Boogity, boogity, boogity...

When I was a growing I knew little of Hong Kong other than it was singularly responsible for an annual spike in house-fires as people strung up the cheap Christmas tree lights for which this distant outpost of the British Empire had become famous.  There was a very simple way of telling if a product was good quality or not and that was to simply turn it upside down and check for the words ‘Made in Hong Kong’.  If the words were missing you were in the clear.  It was some time later, as I sat and watched bemused as the TV showed the celebrations as the territory was returned to Chinese rule, that I realised there was more to Hong Kong than cheap toys and dodgy fake electronics.  Arriving in Hong Kong eleven years later, I learned something else: the heat, humidity and pollution in this thriving financial centre are oppressive.

Arriving in a new town after dark can be daunting and I felt a little apprehensive when I stepped from the plane and into the bright lights of the glittering new airport.  I’d made a hotel reservation for the next five nights in Kowloon but I’d no idea how to get there; tired from two long flights, I harboured a feeling of dread.  The speed that we passed through immigration and were reunited with our bags was bewildering and, stepping from the baggage carousel, I was delighted to discover that the Airport Express station was mere metres away.   I was impressed that the train would speed us from Chek Lap Kok Island to Kowloon in just twenty minutes but was still unsure how to get to the hotel when I got there.  I shouldn’t have worried as, with typical Asian efficiency, we were ushered from the train to a line of courtesy buses which were waiting to speed us onward to our hotel.  Just an hour after stepping from the plane I was being shown to my hotel room.  As I dropped my bag on the floor and flopped onto the bed I had to concede that my earlier anxiety had been misplaced.

Twenty hours in transit is very tiring and I slept very well; only waking when the maid came to make up the room.  After two weeks in a tent (which I’d happily donated to a fellow traveller once I’d used it for the final time) it felt quite alien to have someone looking after me so I sent her away.  The area around the hotel had looked quite glamorous and exciting the previous evening - I didn’t check but I very much doubted the classy white Christmas lights on the huge tree at the front of the hotel were stamped with the words ‘Made in Hong Kong’ - so I was surprised to throw back the curtains and discover what amounted to a slum next door.   I would later discover that it was the infamous Chungking House Mansions which, although advertised as a deluxe hotel, is in fact little more than a seedy rabbit warren of illegal gambling, prostitution and drug dealing.  It fascinated me that they would choose to build luxury hotels right next to this unsanitary fire trap but it actually summed up Hong Kong perfectly: on the one hand you have the sweat shops pouring out cheap Christmas tree lights and fake designer suits whilst, on the other, you have the wealth that comes from being one of the world’s major financial centres.

Leaving the serenity of the hotel lobby was akin to stepping into Bedlam: the heat and pollution were stifling and the noise and commotion on the street was overwhelming.  There were instantly people all around pushing everything from Folex watches and cheap suits to their sister and it took a few moments to acclimatise to this assault on the senses.  Scanning the street for a way out, I spotted a 7-Eleven and hurried inside to regroup.  Armed with a can of Red Bull and a curious excuse for a sandwich, I followed the directions that I’d just been given towards the nearby Star Ferry Terminal.

Hong Kong - since the handover in 1997, a special administrative region of the People’s Republic of China - is renowned for its expansive skyline and deep natural harbour.  With a population of 7 million people crammed into such a tiny area it is one of the most densely populated areas in the world which means that not a scrap of land is wasted.  Nor, indeed, was any space aboard the twin-decked ferry; people herded into every crevice.  As we bobbed away from the overcrowded Tsim Sha Tsui ferry terminal, the iconic mountain-backed skyline of Hong Kong Island loomed into sight across Victoria Harbour.

Quickly we arrived on Pier 7 of the Hong Kong Central ferry pier and were herded back off the boat.  I made my way, passing the incongruous sight of a wedding taking place in a corner of the terminal building, through the busy streets towards Garden Road.  Consisting of Hong Kong Island, the Kowloon Peninsular, the New Territories and over 200 offshore islands I had been confused by the geography of the area so had decided the best place to start would be the top of Victoria Peak where I hoped to look down and make sense of Hong Kong.  The Peak Tram would speed me from the sea level base station in Garden Road to the 552m summit in just a few minutes and I was soon standing on the viewing terrace atop the upper station.  Victoria Peak may have become a big tourist draw but, as I stood and surveyed the spectacular sight stretching into the distance, I couldn’t help but marvel at what lay before me.

I spent some time walking through the area; admiring the impressive colonial houses - once reserved exclusively for non-Chinese whites - and enjoying the street markets surrounding the clinical wok-shaped Peak Tower before returning to tram.  Back at street level I spent a few hours walking the streets of Central before I was finally forced to retreat to the oasis of my hotel by the oppressive air pollution.  After the cool mountain air of New Zealand it was quite a shock not to be able to breathe properly and, having skipped through five time zones since I left, I thought an afternoon nap might refresh me somewhat.  I woke just as the sun was coming down and I hurried back to the embankment of Victoria Harbour where I was able to enjoy the colour and spectacle of the skyscrapers on the opposite bank lighting up.  As the sun finally dipped behind the mountains, amidst a final flourish of brilliant oranges and reds, I couldn’t help but glance back up at Victoria Peak and make a mental note to revisit and see the sunset over the city from that vantage point.  I hoped that it would be every bit as spectacular as it was from the Avenue of the Stars where I was standing.

With the addition of the New Territories following the signing of the Second Convention of Peking in 1898, overcrowded Colonial Hong Kong exploded from 30 sq miles to almost 400 overnight.  Over the course of the 99-year lease development pushed out into this new land mass but, thanks mainly to the mountainous landscape, the majority of development remained confined to the Kowloon Peninsular and Hong Kong Island.  This left much of the new land untouched and, in recent times, much has been ceded to nature reserves which now provide a welcome place for the city-dwellers to retreat and enjoy the many miles of trails.  After a day in their city I could see why hiking has become such a popular recreational activity and, in an effort to discover the real Hong Kong, I decided that I’d follow their lead.

I took the MTR out to Tung Chung where I walked the short distance to board the Ngong Ping Skyway for the 5.7km ride across Lantau Island.  The huge gondola is an engineering masterpiece and, for the duration of the 25-minute ride, afforded us spectacular views over the South China Sea, North Lantau Country Park and the surrounding terrain as it sped us to our destination: the giant Tian Tan Buddha in the village of Ngong Ping.  As we rounded the final curve on the route at Nei Lak Shan the huge statue loomed into view causing the cabin to rock violently as my fellow passengers leapt from their seats in an effort to snap photos of the 34-metre high bronze which is the largest of its kind in the world.  I made my way through the overcrowded tourist-trap of Ngong Ping and climbed the 268 steep steps to the base of the Buddha where, as I recovered from my toil, I admired the sheer size of the thing and tried to work out how it had been constructed.

Back in Hong Kong I spent the remainder of the day travelling around the city on the MTR, stopping at random stations before emerging from beneath the ground to investigate what lay on the streets above.  From huge shopping malls full of the latest high-tech electronics to tiny backstreets full of traditional restaurants; the contrast was enthralling.  I visited Golden Bauhinia Square, named after the huge golden sculpture of the Bauhinia Blakeana which lay at its heart, where the ceremonies for the handover were held before noting the sun was getting lower in the sky and hurrying back to the top of Victoria Peak.

Once I’d watched the sun setting from atop the mountain - yes, it was every bit as memorable from the up there as I had hoped - I made my way through the streets, crowded with shoppers busy buying presents on the final Sunday before Christmas, towards my hotel.  As I made my way out of the Tsim Sha Tsui Star Ferry Terminal, a poster caught my eye and I stopped to investigate: Macau was just 40-miles and a short jetfoil ride away.  On a whim I went inside and bought a return ticket for the following morning.

I knew nothing of Macau other than it is the location of the famous Guia street circuit, home of the annual Macau Grand Prix but, for me, that was reason enough to visit.  Early the next morning I made my way to the China Ferry Terminal in Canton Road; where I boarded the boat, fastened my seat belt and prepared for the bumpy ride.  I was relieved that the journey only took 50-minutes as, buffeted by the rough seas, I was starting to feel a little queasy by the time we docked in Macau.  Making my way to the street I would quickly discover that Macau was very very different to anywhere that I had ever visited before.  I made my way past the throngs of rickshaws and tuk-tuks waiting for passengers and, drawn by what I’d seen as the ferry docked, crossed the parking lot towards the large building which was, quite clearly, the race-control building.

It may be used as a bus stand for fifty-one weeks of the year but, as I stood in the middle of the legendry Macau pitlane, I felt a little shiver run down my spine.  I wished that I’d been there during race weekend four weeks earlier, but I liked what I saw and promised myself that I would return another time and that it would coincide with the race.  By the end of the day that feeling of wanting to see more had grown to encompass the entire city.  It was, I later discovered, nine years to the day since the territory had been handed back to the Chinese and you could see why the Portuguese were so reluctant to give it up.

It has been an inauspicious start as I realised there was no way to get from the ferry terminal to downtown Macau on foot but; with Macau re-inventing itself as the Asian version of Las Vegas since it, like Hong Kong, was returned to Chinese governance; I soon realised that I could take advantage of the free shuttle buses operated by the casinos to bring customers through their doors.  I never really liked Las Vegas and, unable to even step through the casino doors without shirt and tie, I positively detested the area of Macau where all the big ugly casinos were located.  As I stood looking up in horror at the vulgar Grand Lisboa Hotel & Casino, I pondered making my way back to the waterfront and taking the next ferry back to Hong Kong.  I am so relieved that I chose to ignore my initial impression and give the town a second chance as, very soon; it was as if I had stepped into not just another place but another world.  A world where time had stood still; where Hong Kong had changed completely under the British, the old-town of Macau had retained every bit of its grandeur from its colonial past as part of the Portuguese Empire.

I won’t begin to try and explain what is magical about the place; rather I will leave it to UNESCOs description when it designated the Historic Centre of Macau as a World Heritage Site: “with its historic street, residential, religious and public Portuguese and Chinese buildings, the historic centre of Macau provides a unique testimony to the meeting of aesthetic, cultural, architectural and technological influences from East and West, and bears witness to one of the earliest and longest-lasting encounters between China and the West, based on the vibrancy of international trade.”  I felt relieved that the heart of this amazing old city would remain out of reach of developers and free from the expansion of the casino area which blotted the landscape as you looked outwards from top of the Ruins of St. Paul’s: a magnificent cathedral destroyed by a fire during a typhoon in 1835.

As I wandered through the quiet back-streets it was as if I was stepping from a sleepy Mediterranean town into an old Chinese city market and back.  It was quite surreal.  And, to add to the confusion, I would soon find myself back at the Grand Lisboa where I hopped on the shuttle bus which would take me back to the ferry terminal.  Quickly I was on my way back to my hotel in Kowloon once again and I was relieved to learn that the waters of the Pearl River Delta had subdued and the ride home was far smoother than the outbound journey.

As I had started to do in New Zealand I woke the following morning with just one thought on my mind.  The only difference was the number involved: this morning that number was zero.  In just a few hours I was going home to the UK for Christmas.  Once I’d checked out of the hotel I was at a bit of a loss for what to do and wandered through the streets of Kowloon in a bit of a daze.  Eventually I would spend an hour or two walking through the peaceful grounds of the Kowloon Walled Garden (the area previously anything but peaceful as, prior to its demolition by the state in 1993, it was the site of the menacing triad-controlled Kowloon Walled City) before making my way back to the hotel to collect my bags and catch the shuttle bus back to Kowloon Station.

As soon as I arrived back at Kowloon Station I took advantage of the ‘in-town check-in’ facility and got rid of my bags.  Considerably lighter I made my way upstairs to the huge shopping mall, Elements, where I picked up some Christmas presents for my arrival back home.

Previously I’d been scheduled to depart early on Christmas Eve which would have seen me arrive back in London late that evening but I’d requested to be put on the stand-by list for a flight late this evening instead.  I hadn’t expected to be on the flight but had popped by the downtown ticketing office as I returned from the China Ferry Terminal the previous evening and was delighted to be told that I had a seat on the earlier flight.   I sat at the gate, with a big smile on my face, just staring at the sign: “2325 London-LHR: Boarding Soon” and thinking about everything that meant and about everything that had changed since I was last there.  As it changed to “2325 London-LHR: Now Boarding” I felt a rush of adrenaline rush through me and I strode onto the plane unable to contain my excitement.  Never has a twelve-hour flight been welcomed with such anticipation and I couldn’t wait to get home and surprise my family with my early arrival home.

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.