A slice of heaven

With three weeks to spend in New Zealand I had visions of sedate lakeside afternoons writing things and sorting pictures with surely the sole aim of making anyone who should read it jealous. However, the problem – so to speak – with New Zealand is that there is barely time to linger and wile away hours on a laptop, because it is all there outdoors, around every corner, across every lake, up every mountain and down every crater. New Zealand, it would appear, is also becoming the new Australia, with endless warm sunny days which blessedly stretch on late into evening. There is no excuse, no reason to spend it on a laptop.

With two days left, in Lake Taupo and an hour of downtime while laundry dries, I have managed to write one paragraph, clumsily pieced together above. And that’s where I’ll probably leave it for now. What follows is written in Australia, on reflection and with incredible procrastination over photo selection. Take your time. Come back again. And hopefully you can get a sense of just how awesome, yes awesome, this country is...

Finding me marbles: Christchurch to Milford Sound

Making it across the Tasman the south island of New Zealand spanned out far below, the snow capped chain of the Southern Alps fading away south as far as the eye could see from the vantage of 30,000 feet. Arriving in Christchurch was something of a surprise, in more ways than one. Warmer than the Sydney left behind, the taxi through the tidy suburbs suggested little of the devastation still being tackled in the red zone of the city centre. It remains heartbreaking and unfathomable to gauge – the heart of the city, Cathedral Square, fenced off in a melee of rubble and girders, dust and the remnants of things as they were left some two years ago, seconds before the big one hit. It’s an eerie tourist attraction, one in which you feel intrusive and alien, amazed and aghast.

The soul of the city has been ripped out but its heart remains. Amazing opportunities come with rebirth and Christchurch is painstakingly getting there. At the top of the tree is Re:START, the replacement to the shopping mall made up of a quirky arrangement of shipping containers, full of neat stores and handy coffee and cake fixes. I’m sure I’m not the first to say that I hope this becomes a permanent feature; tribute, testament and refreshing alternative to big bland Westfields all over the world.

Pleasingly the natural world of Hagley Park and the Botanic Gardens has less of the taint afflicting the man-made Christchurch. This is a reminder of the gracious, sedate city that often leads to the city being proclaimed the most English outside of England. You can see it in places, with soft grassy lawns (unlike that harsh, spiky Australian rubbish!), punting on the Avon in blazers and boating hats, plus a penchant for Cadburys and availability of Twiglets. Needless to say, on warm summer days, meandering through the gardens and lawns under shady trees are of huge appeal.

 

Leaving Christchurch the landscape soon enough becomes less refined and in no way English-like, apart from a few scattered towns and villages offering rose gardens and afternoon teas and, in the case of the charming town of Geraldine, coffee and walnut fudge slices. The Canterbury plains are cut by the now dry glacial riverbeds threading their way down from Mount Hutt and the surrounding ranges. Dry, brown hills are liberally sprinkled with sheep, while rocky hills mark the outline of lakes and signify impending Alpine peaks. Lake Tekapo is the first big milestone, where the barren land meets the vivid glacial water and provides a perfect first night stop for the first campground sausage cook up.

Another cook was up and out the next day, rising in the distance above Lake Pukaki and providing a mesmerising focus for the length of bitumen and walking track approaching it. Mount Cook, or, as we like to call but not pronounce it, Aoraki, rose above the splendid landscape of the Hooker Valley on the first big walk of the trip, its snowy tip sparkling in glorious sunshine. With swing bridges, lakes, and raging rivers, the walk to Hooker Lake, there and back again, was the first taste of that real pure NZ so famed in the movies.

                                                                                     

Towards the end of the day, Aoraki disappeared into cloud and the patchy raindrops escalated into a thoroughly soggy night. A saving grace was the dampener this put on those crazy young Germans and their very likely crazy partying. The rain continued on and off into the next day, a cloudy, miserable scene as we left the high ground and heading back to the coast and down towards Dunedin. An Edinburgh of the south and with the weather to boot. One bright spot were the fish and chips overlooking the sea and the somewhat bizarre and appealingly photogenic Moeraki Boulders.

 

The somewhat bizarre continued into the next day, as we headed deeper into the darker south of the country and the no doubt heavily banjo plucked landscape of The Catlins between Dunedin and Invercargill. Among the treats in store were a trip to the Countdown supermarket, inevitably accompanied by a certain theme tune blurting out of your mouth as you browse the carrots, roast chicken rolls buffeted by the wind, Cadbury’s Crazy chocolate, a trip to some funny rocks and a raggedy headland. There was also a choice encounter with some Chinese tourists and a Kiwi farmer. Acting as saviours to the Chinese, who had lost control of their car and spun into a field, somehow translating the incident with the aid of dodgy doodles and hoping that the AA man would turn up, and trying to ignore the dopey farmer who was more worried about the death of one of his fence posts.

It would be fair to say that the trip had reached a bit of a lull, a dip from the heights of Aoraki and a cool, dreary change to the heatwave of Christchurch. To compound matters we almost ran out of petrol, on Waitangi Day, potentially stranded in a dead end town for a whole day. A walk to the only open thing in the town offered some hope but the owner had conveniently sold the only containers of petrol he had a few days previously. But he knew Nigel, who was supposed to operate the petrol pump as well as cafe and visitor centre and goodness knows what else, gave him a call, no doubt woke him up from a bleary hangover and managed to connect us to his liquid gold.

It was a turning point, as we sailed into Invercargill and avoided its concentration of liquor stores, topped up with more petrol and zoomed onwards to a random place for a coffee break. Riverton sounds like a town from Middle Earth but it exists on the road between Invercargill and Te Anau to service weary travellers, with an exemplary cafe full of scones and slices and hot drinks and cheery easy-going staff. It pushes you on inland into a country where, on this occasion, clouds finally break, temperatures climb and moods rise correspondingly.

By time we reached Te Anau, which is basking on its beautiful lake, it is hard to believe where the day began. And there is nothing better to do than eat a ham sandwich by its shores and decide to embrace the day once more by venturing slowly onwards along the Milford Road into Fiordland National Park. A one way road terminating at Milford Sound and surely one of the world’s great drives full of scenic spots and dramatic vistas. Part one took us into the Eglinton Valley, an obvious battleground for prosthetic orcs and CGI wizards, passing Mirror Lakes shattered by a breeze, pausing at Lake Gunn for greater serene reflection and culminating in The Divide and a chance to hit the hills.

 

The second significant tramp of the trip remains my favourite of the lot. Partly accentuated by the contrast from how the day started, the section of the Routeburn Track from The Divide to Key Summit, was gleefully majestic. A trek where there was a bit of pain, up and up through rainforest ferns, but the reward-effort ratio was on positive side. Emerging from the forest into an alpine world of tarns and peaks, the late afternoon sun illuminating the Humboldt Range and elevating the thrill of being out of the car and out of the gloom all the more.

 

Grandeur remained the theme early the next morning, embarking on a glorious drive to the end of the Milford Road as the sun gradually emerged over mountaintops and fed its way into narrow glacial valleys. A Lord of the Rings soundtrack was at its most apt approaching the Homer Tunnel and feeding down into Milford Sound itself. Cloaked in rain and cloud every 2 out of 3 days, today it was a pleasure to be in the minority third, the Sound still and calm in the early morning as low mists flittered their way over precipitous cliffs and peaks. 

 

Getting out on the Sound is the best way to appreciate its scale, as cruise boats are dwarfed by giant slabs of rock that continue to plunge deep within the fiord. Seals cling to sunnier rocks, regularly paid a visit by the different boats plying their way out to the Tasman Sea and back again. Waterfalls continue to plunge into the glassy water regardless of the dry summer of 2012-13. And despite the activity of boats and kayaks and seaplanes, the scale of the environment is of such an epic proportion that human activity is barely noticeable.

The cool damp cloudiness of the south east coast was now a distant memory as the meander back from Milford Sound continued in blazing sunshine which was set to stay. Forays down dusty roads and along short walks to falls and chasms prolonged the buzz. A minor blip at the disappointing Mistletoe Lake was but a small hollow in the mountainous highs now felt after a week in New Zealand. And with the rest of the Southern Alps to explore from south to north, it was turning into one long lofty plateau.

On high ground: Te Anau to Franz Josef

It is true to say that there are some things that New Zealand does better than Australia. Coinage is one, logical and in order, lightweight and practical. Fortunately ice cream is another and every town or village will have a dairy selling bargain priced Tip Top as a minimum. Often two scoops cost little more than one. In the case of Te Anau, a couple of scoops in warm sun beside the lake with the satisfaction of knowing that you have (unlike in Australia) not been ripped off, is a moment of perfection.

Reluctantly leaving Te Anau and heading towards Queenstown the landscape becomes more pastoral, albeit with rugged ranges and meandering rivers never far. Midway along the route the small town of Mossburn is a perfect stopover for the night with a charming country park in a charming setting. The charming owners moved here from the big city of Auckland and you can see why such a move wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. Rejuvenating and calming, the setting is pastorally idyllic, and you get to keep a few animals too.

The next day it was onwards towards Queenstown and fringing Lake Wakitipu but bypassing the city itself. There was a chance for food fuel and sedateness in nearby Arrowtown, a lovely place in which Jill and I both agreed would be nice to live in, rather than that crazy adrenaline pumped up city of  Queenstown. We had decided to make the most of the good weather, fearing it would not last, and head further on over the Crown Range to Wanaka and into Mount Aspiring National Park. For here big walk number three promised much. 

 

The Rob Roy walk commenced with a pre-fuelling brie and tomato tiger bread roll and then proceeded with an amiable jaunt along a glacial river valley. The valley, all grassy hollows and flowery brightness, came complete with a mandatory swing bridge, this being the wobbliest of the trip on which to cross into a shady forest of beech and fern. Thank goodness for the shade, for an uphill slog, sometimes scramble, other times grind lingered for a good few kilometres, all the time accompanied by the thrashing sound of water churning its way back down with gravity into the valley. And, when finally leaving the Beech forest, the source of the water becomes clear, as glacial meltwater plummets down from Mount Aspiring in various ways.

 

The world up here is special, made all the more so by the graft needed to get there. In another inevitable comparison with Lord of the Rings, it’s a veritable Rivendell of waterfalls, sliding their way off the mountain and scouring the high meadows before sinking their way deep into the dark, ancient forest. Sadly, like many of these walks it is a there and back again, but the descent pleasing and only serving to propel the sense of achievement at having climbed so much.

 

While the walking was not so circular the driving made up for that. Following a night beside Lake Hawea, the plan the next day was to loop back to Queenstown on a different road and return, once more, to Wanaka. This road was a little more mundane, though did offer the chance for a bungy stop at Karawau Bridge. It was a terrifying moment...ordering a coffee and waiting for some random to jump. But I made it through, and ventured on to Queenstown.

The ‘big smoke’ of the region, Queenstown had a holiday resort vibe, though given its enviable surroundings it retained an air of charm and grace. While there was many a shop for binge drinking base jumping into a jet boat, there was also bowls in the Botanic Gardens and lakeside pubs and cafes in which to lounge in an air of civility. It was nice to lounge in an air of civility for a while and though the pork belly salad was disappointing, the Tip Top at the top of the gondola made up for it. In looking to budget, it was agreed a diet of ice cream would go a long way to saving the pennies and meeting certain dietary requirements. It should therefore be sought out wherever possible.

Civility was in short supply in a forgettable night at a shabby campground just outside of Wanaka. Its lakeside setting was a highlight, but extra charges for grimy showers, crappy laundry tokens and a plethora of bogans made it officially the worst private campground of the trip. So, to get over it, we headed into town to the Speight’s Ale House for steak and lamb. We may now have to eat even more ice cream to keep the budget contained.

And so the next morning we were pleased to move on and touch new ground once again, heading as we were towards the West Coast. Rain that was threatened seemed a long way off, and it was difficult not to pinch myself as we drove through such incredible scenery in such delectable, deep blue skies. Passing Lake Hawea for one last time, there was a genteel touch of the Lake District about it, serene waters bathed in early sunlight and fringed by sumptuous hills and meadows.

 

The vegetation changes were noticeable as we went into the west, inching into deeper, greener forest and losing its Lake District tone. A stop at Blue Pools offered up the first in a day of five walks, down to some pools on the river that are blue, hence how they got their name. Naturally.

From there it was through Haast Pass and officially into Westland. Still the cloud and rain was absent, which seemed strange in what is often regarded as ‘Wetland’, and at the mercy of coastal moisture unprotected by the mountains. I had images of going over the pass and plunging into thick, moisture laden cloud but, by time we reached the milestone of the coast, it was, again, a shorts and sandals kind of day.

There was greater humidity here though and this created a few clouds up and around the high mountains. Unfortunately this meant that a classic view of Mount Cook, reflected in Lake Matheson, was obscured. For a view of what this looks like on a clear day, please visit my friends Jenn and Ollie and ask to use their bathroom! Lake Matheson however was pleasant, providing the second ramble of the day, which was circular (hooray!) and a picnic table for one of the finest ham sandwich lunches of the trip.

Nearby, Fox Glacier gave us walk number three, though this was probably the lowest ranked jaunt of the five. The problem with glacial moraine is that it is typically barren and dirty, rocky and steep. I knew this but we kind of did the walk out of a sense of obligation anyway. It’s what you do when you are here, unless you have many hundreds of dollars to take a helicopter. Many other people didn’t have many hundreds of dollars either, and the walk was something of a tourist procession to take a few snaps and, inevitably, head back again.

After an ice cream (of course...it was a hot day and we were keen to budget), we decided at Franz Josef Glacier to admire it from afar, and this proved a much more pleasing outlook. Given it was later in the day and most coach parties would be on the road somewhere by now this glacier experience was much more like it. And walk numbers four and five provided lovely views of the valley and, recompense for Lake Matheson, a fine reflection at Peter’s Pool. And at Sentinel Rock, another day, in fact another few days, were ending on a high...

 

Ready and Abel: Hokitika to Picton

To bring things back down to earth, a second night of poor campground facilities ensued. This one was provided by the Department of Conservation and while you expect something basic, this was very very basic. Other DOC places had been basic but nice, and clean and with some facilities. This had just one pit that was practically off limits. It also, though through no fault of DOC, had a concentration of sandflies. These are very evil beasties and I would recommend that if you visit the West Coast of New Zealand, stay in a motel or somewhere with some inside facilities in which to hide. I still have many scars and the occasional residual itch as I write this in Canberra.

An hour north the next morning, Hokitika provided some refuge and a surprisingly good coffee stop. I was glad as this was mostly a driving day, taking in the West Coast up to Westport and then cutting inland along the Buller Gorge. The coastline here was at times dramatic and slightly crazy, a real mixture of headlands, volcanic beaches, steamy rainforest, and rivers pushing into their own Heart of Darkness.

The most popular crazy stop along this route is at Pancake Rocks, so named because the formations allegedly represent many piles of American style pancakes. They are beguiling and somewhat curious, but it was surprising just how crawling the short walk and lookouts were with other tourists. A lot of Americans too I think. Note: you cannot eat the rocks!

 

It was a warm, humid day and the coast was illuminated in quite a glary haze, so I was pleased to turn east and head inland along the Buller River Gorge, which was much more relaxing on the eyes. Crossing the river is the largest swing bridge in New Zealand and, given our by now detailed expertise with swing bridges, there was a sense of duty to cross it, even though it cost more than an ice cream to do so.

Warm, weary and very itchy, I think we were both very pleased to reach the small inland town of Murchison, carry on out of town and put down for the night at a campground and motor park  to the north. After two poor nights, this was a shining beacon of relief and restitution and amazing value for money. Set beside a gorgeous river, here we could linger and enjoy bangers and mash for dinner and a few hours lounging in light, clean comfort. The icing on the cake was the disappearance of evil flies and midges once the sun had set and refreshing coolness kicked in.

 

There was much slow loitering in the morning, with bacon and eggs a nice change from the standard yogurt and fruit breakfast, a long, hot shower, and a final look at the river before reluctantly moving on. It wasn’t too far from here to reach an understated gem of a national park – Nelson Lakes – which was enjoyable even though the area was once more thriving with bitey flies. It seemed the flies left you alone if you were moving, and would only swamp you once they had discovered you. Being stupid, movement confused them. So we kept moving, embarking on a couple of lovely walks through lush forests and along the fringes of pristine glassy lakes.

 

A relief for insect bites turns out to be slightly soft and gritty sand along with warm, placid seawater. This was an important discovery on finally reaching the north coast of the South Island. The beaches around Kaiteriteri offer up some wonderful medicine and an antidote to the savage beauty of the West Coast. It feels more Australian and typically seaside holiday like and I think this was nice to experience for a little while.

The soothing was good preparation for big tramp number four, taking up a large portion of the next day along the Coastal Track of the stunning Abel Tasman National Park. Blessed with amazing weather, a ferry ride dropped us off at Anchorage, from where it was a 12km walk back. Not circular, but at least one way. To add some more mileage, an extra three and a half kilometres of introductory bliss was more than worthwhile along the Pitt Head Peninsula walk, starting and finishing in Anchorage and offering great views over the bay and descending to one of the many beautifully golden beaches.

 

The Coastal Track is one of New Zealand’s great longer tramps, taking four or five days with convenient huts and campgrounds along the way. It does come with warnings of very evil sandflies so perhaps it was best to keep to one section for a day walk. With one large climb out of Anchorage, the rest of the track back to Marahau was plain sailing, well-maintained and shady with regular forays to sandy coves and lookouts.

 

As with most longer walks, the final stretches were slightly frustrating and tedious, but perhaps this was in part due to the impending promise of an iced coffee in the cafe which is situated perfectly at the end. I can only imagine the relief and reward after doing the whole track.

The iced coffee was the start of multiple rewards that you tend to create after some hard graft and subsequently end up replenishing more than you should. There was another visit to Kaiteriteri to bathe in the water and scratch in the sand. There were fish and chips in Nelson. And there was relaxation at Cable Bay, a serene spot to stay the night.

Now at the top of the South Island, there was an impending sense of this half of the country coming to an end. One final full day was available to take in the Marlborough Sounds and the wine growing Mecca of Blenheim. It was a day of winding roads, especially along the sounds, which are clearly better to access by boat. Pretty Picton provided a break for sunny strolling and ice cream nourishment and from there, mercifully straight roads to Blenheim, for an inevitable bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

The final night of the South Island gave DOC a shot at redemption and a lovely campground on the coast at Whites Bay. For me this is what you want from a campground, with good, clean facilities, loads of space and a chance to subsist comfortably alongside nature. It’s a place where you don’t mind getting up early because you can’t sleep to watch the night turn to dawn and see the sun rise on the South Island for one final time.

The last spot to say goodbye is again at Picton, where there is enough to keep you amused for a couple of hours before you can board the ferry to cross to Wellington. You can have second breakfast and then third breakfast because the ferry is delayed. You can look at the weird crustaceans washing up on the shoreline and you can access a whole hour of free wifi. You can use the stupid singing toilets. You can start to sort out the many photos you have taken and at least feel like you are getting somewhere with them. And then you can board the ferry to cross to Wellington, gliding imperiously out of Queen Charlotte Sound before bracing for the open sea, bidding farewell to the crumpled fingers of land that reach out into the Cook Strait, desperately trying to claw you back into Godzone. It needn’t try so hard.

 

Giving it some wellie for impending doom: Wellington to Auckland

And so onto the north, for a shorter sprint on straighter roads from Wellington to Auckland, via volcanoes, geysers, and hobbits.

A couple of days in Wellington provided a nice city fix, not that Wellington is huge but it provides a rather ample supply of cafes and bars, culture and civic propriety. Of note was the best Thai in town, a plethora of goodies at the national museum, Te Papa, a jaunt up the cable car and down through the Botanic Gardens and a rather chilled hour or so beside the sunny waterfront with drinks, diving, and long lost university friends. I think there was an ice cream in there somewhere too.

The country’s parliament is weird, which probably makes sense given such places are usually filled with weirdoes. Known as the Beehive, Jill rather incisively renamed it the Dalek. I believe a British architect was culpable. Exterminate.

More aesthetically pleasing in my eyes was the big carrot, a few hours up the road after leaving Wellington in the town of Okahune. You’d think they would make more of it, like by selling some carrots or something. A bit of carrot cake maybe. But they don’t and there is not much to do but park the car, take a photo, and move on again.

If you think the carrot is big, then look in the other direction and looming large is Mount Ruapehe, one of three very active volcanoes in the centre of the North Island captured within the magnetic drama of Tongariro National Park. It’s slightly disconcerting to think that the carrot could one day be wiped out by an explosive eruption. Ruapehe, along with Tongariro, are complex volcanoes with multiple vents and craters to let off some steam. The third volcano, Ngauruhoe is of more classical conical structure; ready, no doubt, to blow its top off one day. Fortunately Peter Jackson took a liking to it and used it for Mount Doom, which is infinitely more pronounceable than Nguaruhoe.

 

This entrancing landscape was there to be appreciated on a rare circular walk to Taranaki Falls, which themselves were of distinction in the way they carved a path through the cliffs of what I can only guess are old lava flows. The walk of an hour or so was pleasant and varied, yet purely an entree to the rather large main course coming tomorrow.

Big tramp number five was the final of the trip and the longest and the most challenging. I would like to say that it was the Tongariro Crossing, but it was more Kind of the Tongariro Crossing, which was not a crossing but a Tongariro there and back again. This was thanks to recent volcanic activity on one of the vents of Tongariro, necessitating an exclusion zone for fear of flying rocks and hot ash. Never a dull moment, huh.

The first tough challenge was getting up at 5:30am to get a shuttle bus to the start of the walk. Apparently it was worth it. And for sure it was, not only for the coming of the sun and early morning cloud, light and shadows, but for the relative peace and solitude that was lost in a crowded procession of trampers later in the day. Other early challenges were minor, involving a few lumpy rocks and worn out pieces of track as it followed the haphazard course of a rambling stream.

An hour in, and the stream hit a brick wall, one in which someone had decided to cut a track with many, many steps and switchbacks. Rising some 400 metres in the space of a kilometre, it was a route that warranted many photo stops, just to get a breather. No one said getting to Mount Doom would be easy. And indeed it isn’t, an unmarked side track leading to Ngauruhoe in a vertical scramble over loose rocks. So the main crossing track keeps on and heads over the wide and, pleasingly, flat expanse of the South Crater, a stunning Mars-like landscape of red earth and lifeless dust.

 

This is respite for a final, solid, demanding slog along loose and rocky ground to Red Crater and the highest point on the crossing. If the hard work up isn’t tough enough, the thought that you have to come back down this precipitous melee of volcanic rock and gravel is one to keep you lingering at the top for longer.

And what a feeling it is to be at the highest point of the Tongariro Crossing, with a rewarding ham baguette and crisps. It’s a place where everyone has their photo taken, some seemingly more precariously on the edge of Red Crater than others, as loose gravel continues to give way. Below are views of Blue Lake and Emerald Lakes, off limits due to internal rumblings; beside us, the violent, tormented gash of Red Crater and, back the way we came, the ever magnetic cone of Ngauruhoe rising up from the dead plain of South Crater. The way back again. I wish there were some eagles to take us there.

 

One of the best bits about coming down was that you felt a bit of a champion as others were still grinding their way up, asking you if it was worth it, how far they have got left, whether there is a chairlift available. And you see the procession of trampers which would have been much more annoying to contend with had you started later in the day. The early start also means you finish the track at 12:30, and have the rest of the day to engage in that self-reward pattern of cake, sleep and sausages.

Post-sausage, beans, mushrooms and bread (one of the most satisfying dinners of the trip) there was one final foray out into the world, as the day drew to a close and the volcanic landscape erupted into a fiery red. It even involved a short walk, which I completed twice, returning to the car to move it behind a bush and out of some shots for photos.

 

It appears Mount Ngauruhoe and Mount Tongariro offer New Zealand’s answer to Uluru, as the sinking western sun changes their appearance from brown to golden to copper red. And it glows upon the ridge you crawled up and slid down many hours earlier and which you can still feel in your legs. It is a splendid way to cap off a great day and drift towards tired sleep.

 

The Tongariro Crossing was literally the peak of the North Island and the remaining couple of days were relatively sedate. Not far north from the volcanoes sits Lake Taupo, itself a huge crater lake and, on a day when it was pushing into the high 20s, a rather jolly place to wet one’s feet. Unfortunately around Taupo there is a bit of a Gold Coast feel with heavy fee-charging attractions such as Prawn World, Volcanic Land, Jet Boat heaven, Geyser Land. One attraction – Huka Falls – is free and, despite being heavily laden by coach parties, remains of a magnitude to impress with fast flowing white water pummelling through a narrow chasm.

It was difficult to ignore some of the fee-charging attractions and the final full day in New Zealand encompassed a couple of gems. First, just a little north of Taupo, was the thermal wonderland of Orakei Korako, where a well marked boardwalk led past various volcanic terraces, steaming geysers, boiling pools and dry baked mud pools. Spend some time in the centre of the North Island and you start to get used to seeing pockets of steam rising out of the ground rather randomly; but pause for reflection and you remember just how bizarre and disconcerting this is. Still, nothing blew up while we were there, so I guess that’s some good karma.

Later in the afternoon it was back to where it all began for a small creature with hairy feet, so I inevitably felt at peace on the set of Hobbiton. It’s set on farmland in the pastoral north near Matamata, a town which would have been bypassed ten years back but is now flourishing with nerds and geeks and the simply curious. What could have been tack-a-rama was really quite delightful; the set rebuilt much more sturdily the second time round for The Hobbit movies and the tour leisurely, informative, funny, charming. Going later in the day, as the sun swings into the west, there were just a handful of others to poke around hobbit holes, sniff around the gardens, and sup ale at The Green Dragon, a pub which should provide a blueprint for all pubs built in the southern hemisphere.

It was a huge undertaking for what amounts to something like 40 minutes of movie footage, but the attention to detail was staggering. Different sized hobbit holes were used to create perspective, along with duplicate sets to make Gandalf look big and hobbits small. Real plants and vegetables and miniature apple trees flourished in the gardens and allotments. Small clothes flapped in the breeze out on washing lines. And on a warm, pleasant afternoon, as the sun lowers, and ale warms further, you could appreciate why this was all worth saving.

 

And that practically completes a tale of New Zealand, going there and back again. It was tremendous and could have happily continued indefinitely, but time passes and Australia looms. The weather was truly astonishing and only served to highlight the many natural wonders around every corner of the fish and canoe. Sunny walks and refreshing ice creams as the order of the day can only result in happy times. It’s big, overbearing cousin has a lot to live up to.