Mainland tour, Day 8 - PJ's planes and (other) PJ's car

With thanks to Destination Marlborough

Furneaux Lodge was pretty full last night, and a lot of the guests are walking the Queen Charlotte Trail to its end in Picton but, ever the skimmer, yesterday was my only taster of the track and this morning we took the water taxi back to town. Water taxis have been this year's great discovery for me, by the way: in this part of the country they are very big business, skimming along the coast all day, every day. I was astonished in January to see them everywhere when I was in Abel Tasman NP, and now here in Queen Charlotte Sound they're just as ubiquitous - and essential.

It was nice, though, that the drivers/pilots/captains don't take their quite remarkably beautiful work space for granted and, when we came across a pod of bottlenose dolphins, we detoured to hang out with them for a bit, which we all enjoyed (er, can't actually speak for the dolphins). After several drop-offs at various bays, we got back to Picton and headed straight off to Omaka, driving through endless vineyards with the Kaikoura mountains as their backdrop, with Tapuae-O-Uenuku peeking (peaking?) above them, bright with snow.

We were going to the Omaka Aviation Heritage Centre for the second time because our first visit, last year on a cruise tour, was too rushed. This time we could take as long as we wanted. We had the same guide as before, for the first hangar, Knights of the Sky. This displays Peter Jackson's extensive, not to say obsessive, collection of WW1 aircraft and memorabilia, all presented with typically imaginative perfection. Not that OWM John thought I would connect with most of it, kindly drawing me over to one glass case and saying, "This will interest you". It was a collection of embroidered purses that servicemen bought in France to send home to their womenfolk.

Once we'd got rid of him, we had a proper look around at not just the dramatic stagings of aviation adventures, but also unique items like a bit of tattered canvas from the Red Baron's plane, and a touching tribute to the invaluable contribution of the carrier pigeon (also celebrated, regular readers 😃 will remember, at Bletchley Park). You could spend ages here, and we did, but eventually emerged blinking in the sunshine to visit the second hangar, Dangerous Skies, which covers WW2. This one is the work of a group of enthusiastic collectors and doesn't have quite the same panache (and large budget) of PJ's exhibition, but is still well done and worth visiting.

Our guide here, Brian, was much jollier and woke, and gave us a good tour. There was a pretty impressive staging of the attack on Stalingrad from the perspective of a terrified civilian but for me the most affecting bit was the display at the end of the mortality numbers, by nationality, which ended with Russia, the red symbols rolling up the screen - up, and up, and up, and up: 8.7 million of them. And apparently the real total could be twice that. Incredible.

After all that, I was especially appreciative of the excellent carrot cake in the café, and the moment of personal delight in seeing an orange Mini 1000 displayed outside the neighbouring Classic Car collection hall - the spitting image of my own very first car. And then we drove to the Marlborough Vintner's Hotel, which was friendly and elegant, our garden view suite surrounded by vast vineyards that not only looked marvellously neat in the late evening sunshine, but had a lovely soundtrack of thrushes singing. We were pleased too that our very tasty dinner - lamb, tarte tatin - coincided with that of a tour group, so we not only eavesdropped on all the Forrest family and vineyard info, but managed to score a couple of wine tastings too.

Volcanoes, dead bodies and a dug-out canoe

If there's anyone out there, besides me, who has read more than a post or two of this blog, they will know that one of the many things I've come to disbelieve as the years pass by is the concept of coincidence. That is, as something amazing and rare and to be accompanied always by multiple exclamation marks. Because it's really pretty much a daily event, if you're paying attention - in my world, anyway.

Of course it helps to have a world with wide boundaries, which mine is thanks to the travel writing thing (despite its currently apparently grinding to a stuttering halt). All of which is by way of introduction to volcanoes, which are in the news at the moment as the Pacific's dramatically-named Ring of Fire is sparking in multiple countries. A couple of them look likely to eclipse the theatrical overtures of Cotopaxi in Ecuador (top) when I was there in 2015 and possibly even Kilauea from last year.

Vanuatu's Manaro, on the island of Ambae which is being evacuated Dunkirk-style as I write, is not a volcano I've been to; nor Popocatepetl in Mexico (though I have been able to spell that name since I was about 12); but Mt Agung I have. Or thought I had, back in 1977 when I was on my Great OE - but it turns out I just got near it, and went up to the crater lake in neighbouring Mt Batur instead. That I remember not so much for the dramatic scenery, as for the chastening experience of bartering hard for a boat trip across the lake to the village of Trunyan. Uniquely in Bali it's the custom there to leave dead bodies out in the open to decay, just protected by a cloth and a bamboo cage to keep opportunistic birds/animals away. As tourist attractions go, it's clearly at the more macabre end, and also these days a pretty un-PC thing to go and gawp at - but, hey, 1977.

So, having been in Indonesia for a week or so by then, we were getting pretty confident with the bartering thing - overconfident, it turned out. Because having beaten the poor guy down to a third of what he'd originally asked for, he got his own back by taking us not to the boat we were expecting, but a literal dug-out canoe - which, moreover, we were expected to take part in paddling. Yes, served us right. We got halfway across the lake before it became far too much effort in that heat, over that distance, and we admitted defeat and turned back to shore. At least we got our own back, and didn't give the canoe guy the tip he asked for. 

(I did, though, get my dead-body tourist exploitation three years later, when I returned to Bali and saw a funeral procession in Belayu, and followed it right through to the cremation. Just, you know, so you don't worry about my missing out.)

And if that's not enough volcano connections for you to consider worthy of even being, let alone disproving, coincidence - well, how about the fact that it's only two weeks since I was standing in the crater of a steaming, roaring, active marine volcano?

NZ Roadtrip Wellington: cruisers, cable cars and chowder

One thing about booking in a rush through Airbnb is that you’re never quite sure what you’re going to get, so it was an absolute delight to delve into an inner-city suburb and find that our home for the next two nights would be a perfect, pretty, classic Wellington villa. Two-storey, narrow, painted red outside and full of varnished old wood, books and comfortable beds inside, this Aro Street property is just charming. Everything we wanted was provided, and the central city was just a downhill wander away.

Chief amongst the attractions of course is Te Papa, the national museum – but here’s a word of warning to potential visitors: before you plan your day, google Wellington + cruise ships. Because today there were two in port, and the queues for the big exhibitions were horrendous. So instead we took advantage of the wonderful (and atypical) calm, sunny weather to stroll along the interesting waterfront, lined with plaques, artworks, pop-up shops in mini-shipping containers, parks, poetry and people – skateboarding, jumping into the water (how many capital city ports could you do that in, and not catch some horrible lurgy?), strolling and sunbathing and selfie-snapping.

Stepping into Shed 5 for lunch was a happy chance: the seafood chowder here is the best ever, and the waiter was so proprietorially enthusiastic that we ate much more than we’d intended, and had no regrets.

It’s a requirement, when you visit Wellington, to go up the old cable car to the top for the view; and also for a trail through the botanic gardens; and, most interestingly, to visit the cable car museum where there’s a really good video about the private cable cars that abound in Wellington’s steep suburbs – about 400 of them. One couple, endearingly, built theirs because their Labradors were getting too elderly to cope with their steps; another man got run away with in his and he and his dog had to bail out. 

Buen apetito!

Mmm, yes, I know what this reminds you of. Creepy, eh? But it's apparently a Mexican wrestling mask, and it was given to me at a special Roll Your Own Burrito session put on for some media people at Mad Mex, newly opened in Fort Street, in Auckland. Yes, there was tequila too - we started with a shot of the cheap stuff, 50% agave, plus salt and lime, and worked our way up through the mid-range liquor to the 100% agave which was much smoother and sippable. Though still throat-grabbingly strong, hack, hack.

But Mad Mex isn't about the drink (they're not licensed yet): it's the food that will be bringing people back and back again. Delicious! And really filling, once you've worked your way, Subway-style, through all the options of meat and salads and sauces. Regular punters don't get to roll their own, but we were given tuition (it's harder than it looks) in heating the tortilla "till it screams" and then adding the insides - for me, rice, pulled pork, black beans, sour cream, salsa, lettuce, guacamole, hot sauce. It makes a very substantial package once it's assembled. What's especially pleasing is that it's all healthy, fresh, authentic and ethically-produced food. But most people will just keep coming back because it tastes so good.

Things fell apart a bit (not our tightly-rolled burritos, though) after the tequila came out. Oddly - or perhaps not - the last time I was knocking back shots was in Vietnam last year, again with Kathy who organised yesterday's get-together. There, it's rice wine, pretty much tasteless fire-water that I wasn't so bothered about until I was introduced to the flavoured version - apricot is best - which led to a somewhat blurred experience but I believe the evening involved a thwarted art heist. It's probably just as well that I haven't been to Mexico. (But if you're offering, the answer's Yes!)