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.