Sadly, not many other people are. So it’s a
quiet final night for me here at Harry’s. At least I get to chat to the barmaid
for a while, and Amberly seems genuinely disappointed that I won’t be sticking
around. I leave Queenstown and Harry’s with a heavy heart.
In the morning my legs are also aching. It
seems the mountain wants to take our battle into extra time and has pinched an
early lead. There’s only one thing for it, fight back!
It’s amazing where the time goes here. A
month seemed like forever to explore a couple of small islands. Every day I’m
at full pace, I do barely a fraction of the activities available, and yet I’m
still pressed for time.
After reading the guidebook I could find no
reason to squeeze in Invercargill or Dunedin so I’m heading north.
And north means hitting Wanaka again, and
another chance to ride the Dean Bank track! Despite my aching legs, the second
time is even better than the first. There’s no choice of routes here, just
pedal like Billy-O, and hanging on. I set myself the target of staying on for
the whole loop, and blast round in barely a half hour. I might just be getting
the hang of this!
Back in the van and on up the road. The
scenery continues to be stunning, and I’m heading for what ought to be the
greatest sight of the lot: Mount Cook, the highest Mountain in New Zealand.
It’s at the end of a long cul-de-sac, but
what a drive! As I emerge over a ridge, the first thing to hit me is the
incredible blue-ness of Lake Pukaki. The rivers and lakes round here aren’t
just pure-mountain-water blue, they’re weird, alien-landscape blues.
Then I reach “Peter’s lookout” and join the
other gawping tourists. From here we can see Mt Cook, standing tall above the surreal
blue lake, beckoning us onwards down the road. It’s still 50km away, but looks
stunning.
The road curves and winds, then straightens
out into a valley. Mt Cook is joined by other huge peaks, forming a wall around
the valley, heightening the anticipation that we are heading into a truly
special place. Then, as we approach the towering wall, the road sweeps left,
around the gigantic mound which has been obstructing the lower half of Cook,
preparing to reveal the entire mountain in it’s magnificence. As I reach the
Mount Cook village, the mountain finally re-emerges and it’s utterly, mind
blowingly disappointing.
Oh, OK it’s a very nice view. But for me,
the views from miles away were way better than the view close-up.
Nevermind, the reward for making it all the
way is the chance to visit the Edmund Hilary Alpine centre, a celebration of
the greatest Kiwi climber, and a truly great man. Or a collection of old boots
and a few cars, depending how you look at it.
I’m always cynical about museums: the
best exhibits here seem to be movies, and I could watch those anywhere, why
come here? Well, I think you come here to trek. To spend days gawping at the
magnificence of the scenery. But as usual I gawp and run, the attention span of
a
Onwards to Lake Tekapo, one of the greatest
places in the world to observe the night sky. I check-in at a campsite on the
lake shore on a cloudless evening and head for a beer and hopefully some
company, but the local establishments are pretty quiet. This at least gives me
chance to walk back along the lakeshore in the dark and gaze at the incredible
night skies.
Phenomenal.
In NZ I’m running out of superlatives in
the daytime, now the night sky is blowing my mind! The Milky Way is clearly
visible above me, I see a shooting star, then another, then another…and make
the same wish thrice.
There’s no moon tonight like at Westport,
and there’s very little local light from buildings. It’s no surprise they built
an observatory on the hill by this lake.
I don’t know if I can cope with any more
incredible sights. I could do with turning New Zealand off for a bit.
Tuesday, and boy, do my legs hurt! Stiff
from the running and the biking, I can barely walk. As I perform the morning
campsite rituals of emptying out and filling up (the van!) a guy asks me where
I’m heading.
“Christchurch, I guess”
“Yeah us too, unfortunately”, comes his
forlorn reply.
After a week or more in the brilliance of
Otago and Fiordland it seems sad to head for a city, and was there any fun to
be had in Christchurch? Janelle hadn’t mentioned any.
I toy with the idea of not going, but
there’re no real alternatives, and I should go seethe place while I’m here.
The drive is boring this morning. My
request for respite has been answered, and the scenery’s gone dull. There are
other people on the road, too. Not exactly traffic, but it’s disappointing not
to have an empty road ahead.
I’m having a glum day. There’s nothing at
all to complain about, and I needed a quiet day, but I’m blue nevertheless. I
stop for lunch in a lay-by and look at the guidebook and the map again. What to
do?
There’s a Scenic Inland Route. And there’s
a Top10 in Christchurch. It’s far from the centre, but let’s not over-complicate
things at this stage, let’s go!
The Scenic Route is perfect. Not
overwhelmingly gob-smacking, just pretty, and the sun comes out. I’m back to a
content buzz when I round a corner and the road turns dark under the shade of
the trees.
But there’s something odd about the
darkness, it’s rippling and seething, and…
“COWS!!!”
I brake to a stop, but they’re coming right
for me. Hundreds of cows across the width of the road. So I find myself reversing
away from the herd, hoping a gap opens up I can squeeze my van through! Yep,
this is farmland. I’ve started seeing sheep. I thought New Zealand was supposed
to be all sheep, yet I’ve barely seen any. They talk about the sheep
outnumbering the people, but is that more a reflection on the number of people
than the number of sheep?
Anyhoo, I squeeze through a gap in the cows
and carry on. The sun’s out and I stop for a 99 before reaching Christchurch. At
least I can stay in the Top 10 Holiday Camp. I haven’t been in one for a while
now, and spying the big yellow and blue sign feels like coming home.
Soooooo tired. Maybe I’ll just take it
easy, and do the good stuff tomorrow. I assume the earthquakes will have
reduced the options, so I won’t need too long
What little hair I have is getting shabby,
so I find a hairdresser for a trim and ask:
“What’s good to do in Christchurch?”
“Nothing”
Oh.
I’m very happy to find a Chinese Massage
place in the mall, and they manage to restore some sensation to my legs, though
it’s hardly a deep tissue massage.
Back to the campsite and check what’s
recommended locally.
Either trips outside of Christchurch, or
bus tours of the earthquake destruction.
I find this rather sad. I don’t want to
stare at the damage done, I’ve read about the energy and inspiration that the
folk of Christchurch have shown. Not complaining about their lot, but accepting
the challenge of a fresh start. Yet there seems little evidence of this in the
tourist information. After some digging online I read about the restart mall,
and the gap-fill projects and decide to go see them in the morning.
I park in the park. The brochures proclaim
it: “Christchurch’s answer to Central Park”… it isn’t. If it’s the answer to
anything, it’s “Hyde Park?”
Then I walk across towards the Central
Business District and it hits me: The Silence.
The quake that killed people was 2 years
ago. The major aftershocks stopped around a year ago, so there should be some
real progress by now, right? But seeing the city centre brings home just how
great the effect has been. So many buildings damaged and rendered unsafe, so
much work to be done. And maybe because there’s only 4.5 million people in New
Zealand, there’s only so many people who can fix things. The city’s in ruins.
But there are signs of life, of the hope of
a new beginning. The chance to replace an apparently drab city centre with some
more inspiring architecture. The gap-fill project uses empty sites in
innovative ways, to brighten the area. I find the Dance-O-mat, where a
coin-operated washing machine powers a dance floor, sound system and lights to
the tunes from your ipod, making for a social music experience.
…and the Re:Start Mall. If I was from
Christchurch and someone asked me what to do, I’d tell them to come here.
Whether you want to shop or not, it’s delightful to walk around the area, where
shipping containers have been re-purposed as temporary buildings for the shops.
But by decorating them in bright and bold colours they’ve built a very special
place to be, where there might have been a soul-destroying half-assed temporary
mall.
I wish them well, but that’s enough
big-city for me. Back on the road.
Hanmer Springs, or Kaikoura? My friends
back home recommend Kaikoura, for the chance to see whales. I’ve already seen
Wales, so I head to Hanmer Springs.
Hanmer Springs apparently has some great
mountain bike tracks, and lots and lots of hot water springs and spas. It’s
been raining all day, and my legs are still hurting like hell, so I head toward
the hot water springs building, and walk right next door to the information
centre for a map of the mountain bike tracks…
I need a map, because there’s loads of
them! The map recommends 3 different loops which can be ridden. I’m tempted to
string the 3 together. But I’ll just do a half-hour blast. Maybe an hour. So I
hobble onto my bike and set off. The first section is a fantastic flowing
section through the woods. Within moments I’m speeding along between the trees
like an Ewok on Endor. I pass one group of people in the first 20 minutes, and
the rain has given way to sunshine. Time for some harder tracks. I climb up, up
and up the hills above, then swoop down by the river. More tracks. Eventually I
reach the top of the climb up “Swamp”, emerging from the head high grass for a
swig of water and to admire the view. I’m amazed to discover I’ve been going
ninety minutes and glad I’ve brought a snack.
By the time I get back to the campsite I’ve
been riding almost two hours, in “full attack” mode throughout. I’m utterly
knackered, sweaty, muddy and bloodied. Fantastic!
Another quiet pub night and on towards
Picton in the morning. The road is very pretty again. On any other trip I’d say
it was stunning. I go through Kaikoura but don’t go looking for large Mammals.
Through Blenheim, which has lots of vineyards, but drinking and driving don’t
mix well, so I bezz on up to Picton Top 10.
Here’s the start of the Queen Charlotte
Walk. An epic trail along the edge of Marlborough Sounds with incredible views
across the bays at the islands, peninsulae and isthmi (or whatever the plurals
are). But you should know by now I don’t walk, so I strap on my trainers and
see how far I can run.
Well it’s bloomin’ steep but my legs are
feeling better so I’m trotting along when a young guy in a Brazil shirt
scampers passed me. Bloody kids!
A few km later I find “Ronaldinho” stopped,
bent over and panting, so I offer him some of my water.
“How far’s the viewpoint?” he gasps.
“5 to 10 minutes”
“I’ll meet you there” he says gesturing me
to go on ahead.
So off I toddle. When I reach the viewpoint
it’s very impressive, but I still wouldn’t fancy days of plodding along at
walking pace to see more of it. I have a drink, take some pictures and wonder
what happened to “Pele”.
Running back he’s nowhere to be seen, so he
must have quit. It’s not often I get to be the victorious tortoise!
The evening is chilly and wet, so I don my
cap and coat, and find an Irish bar, the first in almost three weeks! Walking
in the door I’m immediately surrounded by a group of old guys wearing caps with
F.A.H.R.T. emblazoned above the peaks.
“Dammit I wore the wrong cap!” I cry,
unwittingly launching myself into an evening of foolishness, Blues music,
drunken revelry, antipodean jocularity and all round good fun. Just don’t ask
me what F.A.H.R.T. stood for!
Friday is ferry day. I’m in the posh seats again,
but on a different ship. Instead of the exclusive eight seat “Cove” for Janelle
and I, this one has a Premium Plus lounge with about twenty people slumped
around untidily. On the upside there’s free food, including chicken curry and
bakewell tart, and without a cove companion I go outside and appreciate the
view.
Wellington, and the usual big city problem.
I want to be near the action, but who puts a campsite downtown?
WWMP! That’s who!
Wellington Waterfront Mobile home Park is
basically a car park with power sockets and a bathroom, but it’s right on the
waterfront and right by the action. It’s noisy of course, but a few beers
should prevent that being a problem. And there’s plenty of drinking venues here. Sadly
they’re mostly lacking bar stools, but there’s so many bars I find a few places
where I can meet people.
I meet some kiwis in suits, who give me the
usual endless list of things I “have to do” and I meet English people. A lot of
English people. Chrissie from Finchley was particularly memorable, and we
talked for hours. Sadly she's unavailable to join me for the next night, the
whole North Island trip, marriage…
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