Back at Sainte Foy

I was anxious about the return. I stayed overnight on my brother's boat in northern France, then whizzed all the way home. It was an easy trip in the sunshine, the kilometres disappeared quickly, as the landscape changes becoming hilly on the approach to Limoges. The land begins to spread out with massive views, blue hill after blue hill.

I arrived home with the sunset, just in time to be reunited with the beauty of the place. The house had been carefully tended by my lodgers. In fact, they had more than carefully tended it - they'd painted two rooms, which was a real pleasure to see. The salon had been a massive job, with lots of hole filling and plaster smoothing, but now, painted in the colours Rosie chose, it looks splendid.

The return has not been as hard as I'd feared. Rosie is everywhere and I still have to clear out her work room. But the time away has obviously healed quite a few wounds and I am able to contemplate the house and living here with much more equanimity. The cats were pleased to see me too and have slept in my room for the past five nights.

I'm thinking of starting another blog about life this year. If I do start one, I'll post a link here.

le retour vers la belle France

I'm going back home today, staying over night with Gavin on the boat. It'll be good to see my brother and his wife on their boat and it enables me to set off early tomorrow morning to get home. I'm planning to drive all the way in one day - it's a 10 hour drive - but if tiredness intervenes I'll stay somewhere en route.

I'm anxious but looking forward to being reunited with the cats, though they are quite likely to treat me with tail waving disdain. I've got one more flying visit to the UK in prospect for my mother's 90th birthday, then it's back to Sainte Foy for months of serious decorating. I will probably go completely mad. Please visit.

Back in Britain

For better or for worse, I'm now back in the UK. The flight from Hong Kong was immensely long at just on 13 hours. The plane was eerily empty - a 300 seater Airbus 340 with only 50 passengers. The most populated part seemed to be Business class, while the back was practically empty. It was a strange experience after years of full or nearly full planes. It is going to be the pattern for many months to come.

I've got a lot of things to do in the UK, then it's back to France to face up to whatever comes next.

Goodbye Eastern Luxury

I have had one final night of eastern luxury, with a bed at the Novotel, Hong Kong. I can't get enough of the fierce air conditioning, the immaculately prepared rooms, the showers like water cannons, the breakfasts with a huge variety of freshly made food on the buffet, including wonderful fruit, the smiling and bowing and customer service.

Ah well, it's back to France and the impeccable French version of hospitality and customer service! It can't hurt to dream.

See you in Europe.

Coming Back

After nearly two months away from Europe, I have to come back. It's been a welcome break which has done a lot to heal some very immediate scars. When I left I was jaded, tired and despairing. My time in Australia and New Zealand has given me new sights and sounds, fresh experiences and lots of time to reflect. I have thought about the past and the future. I still don't know what I'm going to do in the long term, but I know that the immediate future is about filler, paint and ladders, as I decorate Sainte Foy.

There is a bit more thinking time on the plane, of course, and tonight in Hong Kong, where I am having a lay over for 18 hours. But by the end of Tuesday I will be back in London and perhaps I'll wonder where it all went. There are loads of photos and images in my mind, not to mention some sand in the big red suitcase. I did leave some of my hair in New Zealand - I had a Hokitika haircut - but apart from that all I left was my tiredness and despair. Rosie is a massive gap in my life but I now know that she is part of my past.

You are all very welcome to visit me this year in Sainte Foy because I have plenty of paint brushes and several ladders. It's going to take the remainder of the year to finish the job but I have to get it done, whether I continue to live in the house or decide to sell it. So please come and help me paint and continue to heal. I do need my friends more than ever.

Sydney Again

A quick flight and I'm back in Sydney. As usual in this city, there is too much to drink and I wake this morning with a bit of a hangover. It's nothing much, but my body is certainly not its accustomed temple - last night it was full of rowdy pranksters bent on its desecration. We ate in a Chinese fusion restaurant at Finger Wharf, located in the longest wooden building in the southern hemisphere. It might even be the longest wooden building in the world, but no one seems to be certain about that, so we settled for the southern hemisphere. One of the party was a slightly rakish individual, born a pom but now definitely Ozzie. Sadly for him, he now has advanced macular disease caused apparently by driving buses over endless bumpy roads. He was great company with some very odd travel stories to tell as he smoked and drank incessantly without getting drunk.

My friend said I had to go and see some more sights. She was particularly keen that I should visit Cockatoo Island, which, she said, was once a major industrial part of the city. The only problem is that I have been able find no mention of it in the Lonely Planet Guide, so does it really exist?

I may not have been able to find Cockatoo Island, but at least I now know what it was. The answer was at the Hyde Park Barracks Museum. Contrary to what I imagined, the Barracks had very little to do with soldiers. Rather it had various functions connected with immigrants - as a secure environment for transported criminals until 1848 when the barracks were relocated to Cockatoo Island; then as a receiving station for young Irish women who were sent to Australia during the Irish famines of the the 1850s; and finally as an asylum for destitute and infirm women. In 1887 it was converted into court rooms and legal offices which were in use right up to 1979.

The displays are a frightening testament to the brutal early days of Australia, with endless floggings, hard labour and death from disease. The stories of the young Irish women who were transported here are deeply sad, although many of them did manage to make lives for themselves, through marriage to protestant settlers. Running through this nineteenth century history is the continuing failure Britain to solve its own problems which it managed only by shipping them off to Australia.

To cheer myself up I dropped into the State Library of New South Wales to have a look at the exhibition devoted to The Magic Pudding, a children's book dating from 1918, which is very well known and loved in Australia but little known outside. Written and illustrated by Norman Lindsay, a prominent artist of the time, it tells the story of Bill Barnacle and his sidekick, the penguin Sam Sawnoff, who are owners of the Magic Pudding, a grumpy creature that never runs out however much you eat it. The Magic Pudding also has the ability to be whatever flavour you want at the time. Bill Barnacle's ownership of the Magic Pudding is threatened by Possum and Watkin Wombat, a pair of professional pudding thieves. It's a wonderful story of the pursuit of the pudding and its eventual rescue with the help of Bunyip Bluegum (a well dressed Koala), told in highly coloured, exuberant larrikin language that children love. Lindsay wrote the book because he thought the contempory vogue for stories about fairies was utterly wrong. In his view children were really much more interested in stories about food. He proved to be right and the book has been a continuing success for generations of children in Australia ever since.

Australia's Shame

At the Ian Potter Centre, which is part of the National Gallery of Victoria in Melbourne, the first floor is given over to indigenous art. I tagged along behind a party of students who were being told about the paintings by a huge bearded man who was part Aboriginal. He explained the paintings and artefacts in considerable detail. The connection between the traditional iconography and how modern Aboriginal artists have changed and reinterpreted the themes was really fascinating.

The picture shown is by Julie Dowling and refers to the Bathurst Island Mission, where in the 1920s a Catholic priest forbade the practice of Aboriginal ritual and marriage practice, effectively destroying the culture.

But what hit me so hard was what he said about the treatment of Australia's original people by the white settlers, which continues to this day. Incredibly, it remained legal to hunt and kill Aborigines until 1967. A bounty of ten pounds sterling was paid for each body, many of which were supplied to hospitals throughout the world for students to dissect. There were many other appalling facts about how abominably the whites have behaved. It may have begun in the nineteenth century but it was taken over and formalised as part of the white Australia policy, which apparently foresaw the complete annihilation of the indigenous population by 1970.

Today, the Australian governement seems yet again about to fail to keep its promises to the Aborigines, partly because out of habit, partly because in times of financial stricture, promises are expensive. It is a shocking story and so different from what has happened in New Zealand, where the Treaty of Waitangi is finally being fairly applied with the consent of both parties.

The Great Ocean Road

My friend Ian said I had to see the Great Ocean Road. It's awesome, he said. Like all Australians, Ian treats distance in a quite different way from Europeans - though it has to be admitted that Ian is only an adopted Australian,
having been brought up in England. But he's learned Australian ways and thinks little of driving huge distances. For him the three hours it took to reach the coast south west of Melbourne was just a short outing.

We stopped off for lunch in Colac, a typical Oz road town, with low rise shops, each nestling under its arcaded front. Traffic rumbled past as we sat outside, an endless stream of cars, utes and huge trucks. One hauled three enormous trailers, yet this is still smaller than a road train, which can drive on up to five sets of axles and seems to go on forever.

From Colac, the scenery changes to rolling hills, unrelentingly brown, mostly farm land from which the trees were culled years ago to make grazing land for milking herds. Our destination was Port Campbell, a small settlement, now a
holiday town, strategically placed on the Great Ocean Road. The road was built directly after the First World War by returning Australian soldiers. It was a classic piece of job creation for men who might otherwise have had nothing to
do. They hewed out mountainsides to create incredible corniches high above the sea, providing stunning views of cliffs and heaving surf pounding on the sandstone rocks below. A monument and arch over the road commemorates their achievement.

It is the sea that has created this coast, carving the soft rock into strange shapes, exposing layer upon layer of compacted sediment. There are a series of lookouts, giving onto bizarrely sculpted shapes, with names like "The
Twelve Apostles", "The Razorback" and "London Bridge". This latter is a massive arched rock, detached from but close to the land. Apparently it was connected by a second arch until 1990, when that fell into the sea. Unfortunately, two
sightseers on the remaining arch were marooned by the collapse and had to be rescued by helicopter many hours later.

We had a motel in Port Campbell for the night. It is the end of the season now so there were hardly any tourists, which lent the place a slightly melancholic feeling.

The coast along the road is notorious for shipwrecks and at various points there are plaques telling of individual disasters. Perhaps the saddest is the wreck of the Loch Ard, a three masted clipper which had set off from England in 1878.
Three months later it was approaching Melbourne through the Bass Strait, when in thick mist it foundered on rocks during a party to celebrate landfall. In these treacherous waters, only two people made it to land alive, Tom Pearce, the
ship's apprentice, and Eva Carmicheal, an 18 year old Irish girl, one of a family of eight Irish immigrants. Tom saved Eva's life but it is not recorded whether or not this led to a romantic outcome. I rather hope it did.

Burning Land

The Yarra Valley is one of the major wine producing areas of Australia. It is Victoria's oldest wine region, with over 3,600 hectares under vines. Located just one hour's drive from Melbourne, the Yarra is actually a group of valleys, surrounded by low mountains, a mixture of arable farming, animal rearing and vineyards.

Victoria has been suffering a drought for many years now and the land is parched brown. The dams are down to 30% capacity and water is increasingly short. All this could have been coped with. But then, three weeks ago, there was a massive heat wave. Temperatures soared to 48c. And then the winds came, more than 100kms per hour, blowing up from the South. The result was fire, advancing across the land at panzer speed, leaping roads, torching trees and smearing crops in flame.

We drove out to the Yarra today. The aftermath of these terrible fires, which have claimed more than 210 lives and many hundreds, if not thousands, of domestic animals, cows and sheep, was plain to see. Blackened fields stretched in all directions, punctuated by trees whose scorched trunks were witness to terrible heat. At Yarra Tracks Winery, the human cost was made plain to us. The owner showed photos taken the day the fires raced up the hill to the wineryjust after five in teh afternoon. As they watched trees burst into flames and all their tractors were incinerated. They spent 10 hours fighting the fires, attempting to keep the flames away from their home, but ready at any moment to jump into the swimming pool in a bid to survive. In the end, they did save their house and wine store, but everything else went. On their 70 acres, there is not a fence remaining, not a shed and all their crops are gone. Of their fiften acres of vines, the new plantings seem to be blackened stumps. It is possible the older vines will survive, but they won't know for many months. It was clearly an utterly traumatic moment for the owners of Yarra Tracks, but at least they are still alive.

Now, the countryside is threatened again, with severe heat and high winds predicted for early next week. The fires, which can still be smouldering underground - you can feel the earth is still hot under you palm - may reignite and for the second time in a month, bush fires will come to the Yarra. The Yarra Valley is one of the major wine producing areas of Australia. It is Victoria's oldest wine region, with over 3,600 hectares under vines. Located just one hour's drive from Melbourne, the Yarra is actually a group of valleys, surrounded by low mountains, a mixture of arable farming, animal rearing and vineyards.

Victoria has been suffering a drought for many years now and the land is parched brown. The dams are down to 30% capacity and water is increasingly short. All this could have been coped with. But then, three weeks ago, there was a massive heat wave. Temperatures soared to 48c. And then the winds came, more than 100kms per hour, blowing up from the South. The result was fire, advancing across the land at panzer speed, leaping roads, torching trees and smearing crops in flame.

We drove out to the Yarra today. The aftermath of these terrible fires, which have claimed more than 210 lives and many hundreds, if not thousands, of domestic animals, cows and sheep, was plain to see. Blackened fields stretched in all directions, punctuated by trees whose scorched trunks were witness to terrible heat. At Yarra Tracks Winery, the human cost was made plain to us. The owner showed photos taken the day the fires raced up the hill to the wineryjust after five in teh afternoon. As they watched trees burst into flames and all their tractors were incinerated. They spent 10 hours fighting the fires, attempting to keep the flames away from their home, but ready at any moment to jump into the swimming pool in a bid to survive. In the end, they did save their house and wine store, but everything else went. On their 70 acres, there is not a fence remaining, not a shed and all their crops are gone. Of their fiften acres of vines, the new plantings seem to be blackened stumps. It is possible the older vines will survive, but they won't know for many months. It was clearly an utterly traumatic moment for the owners of Yarra Tracks, but at least they are still alive.

Now, the countryside is threatened again, with severe heat and high winds predicted for early next week. The fires, which can still be smouldering underground - you can feel the earth is still hot under you palm - may reignite and for the second time in a month, bush fires will come to the Yarra.

Leaving New Zealand

It has been a great trip and I certainly want to return to New Zealand. There is so much to see - I have hardly touched the surface of South Island and have only visited Wellington in North Island for a few hours. On purpose I did not go to Fiordland, nor did I travel across to Dunedin or down to Invercargill and Stewart Island. They can wait for the next time, because this journey has certainly whetted my appetite for another trip.

The last couple of days were spent in the Methven area where something very wonderful happened - I met some relatives. They are relatives from a very long way back, but we are cousins. We know it is very distant because their name is spelled Barlass - with a double s. It seems that the name divided sometime around the beginning of the nineteenth century. The branch of the Barlass family I met owes its existence to William Barlass, who came to New Zealand in 1880 and set up in business as a plumber. That's him in the picture at the top of this posting. His descendants spread out across South Island - William had nine children. I met David Barlass and his wife Julia. David, who is 58, is a farmer and car dealer, the latter profession being something of a very lucrative hobby. He has 800 acres of prime land outside Methven where he runs a dairy herd of 700 milking cows. He gave up sheep years ago when he had heart problems.

David and Julie invited me to lunch and showed me the researchh his uncle did into the family. He traced the Barlass family back as far as the beginning of the end of the 18th century, when William Barlass was born somewhere in Scotland. The tree he made shows a William Barlass was born in 1785 and his son, also William who was born in 1804, is shown without the second s. So it may be that it was at that time the family name split. The extraordinary thing about David is that the family features are still there. There is one of my family members whose photo could be superimposed over David's face to show an astonishing similarity. I've promised to send him what information I have about the Barlas family.

This was rather moving end to the trip and we have promised to keep in touch. Touchingly, their daughter returned to Scotland for a time where she continued her medical training. She is now a hospital doctor in Auckland. Apparently Scottish roots need occasional nourishment back in the mother country.

Now it is off to Australia, to spend some time in fire wracked Melbourne, then back to Sydney, prior to my return to Europe.

Lord of the Rings

For the first time since I have been in NZ, someone has pointed out one of the locations used for Lord of the Rings. Mount Hutt rears up to the west of Methven, which is just one hour away from Christchurch. It is a massive lump of mountain, its slopes grey with shaley rock, which turns a wonderful beige in the sunlight. On its flanks were set the castle scenes from the film in which the ageing and decomposing king is finally persuaded to dump his adviser Wormtongue and join the fight against Sauron. All the sets were removed but the you can see how the mountains were so appropriate to the movie. In fact, during my journey yesterday, across the high plateau from Tekapo to Methven, there were many vistas redolent of the film. I'd like to watch it again now to see if I can spot more locations.

Having found some wonderful B&B accommodation just outside Methven, I have changed my plans yet again. I had intended to move on today to spend my penultimate night by the sea on the Banks Peninsula. Instead I am staying for two nights in Mike and Helen Johnstone's cottage on their farm. I have a magnificent view of the mountains from my bed and tonight I will be having dinner with them. They are a totally welcoming pair and it has been a pleasure to learn more about Kiwi life in the countryside.

Finally, I had a very moving encounter today. I was walking the Rakaia Gorge trail when I met a man coming in the opposite direction. We got talking and he suddenly told me his wife was really sick, had been for 18 months. She'd been in and out of hospital and had already had major surgery. I told him about Rosie and said that I understood and the conversation continued from there. I could see the real pain and hopelessness in his eyes and it was kind of clear that he wanted and didn't want the conversation at the same time. He was desperately trying to persuade himself that everything was okay, whilst knowing that it really wasn't and that his wife was probably dying. In the meantime he is caring for her, but finding it really hard. It was a story that is so familiar to me. I thought at one point he was going to cry, but he held the tears back. We talked for quite some time and he told me about his family and his English forebears and about how he would like to travel to Europe at some time and I knew that he was implying that he could/would do this after his wife, who is only 48, had died. It was so very sad and I got the feeling he was actually relieved to have this conversation with a stranger. I only hope it helped.

Good morning, Sunshine

Finally it happened. this morning the sun appeared, reluctantly, like a timid animal. It was constantly threatened by cloud but it persisted and by ten o'clock, it was gaining the upper hand. And then, suddenly, it gathered enought strength to melt the clouds and Mount Cook appeared, its double crag set on top of a huge triangle of snow covered rock. It is an astonishing sight, rearing up nearly vertically at the end of the valley, a massive wall of rock tipped with white.

Later I drove through the high plateau that spreads out beneath the Southern Alps, a vast upland, now brown from lack of water, home to a million sheep and cows. I think it is where much of Lord of the Rings was filmed.

Lake Takapo, my refuge for tonight, is another of the emerald lakes, its colour created by the refraction of light as it is filtered by the stone flour ground up by the weight of glaciers. It's a small tourist town, but with a massive development on its fringe, which presages change in the near future. Above the town is the Mount John observatory, part of Christchurch University. You can visit and see the telescopes if you want but I went for a walk instead, two hours alone the shore of the lake.

Finally, to prove that the world is a small place, in the next door unit tonight is a retired teacher from Kentish Town. She seems oddly familiar and I suspect we have met before, probably in one of the local shops where we used to buy food when we lived in Camden Town. Funny old world, as they say.

Tramping in the Rain

This is more like it. I have lashed out on a night at Mount Cook village - actually it's not at all expensive by the standards of European Alpine lodging - and have a room at the Aoraki Alpine Lodge, a small, but very comfortable, hotel. Next door is the huge Hermitage Hotel which advertises itself as probably the best known in New Zealand. That it is a hideous grey rectangle, tucked in under the cliffs is not mentioned. My hotel has a large guest lounge from which I have a wonderful view of more fog. Yes, the fog has travelled with me and obscures what should be a marvellous view of the Mount Cook range of mountains. It also continues to rain.

But I just had to take a walk, so I set off on the Hooker Valley track (actually I was attempting to walk the Sealy Tarns track but somehow ended up on the other one) under a relentless rain. The brochure says it is a three hour return walk, over a couple of swing bridges (so called because when you walk across them they swing alarmingly from side to side as your weight shifts) and a lot of very rough track, which today is flooded in places. The views are spirit lifting, in spite of the low clouds. the track runs down the Hooker valley, where thin ribbons of water gush down shaley mountain sides, partly covered in scrub. Every now and again, the track snuggles up to the river, a torrent of grey green water, fed by the glacier lake to which I was walking.

Half way along the track there is a small hut shelter, whose walls are covered in walkers' graffiti - Shane and Mike from Saskatoon, Bruno from Milan - a palimpsest of historic exercise. Over the years dozens of people must have walked this track with felt tip markers - perhaps they do it wherever they go. The trail continues through low scrub, sometimes raised above boggy ground on a wooden walkway, sometimes skirting large boulders. Finally it reaches its destination, a small lake. But it is no ordinary lake because at the far end is the face of the Tasman Glacier, which calves huge chunks of ice into the water during the summer. As a consequence, miniature icebergs float on the lake's surface, melting gracefully to feed the river at the lake's end.

It was a very exhilarating trek. Three hours in the rain is not often my idea of a good day out, but today it was just what I needed to drive out the grumpiness that had been building up. I feel I have earned a decent meal (I cooked my own supper in the motel last night) and a few drinks. Perhaps tomorrow the cloud will lift and reveal the mountains; perhaps not. Right now I feel it doesn't really matter. I may not have conquered the mountain, but at least I have returned Mr Grumpy to his hutch.

Surreal Twizel

First of all, there have been comments that I have been parading the grumpy old man in the last two postings. This is absoluely true but I have been feeling grumpy. This is partly the fault of the weather.

It is wet in South Island, which has caused me to change my travel plans and I have given Milford Sound and Fiordland a miss. Admittedly, they are reputed to be some of the finest sighs in New Zealand. Everyone says Fiordland lives up to its name, with massive fiords cutting into the high mountains of this far south west region of the island. Not going there is therefore a bit of a disappointment. But it rains in Fiordland - seven metres of rain a year, that's 7000 millimetres - and when it rains it really does rain. And at the moment it is raining in buckets. So, another time.

So instead yesterday I drove from Cromwell to Twizel, the gateway to Mount Cook National Park. I'd tried to find accommodation elsewhere but I ended up in Twizel. This place used to be a bit of a joke. Constructed as a brand new town in 1968 to service the building of a nearby hydro-electric project, it was due to be razed to the ground following the end of the project. But by that time people had grown fond of Twizel and refused to move, so the town prospered. Located at the head of Lake Pukaki, which is filled with glacier water of an astonishing emerald green, Twizel is somewhat surreal. Little, almost identical one storey houses are dotted around on a huge lawn, bisected by incredibly wide roads, with a few shops and other buildings here and there. It has the feel of an upmarket construction camp (which of course it was) but its pristine quality - the houses looking as though they are regularly washed - lends it an air of unreality. I keep on thinking I have stumbled onto the set of The Truman show.

In Winner's Footsteps

As everyone knows, food is important to me, as it was to Rosie. And because of that I want to record that I have just experienced one of the worst meals I have ever had in a restaurant. The culprit was the chef at the restaurant of The Golden Gate Lodge in Cromwell. I had been recommended to this place and went there willingly. The meal I chose was braised pork belly on a bed of mashed kumara with an apple, celery and onion slaw. Kumara is a type of sweet potato that has been cultivated in New Zealand for hundreds of years, originally brought here by the Maori from somewhere in the Pacific.

The meal, when it was brought to the table, consisted of a slice of underseasoned pork belly, perched on a mountain of roughly cut red onion, a few slices of apple and chunks of celery, te whole thing sitting on a wodge of stodgy kumara, some of which was not mashed at all. None of the ingredients worked together and the effect was quite unpleasant.

Being a glutton for punishment and because I had ordered a bottle of excellent Pinot Noir from the Wooingtree Vineyard (the one successful part of the meal) I asked to try some New Zealand cheeses. A giant wooden slab bearing three types of cheese, plus some not very palatable chutneys was brought. There was a blue cheese, a New Zealand Brie and a smoked cheddar. All I can say, on the evidence of these three cheeses, is that New Zealand cheese makers (or at least the makers of these cheeses) should not give up their day jobs.

Oh well, you can't win all the time and there is lots of beautiful scenery as compensation.

Bungy Jumping in the Fog

On a sunny day this is a wonderful view, down to the lake at Queenstown. Today it was shrouded in fog which has enveloped central south island for the past 24 hours. A huge low rolled in from the north west yesterday, bringing with it pelting rain, wind and sodden cloud. I came across from Haast as the depression was moving in. Fortunately it has not truly settled in so I was able to enjoy the road (which was only finally completed in 1960, joining the east and west coasts), as it winds above the Haast River surging below in an ever narrowing gorge beneath slabs of rock reaching to the sky. I was on my way to Wanaka, one of the tourist centres of Central Otago.

I didn't like the place much. After the blissful solitude of the West Coast, there were too many thrill seekers booking bungy jumping, jet boating and body surfing down the gorges. I'm sure these are all fine things but they are not what this old fart came to New Zealand for. And Wanaka was almost full into the bargain so I ended up in a small motel that was okay but not really what I wanted.

With the rain still pissing down this morning, I went wine tasting. This area is the fastest growing wine region in the country, specialising in Pinot Noir. In fact the region is said by many to be the best terroir for Pinot Noir in the world. This would appear to be borne out by the prizes won by the local vineyards. These include accolades such as the World's Best Pinot Noir Award. I'm not sure who gave this but it does suggest that what comes out of the vineyards of Gibbston Valley, Bendigo, Cromwell and Bannockburn is highly rated. Certainly the tastings I did were very good with a wide variety of styles, ranging in price from 25NZD to 105NZD, with an average price of 45NZD. These are not cheap bottles but the contents is marvellous.

Tonight I'm staying in Cromwell, in a comfortable motel secluded in what appears to be a housing estate. Once again it was the scarcity of accommodation that brought me here. In addition to the bungy jumping etc there is a huge rowing regatta taking place an hour away and the rowing buffs have flooded the place. I have always maintained that sport has much to answer for. It has certaily turned this area into a hotel desert, at least for the moment.

Signs at the End of the World

Yes, there really is a Crikey Creek here. And waddling penguins. Haast is nearly at the end of the west Coast road. Only Jackson Bay, some 50 kilometres further, remains. I've been here for a couple of nights, mainly to get away from the tourist crowds. In that I was successful because no one stays long in Haast. Which is a pity because this place does have an amazing atmosphere. Backed by the southern alps and facing the Tasman Sea, Haast lies on very flat land, with native scrub and trees flanking empty fields. There is a lot of bird life, but the beach I walked on was strangely empty of anything but driftwood. Miles long, it has a desolate feeling which could, I imagine, be quite oppressive.

Now I'm off over the Haast Pass, with a woman's bicycle trailer in the back seat. I'm doing her a favour, so she doesn't have to lug it over the pass. I'll drop it off at Makarora, before continuing to Wanaka for the night.

First Steps on Ice

Graham, known as Grazer, was our guide. there was in fact a choice. You could go with Kirk, much younger, or you could go with Grazer, who probably can't remember his 50th birthday that well. Naturally, I chose experience over youth. "This is," explained Grazer at the face of the glacier, "A very dynamic environment." As he said this two sizeable chunks of rock dislodged themselves from the blackened ice of the glacier face and crashed fifty feet to the ground. "A Japanese tourist was killed, just over there," he pointed with his ice pick, "Got too close, didn't listen to advice, an entire slab of ice collapsed on top of him."

We had started an hour before with a briefing and boot fitting. I drew a pair of enormous leather boots, the type that Wynter would have worn to climb the Matterhorn, and a pair of crampons. Then it was on to a bus for the ten minute ride to the car park at the foot of the glacier. It is a majestic sight, a huge swathe of rugged ice plunging down from the mountains above. We began with a walk across the boulder strewn morain left by the glacier as it retreated many years ago, though it appears it is now advancing again. Then there was a very strenuous climb up through the trees on the hillside to bring us to a vantage point above the glacier, from where we climbed down again to the glacier itself.

Initially, the surface of the glacier is disappointing. It is not pristine white, but dirty, like slush in London after a few days. However, a few centimetres below the dirty surface (the dirt being dust carried by the wind from the nearby hillsides), the ice is a glorious green colour, almost an emerald green. This is the result of the filtering effect of the ice, which removes all traces of red light and leave only the blues and the greens.

Stamping crampons into hard ice is easy, particularly when the ice is not that hard, softened by the sunshine. But the air was cold, chilled by the wind funnelling down off the huge ice field above. We stumped on up the glacier for about an hour, crossing small crevasses and skirting large holes, where the melting water creates traps for the unwary. It was exhilarating to know that we were tramping on about 80 metres of ice beneath our feet. It was also very surprising to learn that the glacier is moving down the hillside at up to two metres a day, lubricated by the water melting beneath.

Grazer seemed genuinely fond of his glacier. He and his colleagues monitor it constantly, watching how it melts and regerates. In spite of global warming, or perhaps because of it, the Fox Glacier is actually advancing at the moment. There has been so much snow falling on the accumulation zone which needs to go somewhere and that somewhere is the glacier. It is thought qthat with increased global warming New Zealand will become wetter, which means more snow at altitude, which means yet more snow in the accumulation zone which means that the glacier will advance. Not that it will advance as far as it did in 1750 when it was a full two kilometres longer during that time's mini ice age.

It was all very interesting but it did leave me wondering about the effects of tourism. Both the Franz Josef and Fox
Glaciers are like honeypots to tourists. There is a constant coming and going of buses and cars. The pressure of tourism is proved by the difficulty of finding a hotel room, even in a town like Franz Josef with a multitude of places to stay. That mass tourism may not be entirely benign is hardly a new thought, but I have not seen its effect before in a country like New Zealand, that can't be described as third world or even second world. My question is, are we seeing beginning of a second wave of destruction, following the first brought about by the original settlers who stripped the land of timber and introduced foreign species like the stoat and the possum which have both proved so disastrous for indigenous wildlife?

Itchy and Scratchy

The Marmite treatment does not work and that's for sure. I have been so itchy for the past couple of days. Copious quantities of anti-itch cream have been rubbed into my skin, but the bugs do leave their traces. I wake in the middle of the night with terrible itching where there was no itching when I went to sleep. And it seems to go on and on. I have now purchased new supplies of insect repellent but I have to say that New Zealand bugs are made of stern stuff. In spite of liberal skin smearing, they still land on me in spite of the fact that my skin must resemble a toxic desert.

I am now in Franz Josef, home to a huge glacier - well, less huge now that it is being assaulted by global warming. Virtually every hotel room was booked and I'm staying in a kind of Butlins just outside the little town. It's okay but not the greatest accommodation I have ever known.

On the way here from Hokitika, I called in at a very small community called Okarito. It used to be a busy place but as with all towns on the West Coast was eclipsed as gold mining in this region started to decline. It boasts the oldest building on the entire West Coast. It started as a club and then became Donovan's General Store, run by a couple who only retired in their eighties. Old man Donovan contributed greatly to the development of the West Coast. Apparently he was a member of the Council and never missed a meeting - quite a feat, considering that the Council met in Hokitika, some 90 miles north and he used to go there on horseback. Now Okarito is very quiet, home to quite a few artists, including Keri Hume, who wrote the Booker Prize winning "The Bone People". It is also home to one of the strangest motorhomes I have ever seen - an ancient Bedford lorry with what looks like a small house built on its chassis.

Tomorrow I join a guided walk up the Fox glacier.

On the West Coast

The drive from Murchison, down the Buller Valley Gorge is stunning, but it didn't prepare me for the beauty of the west coast road. This must be one of the most scenic roads in the world. On the one side is the rolling Tasman Sea, on the other the tree clad hills, which gradually give way to vistas of the distant southern
alps.

The road winds a bit in both places, but no one drives particularly fast here. I passed through a few small villages - all with a kind of wild west feel - then through Greymouth, at the mouth of the Grey River. It is the biggest port on the west coast, but that is a relative term.

Overnight I stayed in Hokitika, a very laid back centre for arts and crafts. While it isn't a one street town, it comes close but there it has charm, sitting on the edge of an enormous black sand beach. I ate fish and chips on the sand last night, surrounded by seagulls, greedy for titbits.

This morning I had a curious flashback to another life, because there is a small conference taking place at the Beachfront hotel where I stayed. Today the bar is full of men with laptops, talking business. It is a world I am not sorry to have left.

The Big Red Suitcase and the Green Umbrella

I love my cousin Tom. He has been a presence in my life for many years. We are nearly the same age - he turns sixty this coming August - and he has always been a positive and cheerful person when I am down. But as those years go by, interacting with Tom becomes an increasingly surprising experience. Being with him is to understand planned spontaneous chaos. Today's trip out of the Abel Tasman was a good example. For the past forty eight hours he was undecided whether to go on his backpacking trip with Barbara today, tomorrow of the following day. He inclined, however, to tomorrow, so they could have a lazy Sunday.

This decision lasted until this morning when he abruptly changed his mind and said that they should start this morning. The question was whether Barbara would agree. In the event she did, getting her head round the sudden change of plan with the consummate ease of many years experience. They packed quickly and we were going to wait until the high tide, then go out in the yellow peril, after we had said good by to guests David, Scilla and Reuben. It was at this point that the plan changed, but it was not entirely of Tom's doing. As readers of this blog know, I travel with a large red suitcase. It is not ideal for a backpacking holiday, but I am not on a backpacking holiday. Except that getting in and out of Abel Tasman is difficult with a large red suitcase and it would be much better if I did have a backpack. It was David who promoted the change, but suggesting that he could take the big red suitcase on the ferry to Kaiteriteri, where I could pick it up. I then suggested that we could walk out at low tide, instead of waiting for the high tide and the yellow peril.

This was eventually the plan that was adopted. As I say, the planned spontaneous chaos was not of Tom's doing, it is just that being around Tom leads to this kind of situation. One has, as they say, to think on one's feet.

After leaving Abel Tasman, I was to drop Tom and Barbara as a trail head from where they would walk back to Awaroa. However, when we arrived at the turn off the main road where I thought I was to drop them, it turned out that this was not at all the place I was to drop them. Instead I was to turn off the main road and drive 11 kilometers on a very bumpy gravel road to a car park. Of course meanwhile the big red suitcase had probably arrived at Kaiteriteri with David, Scilla and Reuben who would have to wait for the hired Toyota to emerge from the wilderness and thunder down the main road to meet them. As it turned out all went well, but it was certainly an exercise in planned spontaneous chaos that only Tom really knows how to bring into existence.

Since collecting the big red suitcase, I have sped across the backcountry and arrived in Murchison. On the way I drove via the Motueka River valley, passing through Tapewa where there is a disused railway station called Kiwi. I had a coffee there and a boysenberry icecream, which is apparently the most difficult type of icream to dig out of its container - a curious if not very interesting fact.

"Not much of a place, Murchison," Scilla had said, but it does have a certain charm. At least it has a decent place to stay where I stood under the abundantly hot shower, which was a huge and blessed relief after nearly two weeks of solar trickle.

And the green umbrella? Well, that is in the garden of the Murchison pub. It is exactly the same type of umbrella Rosie and I bought several years ago in London. Whatever Scilla may say about Murchison, globalisation has certainly stretched out its binding tentacles to this place.

Once Bitten

There are no snakes in New Zealand, but there are a million insects that bite and it seems that I have been a very welcome addition to their diet here at Abel Tasman. Consuming large quantities of vitamin B is supposed to stop them biting. Many years ago Rosie and I were in the Phillippines, which is also home to a zillion biting bugs. We had heard that Marmite was the perfect defence if eaten in sufficient quantities. A large glass jar of Marmite was therefore packed (along with the traveling iron, which Rosie insisted must be taken) and carried all the way to the remote and mosquito infected island of Palawan. I had had only one Marmite sandwich when unfortunately I dropped the pot on the floor of our hotel so was never able to prove the theory.
Here in New Zealand things could be different. Learning of my punctured condition and my fondness of the famous black yeast spread, Ferg the neighbour offered a pot of New Zealand Marmite. That there could be a ew Zealand variety of Marmite was a surprise. It comes in a round plastic jar, nothing like the UK shape, and has a quite different consistency. This morning I spread my first slice of bread (the making of toast at the bach is a very complex operation that results in what is locally know as propane toast, more akin to bread seared with a blowlamp) with the New Zealand Marmite and took a bite. To a devote Marmite eater, it was a major disappointment. New Zealand Marmite is quite different from English Marmite. It is sweet, with the consistency of roofing tar, having a curious deep brown colour. It is not Marmite as we know it. Fortunately, the current set of visitors (David, Scilla and Reuben) had brought a jar of Vegemite with them. Serious Marmite eaters usually scorn Vegemite but after the very disappointing New Zealand Marmite experience (it still makes me shudder), it seemed worth a try. I can now vouch for the fact that whilst Vegemite is not the same as UK Marmite, it is a half decent substitute. However, I have yet to find out whether or not it protects me from the bugs, which are a notorious feature of the New Zealand West coast where I shall be tomorrow.

Rain

We woke this morning to the sound of raindrops on the tin roof. Like most buildings in the area the bach at Awaroa has a corrugated iron covering, the preferred roofing material throughout rural New Zealand. Rain had been predicted but today it has poured and poured. The view across the bay is entirely obscured by the mist and this place feels more remote and cut off than usual.

Tom spent half the morning restlessly suggesting trips to the beach. Neither Barbara nor I were that excited by the prospect. For me it would have brought back memories of childhood, sitting in a damp and fuggy car with sandwiches and staring out at endless rain sheeting down on the beach. Eventually, unable to bear it any longer, Tom persuaded Barbara to go for a walk to the Lodge. Or rather to get in the yellow boat, now renamed the Yellow Peril, and cross the inlet. Instead of a sail, Barbara hoisted an umbrella while Tom rowed lugubriously across as raindrops patterned the surface of the water with a million tiny bubbles.

I stayed at home and listened to music - wimpy, yes, but far more comfortable. While they were gone, a party of hikers - two boys and a very white faced girl who looked to be in the final stages of hypothermia - staggered up the track in search of the nearby Awaroa hiking hut. With such a high tide it's not really possible to get to the hut without a lot of wading. The best way is to take the path through the garden, then go along the the low cliff until to the ramp down to the beach. I really felt for them as they had no rain clothes and it is still about a kilometre to the hut from here.

When Tom and Barbara returned they were soaked, having walked the long way back, around the loop that runs high above the inlet. Tomorrow the forecast is for better weather.

Reality Bites

Yesterday and the night before, the sky was constantly disturbed by the thump of helicopter blades as they criss-crossed the park. Usually these are tourist flights, taking off from the Awaroa Lodge to give the wealthier guests (paying about about 300NZ$ per night) a panoramic view of the bay with its multitude of sandy coves. But yesterday the flights continued into the night, the thump of the blades much heavier than usual.

It wasn't until yesterday (Tuesday) evening that we learned the reason. We'd seen a microlight flying around for a couple of days, the whirr of its engine a midget sound compared to the choppers. Apparently it belonged to a commercial pilot who had a seconnd home locally and enjoyed his microlight hobby. On Monday he'd taken off with a young Dutch backpacker in the second seat for a trip over Totaranui beach. We'd been out there ourselvesourselves, walking from Mutton Cove back to Awaroa, a good four hour hike. We'd arrived at Totaranui, the half way point, when a huge wind suddenly got up, scouring our bodies with sand whipped up from the shore. We heard nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees.

For the microlight and its passengers it was another story. It seems that they'd flown up from behind the ridge at Totaranui, and suddenly encountered a powerful updraft from the seaward side. Microlights aren't made for this and the wind had ripped the sail off and sent them plunging down to the rocky ground below. They didn's stand a chance.

Name Calling

Ferg, Ripper, Ponty and Pork - this is a culture that loves to name things. Ferg, Ripper, Ponty and Pork are all locals who own baches here. Apparently the houses here are called baches because originally they were places inhabited by bachelors where they could go fishing, talk and drink without the distraction of women. Kiwi life (the New Zealanders love to call themselves Kiwis), is lived outside with roughened hands and pioneering spirit. Men called Ferg, Ripper, Ponty and Pork (their real names often not known by their friends) have carved out the territory, built the houses here, raised the livestock and looked after their families.

Awaroa is typical. Intermittently occupied by the Maori from way back, it was first surveyed by the English in 1843. The land was then bought up by rich individuals from Nelson (the first land sales were 1855), a short journey across the sea but miles away by land. Gradually the land was subdivided and settled by incoming immigrant families, such as the Hadfields and the Gibbs, who set up farms around the bay in the 1860s. There was also a lot of forestry and many of the native trees, such as the Totara and the Remu, were cut down to create range land for livestock. Native trees were replaced by American pines whose decendants now tower over the beaches here. The immigrants also brought European stoats and rats, which devastated the local ground dwelling bird population. Today there are programmes to reintroduce the Kiwi and the Weca (a smaller, shorter beaked bird than the Kiwi) which are not being as successful as was hoped. But there are other birds which have survived, including the bird known as the Morepork. This owl has a curious call, which sounds like "more-pork more-pork", a bird in a nocturnal search for sausages.

Today Awaroa is part of the national park, dotted with holiday homes (baches) and a couple of tourist lodges. The main pastimes are hiking, fishing and drinking in the evenings. And of course chewing the fat with Ferg, Ripper, Ponti and Pork.

Water World

Abel Tasman has its back to the mountains and its face to the water. The bach is right on the inlet at Awaroa and life is ruled by the tides, which sweep in and out with twenty five hour cycles of the moon. High tide and low tide shift by about one hour per day. If the tide is in, you can't get across the bay to the car park to go shopping. If the tide is out, you can walk across. If the tide is half and half you can wade, but it all depends on whether the moon is full, for then the water can be deeper and wading turns to swimming.

Or you can use the little yellow boat which just about takes three passengers - Tom, Barbara and me. Yesterday was a walking trip, but as the tide was half in, half out there was quite a bit of wading up to our waists.

Some of the pleasures of the water lie in the creatures to be seen. A couple of days ago, from a track overlooking the sea, we saw an enormous creature arc out of the waves. It might have been a dolphin but looked to be too big so we are still wondering if we saw an Orca - a killer whale - pods of which have been spotted off the coast in recent weeks. But of course I didn't have my camera ready so it was the one that got away.

We were luckier today. We piled into the boat early (well before the wind gets up around midday) and set off out of the bay, in the dirction of a small cove to the east. Chugging along, propelled by the smelly two stroke outboard, we'd just got into the open sea when there was a commotion about two hundred metres away to the left. The head of a huge creature was shaking the hell out of a fish, probably one of the local Eagle Rays (the type with a vicious sting laden tail that killed Steve Irwin, the crocodile expert). The creature was larger than a seal and we think it was probably a sealion. As it thrashed about, gulls landed all around, hoping for some scraps from the meal. Then suddenly all was quiet again as the creature vanished from sight.

Towards the hidden cove where we planned to swim, shags preened on the rocks lining the coast, before dropping down to the surface of the sea. At the cove, the swimming was pure joy - water as translucent as air over a sandy bottom with a few rounded rocks to stand on. Coming back, against the tide pourng out of the bay, was hard work for the engine which whined and stank worse than ever. We made it before the water had all ebbed away, watching out for the rays which hug the sea floor where they feed on crustaceans. Waiting on the shore to greet us were row upon row of Oyster Catchers, waiting for lunch on the bay sand which would shortly be drained, leaving the small crabs and crayfish high and dry.

Takaka, Hippy Haven

As I parked the car on the main street in Takaka, I was almost knocked down by a grey bearded man on a unicycle juggling four orange balls as he streaked up the road. Welcome to Takaka, a home from home for retired New Zealand hippies. The main street is full of shops selling jewelry and various hippy artefacts. We had lunch at The Dangerous Kitchen, then passed by the village green where a girl band was singing as part of the local Mardi Gras. After that we made our way to this Internet cafe for a connection.

The trip back to Takaka was along the same gravel road, but this time, without all the baggage and supplies the car didn't ground on the exhaust pipe all the time.

Yesterday, we walked out to Tonga Beach, a huge stretch of golden sand, lapped by a warm blue sea. The wind was blowing up quite a bit but we found some sheltered shade for a sleep after our sandwich lunch - Tom's walking lunches are notoriously "a cheese and a bread", made a bit more interesting by a slice of tomato. But it does satiate the appetite at the time. After the beach we walked back via the Aweroa Lodge for beer and email. Another day had almost slipped by.

But not quite, because bizarre event took place after we returned home, when we were invited to a neighbouring bach across the inlet. Expecting a glass of wine, we were treated to a variety of cocktails, served by Georgina, the 18 year old daughter. For Christmas she'd been given a cocktail book and was working her way through the list. And of course, as is usual with cocktails, they didn't taste of alcohol but were in fact highly intoxicating. It was a somewhat disorganised trip back in the little yellow boat. I slept very soundly last night.

Come in, Major Tom

Across the bay is the Awaroa Lodge, which has grown over time into quite an establishment, with 27 rooms, a restaurant, a cafe and various other services. Everything at the lodge has to be brought in either by sea or via the road we came on. Electricity is from a huge generator and all communication is via a satellite link.

The lodge has recently been taken over by new owners, Barry, a Brit, and his his Chinese wife, Selena. We met them on the boat that brought up across the inlet. Barry was kind of complaining that the lodge cost him 60,000NZ$ a month just too keep open, with 900NZ$ per week going on diesel for the generator. Which brings me to the Internet. In the past Tom had an account to connect at the lodge, but everything seems to have been changed by the new owners. Now it costs more and apparently doesn't seem to work quite as well. But then Tom does have a habit of doing things a more difficult way than most of us (I seem to have quite a few friends like this) and has been wandering around the woods trying to find places to connect. This has been a very frustrating task for him as his computer has been crashing all time. I, on the other hand with the trusty Linux, have just wandered over to the lodge, paid 8NZ$ for one hour, sat in the bar with a beer and linked up via the wireless connection. It is slow but it does work, though I am not posting pictures at the moment because of the slow speed.

Abel Tasman

This is an idyllic place but the journey here was taxing to say the least. I met up with Tom and Barbara at Nelson Airport. They'd come in from San Francisco via Auckland - for once it wasn't me who was jetlagged. I had been under the impression that it was a quick ride in the car to the boat that would take us to Awaroa. Wrong. It was a two hour car ride, stopping on the way to have coffee with Scilla, a friend of Tom and Barbara's. They were holding up remarkably well. Then is was on the road again, to Takaka, the nearest town where we could buy food. It was then that I learned that we had to stock up because there was no place at Awaroa to buy food. I kept on saying this didn't matter because we had the car and could easily go back to Takaka to buy food and they kept on saying, you wait and see.

From Takaka, the car laden with food, we took a scenic road that clings to the hillside above the sea. It was windy and a bit slow but not difficult. I still couldn't see why it was so hard to return to Takaka to buy food. And then I found out, when the metalled road gave way to a very narrow, gravel track that often slunk its way betweeen high banks sprouting tree ferns. The track got narrower and narrower. Cars would come barrelling in the opposite direction, trailing clouds of dust, leaving inches to pass. Just as I thought, okay, I've got the hang of this, it's not too bad really, we came to the first river. So what you might ask, take the bridge, except there was no bridge - we had to plunge into the water in our Toyota Corolla clearly no made for this kind of thing. We survived and then Tom casually said, that's the first one done. about a kilometre on we came to the next, wider and deeper. I swear the water came to the top of the bonnet and leaked through the door seals. But once again we made it, though with some ominous clanking from beneath the car.

Eventually we came to the Awaroa car park, where I discovered a section of the exhaust pipe seemed to dangling dangerously low beneath the engine. Hving unloaded the car - food, backpacks, suitcase etc - we waited for the boat to take us, finally, to the bach.

This place is exceptionally remote. It is also beautiful. Their house stands above an inlet from the bay, where water ebbs and flows with the twice daily tide. Hill rise behind the houses - there are a group of other baches on the inlet - clad in green vegetation, mostly canukas and tree ferns. From the windows there is a view of the sea, a deep blue, stirred occasionally into white caps by the wind which often blows up from the south (a cold wind, coming up from the Anarctic).

Life here is slow, dominated by the tides and the daylight. During the day the sound of cicadas and crickets is constant. The cicadas click, like crackling electricity, while the crickets saws their legs creating a rhythmic hum. We take long walks, go out in the boat and just look at the sea. It is hard to believe there is another life.

South Island

Rosie (the great map reader) would have laughed, but tonight, because I read the map upsidedown, I ended up at an excellent fish and chip shop with a decent pub next door. Even better, the fish and chip shop actually delivered the fish and chips to the pub on a plate. It was a great and informal pleasure, created by my inability to read a map properly. Sorry, Rosie, but it has to be admitted that my incompetence does sometimes yield bonuses.

The day started early in Wellington on the 0830 ferry to Picton. The Cook Strait can be very rough but today it was moderate with only one stretch of huge swell as we emerged into the strait from Wellington Harbour. The last hour of the three hour journey is stunning, as the ship winds it way up the Charlotte Sound, with hills and rugged bays on either side, before docking at Picton, the port of entry for South Island.

Picton is nothing much to write home about, but the jourrney to Nelson crosses the Marlborough wine district. Row after row of vines flank the road with wineries dotted at intervals. It may not surprise anyone to know that I stopped for three tastings. the wine on offer is predominately sauvignon blanc, chardonnay and pinot noir. At St Clair, it was on offer in industrial quantities from the winery's massive 500 hectares, with little (in my opinion) worth drinking. Then came Herzog, where they surprisingly charge 10 NZ$ for a tasting so, in the words of tabloid journalism, I made my excuses and left. When I asked down the road at George Michel's winery (Michel is French and uses cork not the ubiquitous screwtop) whether charging for a tasting is usual the area, I was told that Herzog is almost the only winery that does. Michel's wines were much better than St Clair's and I bought a (rather expensive) Pinot Noir and a Rose, also made of Pinot Noir. Finally I visited Nautilus, where I'd been told to ask to taste their Four Barrels Pinot Noir. Unfortunately it was wasn't available for tasting, but I had some of their two or three barrels Pinot which nice enough.

Nelson was founded in 1842 and sports a hideous cathedral on top of the hill at the head of the city. Yes, it's a city because when the settlement was founded, Bishop Selwyn, whose diocese included New Zealand and Melanesia, persuaded the powers that be to grant them a cathedral which rendered Nelson formally a city. There are a few handsome buildings, surrounded by loads of small clapboard houses with tin roofs, giving the city considerable charm.

Tomorrow, Air New Zealand willing, I meet Tom and Barbara and it's off to the bach in the Abel Tasman park.

Windy Wellington

There was no direct flight from Sydney to Wellington at a reasonable price. Instead I took the long trip via Brisbane, involving two flights and a major argument with the check-in desk at Sydney Domestic terminal, where the assistant (who failed to assist) refused to acknowledge that UK passport holders do not need a visa for either Australia or New Zealand. At the end of a distinctly chilly check-in she hissed at me that I would be ejected from the country if I didn't renew my visa by April 9th. Oh well, sometimes they don't like the English (but then nor do I).

Wellington is known at Windy Wellington, on account of the winds that whistle up the Cook Straight. As a consequence the Straight is a notorious ship's graveyard. Perhaps the most famous, certainly the most recent, major shipwreck was that of the inter-island ferry Wahine, which came to grief in a terrible storm in April 1968. As I'm taking an inter-island ferry tomorrow, I'm keeping a close watch on the weather.

Wellington has a reputation for culture, but until very recently (so I learned from the excellent display at the Wellington Museum) the city council seemed to spend most of its time knocking down the old buildings. There certainly isn't much to see, at least as far as I could make out. There are some handsome old buildings round the harbour, but mostly its modern glass and concrete or just concrete. Notable amongst the modern is the Te Papa National Museum of New Zealand. I made it there half an hour before closing time and a very jolly old cove told me I had to see the colossal squid and the “Golden Days” exhibit. I raced up the stairs and was led by signs to the formalin bath in which the colossal squid now resides. It didn't seem to me that colossal, but when I complained I was told it was only a baby. This seemed to me a case of “the one that got away”. That said, it was certainly not a creature I would have liked to encounter while swimming.

Tomorrow it's goodbye Wellington, hello South Island, providing, of course, I am not shipwrecked.

Manley, Culture and Friends

“Don't mess about with the harbour cruises, they're expensive,” said Caroline in her forthright way. “Do what Sydneysiders do when they want to take a trip on the harbour. Get a return trip to Manley.”

Good advice. Harbour cruise – 30A$, return to Manley – 14A$, so no contest. Many of the ferries on Sydney harbour are curious reversible craft, with propellers fore and aft, so no turning round is involved. The Manley Ferry goes every half hour and takes half an hour to cross the bay, on the way passing the exit to the ocean beyond. It was a gorgeous day, heating up rapidly under a fierce sun. I sat outside at the front under an awning but still didn't manage to sit entirely in the shade. The Akubra was essential, but still I had to squirm around a bit to prevent my arms and legs going up in flames. The only minor complaint was that a lone man (hey, I'm a lone man) came to sit beside me to eat a Big Mac and fries, scenting the air with that familiar stink of soggy bun and gooey,grey meat. I saw him later stripping off on the beach at Manley and the Big Mcs had nothing for his figure.

I didn't strip off, in spite of a long call earlier in the day from one of Caroline's co-workers who was absolutely insistent that I had, just had, to go snorkeling at the Fairy Bower marine park. “No bathers? Well buy some and a snorkel and mask, it really is a fantastic sight, you have to do it. It's worth it, I promise you.” Instead, I took the long walk to Fairy Bower beach (I have no idea how it got that name), then up the cliff to some wonderful views of the snorkellers a long way below, flapping their way through the surf above the coral. I also encountered a solitary Eastern Water Lizard, a huge, spiney thing that squinted at me through narrowed eyes from a rock. I wondered what my cat, Pepin le Bref, would have made of it, given that he is frightened of very little.

Returning on the ferry to Circular Quai, we passed a beautiful brigantine (I don't know if it was technically a brigantine, but I do like the word), slowly chopping through the swell. Back on land, I made a trip to the NSW gallery, recently renovated, to see the Asian collection. Some wonderful artefacts here, plus an exhibition of paintings inspired by the early Japanese work, The Tale of Genji. The paintings are wonderful and the curator had included contemporary Manga comics to show the continuity of Japanese pictorial story telling.

Jo Cave, ex-CEO of DACS with whom Rosie worked so closely when she was on the Board, came round in the evening and we all went out to dinner at an excellent local Thai restaurant. It was lovely to see Jo, as we were able to talk about Rosie and I really felt a warming sense of continuity – Rosie may be dead but she lives on in the memory of us all. Jo has taken up the position of CEO at Viscopy, the Australian sister organisation of DACS, where she has the job of ensuring the Australian government implements Artists' Resale Right. It's going to be a tough job and already there is huge push back. I wish her luck and I hope she wins but I am not convinced... yet.

My new Hat

On the recommendation of a third generation Australian I have splashed out and bought a genuine Akubra hat. It sports no words, no pictures of koalas and above all, no corks. It is a simple straw hat with a band. I bought it in the old established Strand Hatters in the beautiful 19th century Strand Arcade. It is as fine a hat as Sydney has to offer and I have walked round the city today with it proudly on my head, except for the one time it was blown off by a gust of wind.

I had a very delightful lunch with an old colleague who gave me a curious insight into the current financial crisis. Apparently, some time last year he was phoned by his bank at shortly before 5pm to be told that five million Australian dollars had just been paid into his account. Thinking the phone call must have been a mistake, he went online and sure enough, there was five million dollars just credited to his account. He phoned the bank back and to tell them this was an erroneous transaction, only to be told that it was not possible to correct the error as it was now past five o'clock and the bank had done its balance for the day. Furthermore it was Friday and the money could not be removed until Monday. On the dot, forty eight hours later he was contacted by the bank on Monday morning and told that the error had now been corrected but that he could keep the interest, as recompense for the time it had taken him in contacting the bank. Very nice, he thought, given that two days interest on five million is not insubstantial.

He thought no more about it until he was contacted again by the bank some months later to be asked to pay back the interest. He pointed out that he had been told to keep it. There was a quick, muffled conversation at the other end and then he was told, yes that was quite right, it had been agreed that he could keep the interest. My friend said that with banks chucking money around in such a cavalier manner, even though he was a chance beneficiary, it was not surprising to him that we are in such a financial mess today.

Finally, while having a beer on Circular Quai in the late afternoon, I met a woman from Hokitiki, on the west coast of New Zealand's South Island. She gave me lots of good advice about my visit next month. Almost the best thing she said was that it is a myth that it rains all the time on the west coast. Indeed at this time of year, the weather should be excellent. Good news.

Sydney Harbour

This really is one of the great natural places and even though the harbour is extensively surrounded by buildings and very busy with water traffic, it maintains its spacious magic. I caught a bus from Glebe all the way down to Circular Quai. The urban scenery has changed a bit from last time I was here, but it's still breathtaking, even with an enormous cruise ship - the curiously named Rhapsody of the Seas - moored alongside, dwarfing everything. I wandered around, had lunch at Wolfies, consumed an amazingly sickly ice cream covered in chocolate and nuts and generally rubbernecked.

Towards three o'clock the sun became unbearably hot on my bald head and I went in search of a hat. This is not to be recommended in the area of the harbour. Not, that is, unless you want to wear a hat emblazoned with Sydney or Australia or romping koala bears. Even worse, and I am entirely certain a lot of people do buy them, for an extra 6 dollars, you can buy a hat hung about this corks. I just wanted a hat to keep the sun off, but no luck. The only unlettered hat I could find dropped down around my ears and would have made me look anything but sophisticated. So, hatless, I crept home in the shadows.

Tomorrow I shall have to find a hat without a name, which may be an impossibility. I hope not for the sake of my scalp.

Life in the Burbs

Sydney city centre is what most of the tourists see. But if you live in Sydney, you are most likely to live in one of the suburbs - the burbs. Most of them are low rise and many contain wonderful vestiges of another era.

I'm staying in Glebe which to my ear always has echoes of The Archers. It's only a short bus ride from the centre but seems a world away from the high rises of downtown Sydney. Here there are small arcades of shops, architecture on a very domestic scale, where quiet, tree lined streets are flanked by balconied houses, with tiny front gardens burgeoning with shrubs and flowers. It is quite different and distinct from any other city I have visited and makes Sydney so curiously special. It isn't that its old fashioned but it does have a spirit that has survived the modernity of the city and which seems to speak volumes about the way Australians in this city make their lives.

Australia Day Arrival

Arriving in Sydney on Australia Day, I was met with overcast skies and the promise of rain. This was apparently better than the day before when the temperature touched 40 celsius. Australia Day is a big event, with loads of public events, including, apparently, an attempt at the flip-flop record (whatever that is) and private garden barbeques, heavily laced with booze. My host, Caroline, had invited friends round and my very groggy morning was partially spent skewering prawns to toss on the barbie later.

Inevitably, we ate, drank, talked and only occasionally slagged off the Poms, which is also part of the ritual. I had to retire to bed every now and then when my eyes closed of their own accord, and would come down to find yet more empty bottles. The day ended or rather drained away as darkness came and the rain started. It was a good welcome.

Lamma Island Walk

I have done more walking in Hong Kong than I anticipated. Jos route marches everywhere in his rubber Crocs. He wanted to show me the island of Lamma and he certainly succeeded in that. Sunday was planned as a shortish walk to the other side of the island for lunch. The whole family – Jos and Sarah with Finlay (9) and Zander (6) – set out with me in tow around 10 am. We were meeting up with friends at a beach about 15 minutes away, then walking (or so I thought) in a leisurely way to Sok Kwa Wan, about 30 minutes on from the beach.

We waited at the beach and drank an awful cup of coffee then set off with the friends. What I didn't realise was that Jos and the friends had other ideas and on reaching what I thought was our destination a bit early, we diverted onto another path right over the top of the island. We walked and walked and walked. The path, concrete all the way – Hong Kong seems to be largely constructed of concrete – wound up the mountain in the centre of Lamma. There were fantastic views over the sea on all sides, but it seemed to go on forever. The stamina of the kids was amazing – they hardly complained, leaving the bulk of that to me, as my feet became ever more sore and I wondered if I would get to the airport or perhaps this was a cunning plot to keep me in Hong Kong.

When we reached to top, marked by a trig point, the way down seemed to drop into the abyss, with a million concrete steps disappearing into the vegetation and boulders strewn over the mountain side. My knees, my calves and my hips were complaining bitterly as I staggered down, wondering (a) if there was to be any lunch (b) whether I'd catch the plane Sydney and ( c) whether I would simply collapse by the side of the path like a retreating soldier staggering back from Moscow (this casts Jos in the role of Napoleon).

In the event I did manage to complete the long march, we did get lunch (albeit somewhat hurried) and then I was hit with the final surprise of the day. It had been planned to take a sampan back to Jos and Sarah's house. I had imagined myself having a delightful trip back across the bay, stretching out my tired legs with my shoes off. But, it being Chinese New Year, all the sampans had vanished with their owners. “We'll have to walk,” said Jos, and I could swear I saw a slight gleam in his eye. So my tired feet had another 45 minutes of walking and now I am sitting on the plane, with various bits of my body tingling and throbbing, exhausted from what should have been a leisurely two hours that turned into a gruelling five. Even Jos admitted “It was quite a day, really”.

But it was a wonderful five days in their company, surrounded by kindness and the warmth of a happy, though energetic, family. Thank you.

Markets

The vast numbers of people in East Asia always amaze me. Leaving western Europe behind and coming to any of the countries along the shore of the China sea produces real culture shock. There are people everywhere, rushing about with a purposeful look in their eyes. Yesterday Jos, my host here, took me to the Flower market in Kowloon. As it's coming up to Chinese New Year, the citizens of Hong Kong were out in force buying all kinds of flowers. They were of every imaginable sort, many completely unfamiliar. As a present for Sarah, I bought a pot of lucky gourds, which look a bit like lemons. There were growing in a pot shaped like an Ox, in honour of the coming year of the Ox.

After that we walked through the bird market, surrounded by endless twittering from a thousand cages. I don't really like caged birds and was tempted to rush through the market opening the locks but I don't think I would have got far like that.

After the market, we went to Sham Shui Po, home to the electronics street market, a very long street with stalls on either side selling everything from torches to tripods, from cameras to cellphones. It's impossible to know who buys all this stuff, just as it is impossible to imagine how the thousands of fabric shops next to the electronics market make a living. Look into any of these shops and there's at least a couple of industrial sewing machines whirring away, making up anything from curtains to trousers.

The day continued with a trip to the fish market (mostly crustaceans from all over the world, flown in to satisfy the Hong Kong population's appetite for fish) then a meal of giant prawns, cockles and scallops at a neighbouring restaurant.

Of course this all had to be walked off so a ferry and a taxi took us up to the top of Hong Kong island, where we walked down through the green forest, past reservoirs, back to the concrete jungle of the city.

It was quite a day.