see where I was going through heavy rain and low cloud but finally arrived at Fox Glacier to discover that it was inaccessible due to flooding and washed out roads.  I had heard rumours of problems before my arrival so, unperturbed, I confidently pressed on to the Franz Josef township, where I felt sure I would be able to get myself onto a heli-hiking trip out on to the nearby glacier of the same name.  On my arrival, much to my disappointment, I would discover that there would be no flights that day due to the inclement weather.  I had to decide whether to wait around for a day or so in the hope that the weather would clear or head onwards towards Abel Tasman National Park.  With no guarantee of a change in the weather I decided to head north; spending the night in a warm dry motel in Greymouth with a bottle of wine, fish & chips and live Premiership football on the TV.  After roughing it in a tent for the past week it was pure bliss to be reminded of home in this way.

It had been a welcome bit of luxury but, when I woke the following morning, something had changed inside.  My first thought when I woke was ‘19 days til home.’  This was quickly overtaken with a second:  that I really shouldn’t drink so much wine on my own.  And finally a third: ‘I’m done, I want to go home.  I’m finished with life on the road.’  But, of course, I wasn’t finished.  I had another couple of weeks in one of the most picturesque countries on the planet (not to mention five days in China).  I was just not sure I wanted it - with thousands of people being put out of work all over the world each day, talk about ungrateful!  I figured I would try and get through this feeling by keeping busy and spent the day visiting not one but four national parks.   First I backtracked to Arthurs Pass NP, then headed north to Paparoa NP on the west coast and then back inland once again to Kahurangi NP and, just in time for sunset;  Nelson Lakes NP.   But the feeling wouldn’t pass.  My first thoughts the next morning?  ‘18 days…’  Oh, dear.

To those of you reading this that’ve never been to New Zealand, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the South Island is full of national parks.  It isn’t.  But there was one final park to visit to complete the set: Abel Tasman NP.  Many people would say that I’d saved the best til last.  I’d arrived in NZ not really knowing too much about where I wanted to go and what I wanted to see but there were three recurring pieces of advice that I’d bought with me: sail Milford Sound, hike the glaciers and kayak Abel Tasman.   I arrived at the park planning to sign myself up for one of the ferries which takes you out into the park but, as with my other plans previously, it would never happen.  There was no space onboard that day - nor the next -and I didn’t have time to hang around until the next opening.  I had another ferry to catch… the ferry to take me across the Cook Straight from Picton to Wellington.  The North Island beckoned.

Just a single night after returning to Sydney the unthinkable happened: it was time to leave.  And, this time, for good.  The atmosphere in the car was subdued as I was driven across town by my faithful chauffeur Dan.  It was horribly early, my head was a little cloudy from the previous evening’s exuberance and, frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for talking.  The only sound to be heard was the CD playing quietly in the background and the occasional screech of tyres as we sped through the empty streets.  As we passed the familiar landmarks of Woolloomoolloo Naval Yard and Harry’s Café de Wheels for the last time I had a lump in my throat.  “I’m gonna miss this”, I heard myself say as the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge slipped out of sight and we headed down into the Cross City Tunnel which would lead us out towards the airport.  As we entered the darkness of the tunnel the reality of the situation became clear: three months after I arrived, my time in Australia was over.  The CD changed to the next track: Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.  Fitting.

Seven hours later, having endured a lengthy delay at Sydney Airport, I found myself with two new stamps in my passport: an Aussie exit stamp - which I could barely bring myself to look at - and a New Zealand entry stamp which left me feeling somewhat perkier.  Who could feel bad about anything in life when they had just arrived to start a new adventure in The Land of the Long White Cloud?  It offers some of the most spectacular landscape to be found anywhere on the planet and, largely thanks to the exposure from the Lord of the Rings movies, continues to explode onto the world scene as a ‘must visit’ destination for the more adventurous traveller.  The line for immigration had been proof positive that this tiny country, thousands of miles from anywhere in the middle of the Pacific, was bucking the recent trend of falling visitor numbers.  Anywhere that can do that in the midst of the current world economy must have something going for it and I really couldn’t wait to get out and see it for myself.

My passage through the airport wasn’t as swift as I would have liked thanks to the stringent controls put in place by the snappily-titled ‘MAF Biosecurity New Zealand.’  The authorities - as they will be known from here on in an effort to retain some degree of sanity - took a particular interest in my hiking boots and camping gear and spent almost an hour going through my luggage and checking that I wasn’t bringing any unwanted friends with me.  Initially it seemed a little excessive but after the agent explained the increasing threat posed to the extraordinarily diverse ecosystem - of which 80% of the flora and fauna are endemic - it seemed only fair.  New Zealand has seen high rates of extinction as a result of inadvertently introduced pests and I am delighted that they are taking steps to preserve what they have left of the islands for the benefit of future generations.  And, besides, they took my tent away and gave it a good scrub up - I hadn’t seen it that clean since it came out of its bag for the first time - and, for that, I can forgive any delay!

My initial impression of New Zealand was of how friendly the local people were.  I had looked at Australia as an amazingly friendly place but my first days in New Zealand suggested that the Kiwis were quite possibly - unbelievably - even friendlier.  The girl who picked me up from the airport and took me to the car rental office was my best friend by the time that I’d wheelspinned off the forecourt… I hadn’t driven a manual car since I backed my car into the garage back in April, after all!  Neither had I driven without the aid of my satnav so making my way through the Christchurch rush hour - with map in hand and three pedals for my feet to play with - certainly proved a challenge.  Soon enough though I found my hotel and set off on foot to have a look around the cold and windy town of Christchurch.

I’d been told that Christchurch was particularly ‘English’ so I’d looked forward to seeing it for myself.  Sure enough it had an English feel but I put that down to all the streets being named after English towns.  There was no graffiti, vandalised phone boxes or drunk teenagers hanging around drinking Scrumpy Jack on street corners so it wasn’t that English.  Either way, whilst I’m not a massive city person, I liked Christchurch though that may have been because it didn’t feel like a city at all - it really was just a large town.

After a good night’s sleep I headed for the Banks Peninsular which - an hour or so south of Christchurch - was formed by two gigantic volcanic eruptions.  I was soon clearing the outskirts of the city and was, very quickly, out into an area of outstanding rolling green hills which reminded me of home.  Perhaps that is what they meant when they said that Christchurch was very English?  Once I was off the main highway and onto the absurdly beautiful Summit Drive there was no question that I was in New Zealand: nowhere in the UK is that visually stunning.  The Summit Drive actually followed the edge of the original crater and I couldn’t resist exploring a number of side roads - the highlight was a hair-raising 12km gravel cliff-top road leading to Menzies Bay- but eventually I found myself at my destination: Akaroa.

James Cook sighted the peninsular in 1770 and, thinking it was an island, named it after the naturalist Sir Joseph Banks but it was the French who first claimed the peninsular as their own.  Whaling captain, Jean Langlois, successfully negotiated to buy it from the local Maori in 1838 before returning home to raise funds to settle the area.   He eventually returned two years later with 63 settlers but, unfortunately for him, was pipped to the post when, having signed the Treaty of Waitangi six-months previously, British officials got wind of the approaching ship and despatched HMS Britomart from the Bay of Islands to raise the Union Flag at Greens Point.  Considering they had sailed, quite literally, halfway around the world to get there, the French accepted their fate in good spirits.  Their land claim was later sold to the British in 1850 but a lot of French descendants remained resulting in a rivalry which continues to this day.  Now, let me say now; if Christchurch is supposed to be an English town then there is no getting away from the fact that Akaroa - with its pavement cafes and Tricolours’ fluttering in the sea breeze - was truly a little piece of France transported to the South Pacific.  I loved it!

It had now been a full day since I had said my goodbyes to Sydney but I hadn’t seen the last of Dan.  A text message announced his arrival on the South Island and I set off back toward downtown Christchurch to meet up with him.  He was in town for a couple of days for work and had, rather kindly, agreed to let me to share his hotel room for the night.  When I finally tracked down his hotel I was delighted to discover that they had upgraded him to a suite and I had been promoted from the floor to a second bedroom.  Luxury and free: that’s my idea of a good deal!

Once settled in to our new home for the night, we decided to head out towards the nearby port town of Lyttleton to put his rental car through its paces.  There were two routes between the towns: a 1.9km long tunnel under the mountain and a far longer road that snaked its way spectacularly over the top.  Naturally we opted for the latter and were rewarded with the stunning vista of Lyttleton Harbour - a flooded volcanic crater - to our right and the city of Christchurch - with the backdrop of the Southern Alps beyond - to our left.  After a near-miss, having hit some loose gravel midway through a bend, we decided that it was time to head back to the safety of the city and made it back just in time to meet his work colleague for a meal and a few beers in town.

The following morning it was finally time to say goodbye to Dan when he headed north for work and I headed south to start my exploration of the fabled South Island.  Up until now I’d heard the odd whisper of the unfolding economic doom and gloom at home but had largely been able to ignore it as something that I could worry about in the future.  Now, as I set off on the last big adventure of my trip, the reality was starting to dawn on me: inside a month I would be back home and the idea of being unable to find work was starting to pray on my mind.  Over time I had come to realise that there is one sure way to get something out of my head and that is to get in a car and drive it as quickly as it will go so.  Inspired by our little run out the previous evening I headed back to the road that led over the mountains to Lyttleton and proceeded to give the car a thoroughly good thrashing.  After so long in American cars it felt good to get back behind the wheel of a car that handled something like a car is supposed to handle and I was soon starting to relax.

The previous day I’d taken myself along to the local the i-Site (the excellent chain of visitor information centres operated by the NZ government) located in the shadows of Christchurch’s cathedral to discuss the options for my stay in the country.  It had been apparent from quite early on in our chat that I hadn’t allowed enough time to do the place any justice in my exploration and, having slept on it, I had now decided to make a few changes to the final weeks of my trip.  Initially I had allowed 18 days in NZ followed by stops in Hong Kong, Dubai and Cairo on my way back home for Christmas.  Those final three stops were proving to be as troublesome to organise from the road as they were expensive so it made sense to can them and use the extra time to explore NZ before taking a flight from Auckland to Hong Kong and then another directly back to London.  Whilst booking my original flight ticket, my travel agent had advised that any changes would be easy and, if I wanted to make a change, would entail a quick phone call to get me ticketed on another flight.  When I finally found a pay phone which would accept coins it soon became apparent that it would not be so easy. 

I’d been advised by said travel agent to speak to Cathay Pacific in Auckland but they insisted that I needed to speak to BA in London as it was a BA-issued ticket.  BA in turn insisted that any amendments would need to be done by Qantas as their local agent.  Although they knew there was a Qantas office in Christchurch they didn’t know the address so, thinking on my feet, I found a local travel agent who furnished me not only with the address of the local Qantas office but also with directions.  I made my way to where the office was supposed to be but, after 30 minutes of stomping up and down the street, I made enquires with another travel agent to discover that the office which I was looking for had closed six months previously.  She gave me the direct number for Qantas and pointed me in the direction of another payphone.   The only problem was that this office was in Perth - an eight-hour flight away on the other side of Australia - and they insisted that I returned the tickets in person for re-issue.  

This farce would continue for more than a week before my travel agent back in London - the fantastic Katherine of Travelmood - kindly stepped in; banged some heads together and arranged for me to exchange my tickets for new ones at Auckland Airport.  The new plan was to stay in NZ for 25 days before flying to Hong Kong where I would stay for four nights and then fly back to London on Christmas Eve.

Frustrated by the dramas involved in something seemingly so simple I left town and headed south. I made it as far as the seaside town of Timaru before feeling the urge to stop and, spying a nice hotel, checked myself in for the night.  The view from the balcony was great and the en-suite Jacuzzi went some way to calming down my blood pressure but I was well aware that I couldn’t afford to go on sleeping in hotels and decided that it was time to start camping once again.

  

Cutting back inland towards Mount Cook National Park I was instantly hit by the unprecedented scale of New Zealand’s beauty and couldn’t help myself.  Every few kilometres I found myself stopping to take photos and to breathe in the crisp fresh air.   The highlight of the drive was most definitely in the Lake Tekapo area where fields of colourful Lupins combined with the impossibly aqua blue waters of the lake and the mountains on the horizon to paint a picture which, if it had been committed to canvas, would have seemed almost too perfect.  This one image alone was worth the cost of a flight and, as I sat on the bench alongside the Church of the Good Shepherd on the banks of the lake, I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I tried to make sense of it all.  I may have been counting down the days til I headed home, but scenes like this had to be savoured. 

 

Refreshed and inspired, it was back into the car and onwards towards Mount Cook.  Many breathtaking kilometres later I finally arrived and, well, what can I say?   Somehow, despite the magnificence of the drive inland, New Zealand’s highest mountain managed to eclipse everything that had gone before.   In something of a daze I made a quick stop at the visitor centre before heading to the campground to pitch my tent for the night.   The high snow covered mountains looming imposingly over the campground may have starved it of sun, the showers may have been out of service and the ground may have been - thanks to the debris left by receding glaciers -impossible to bang tent pegs into; but it was up there with the most scenic campgrounds to be found anywhere.   It also had the added benefit of a cosy bar and restaurant - complete with internet access - a short walk away.  I found that most agreeable.

Despite all the luxuries and easy day hikes, Mount Cook is a primarily a place for serious endeavours: something rammed home to me as I set off on a four hour hike (or tramp, as they seem to be referred to down here) along the Hooker Valley.  Off to the left of the trail I saw something which had a strange draw: the Alpine Memorial.  I couldn’t help but stand and read all the memorials to the fallen climbers - I found it strangely fascinating.  I couldn’t explain why I felt this way but, as I would later discover, two climbers were at that very moment starting their ascent of Mount Cook and, days later, having been stranded on the mountain for days in terrible weather, just one of them would return.  A week later another rescue mission was launched and another climber was dead.

My hike proved rewarding but, as I made my way back to the trailhead, I was looking forward to getting back to my tent for a rest.   Unfortunately, as well as blocking out the sunlight, the high mountains had funnelled a storm straight through the campground and I returned to find that, much to the amusement of my neighbours, my tent had all but blown away.  It took me some time to rebuild it - collecting a number of heavy rocks from the vicinity in an effort to increase the effectiveness of the guy ropes - but ultimately I would be wasting my time as I was woken numerous times in the night with the tent blown flat against my face.  I would have relocated to the car but I was afraid that the tent would blow away without me in it.

It certainly was a slow burner to start off but, once lit, my love for the scenery of New Zealand burnt with an intense flame.   Somehow though it still didn’t burn quite as brightly as my love for Alaska; I am not sure why but I think it has something to do with the ‘adventure’ of Alaska.  NZ is just too accessible.   And Alaska had the midnight sun.  And wildlife.  Yes, that’s what was missing; where are the bears, wolves, crocodiles, snakes and deadly spiders to keep you awake at night?  The only thing that’s likely to kill you in NZ is the mass of ridiculous extreme sports. I mentioned this thought casually to a fellow camper as I surveyed the wreckage of my tent the following morning.  “I hear where you’re coming from but, well, have you seen any penguins on your travels yet?”, before expanding, “You must visit the Otago Peninsula”, giving me a knowing nod and heading back to his own tent.  I had never heard of the Otago Peninsula but a quick check of my Lonely Planet confirmed that it was a short drive from my next destination - Dunedin - and, sure enough, was famous for its penguins.    I am there!