Wrong about Twelfth Night

So, traditional members of Western societies just to the left of the dateline, you're thinking of spending one last night looking at your Christmas trees and sparkly outside lights, before stripping the lot tomorrow on Twelfth Night? Wrong! But don't feel too bad about it: I've been wrong up till now, too, thinking that 6th January was the day Christmas ended. Surprisingly, given my innumeracy, it's not a maths thing, it's a clock thing.

Turns out, in olden times, the day was considered to end when the sun went down, not at some arbitrary time in the middle of the night, and the next day began when darkness fell. So, Christmas Eve on the 24th was actually the evening of Christmas Day and so the first day of Christmas, meaning that the twelfth day falls on January 5th.

Having sorted all that out, though, we still didn't get it quite right as, being in the southern hemisphere, it's not dark till nearly 9pm, which is rather late to be standing on ladders and wrestling with a desiccated pine tree and hoovering up needles, so we've done it in the daytime, in the heat but also the light. The sole remaining pet ignored the whole production, for the last time - sadly, she won't see another Christmas - and the daughters were out enjoying the day, so it fell to us two to pack it all away, aware that when the boxes are re-opened in about 11 months' time, it'll also be just us putting it all up again, since the offspring will have well and truly sprung by then.

Anyway, Christmas is over and now our focus is on summer. That's where we Downunders have the advantage over all those winter people, who now have the worst of their weather still to come, and no pretty lights to relieve the gloom. Shame.

Moist on the Milford Track

The weather's been a bit rough down south, washing away a bridge at Harihari on the Coast that's meant a 6-hour detour through Wanaka for people wanting to head north - though some tourists who missed out on getting to the glaciers did instead find themselves enjoying summer snow in the Lindis Pass. Swings and roundabouts, eh. I liked that the fibre-optic cable that was broken, cutting off the southern West Coast, was reconnected thanks to someone standing on the stump of the bridge casting a wire with a fishing rod to someone on the other side.

There were 120 trampers stranded on the Milford Track, too, which was closed for several days thanks to the torrential rain that submerged it under the Clinton River. When I walked the track a couple of years ago, we had some steady rain during the first night that transformed the river and meant the track in places was almost waist-deep. You know what it's like when you're wading into the sea and you reach the oh!-zone? Well, imagine that with, instead of warm seawater, chilly snow-melt. Bracing! It was a novelty to start with ('fun' would be over-stating it) but that wore off pretty soon, and even the compensation of the spectacular waterfalls springing off the sides of the gorge came to seem inadequate. We were this close to being helicoptered out, over the river flats to the next hut where the path was higher, but as we soggily ate our lunches the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the river level started dropping straight away, so we were able to continue.

It was still a squelchy business, but it was warm and the colours were brilliant and the scenery fabulous, so we were all happy again - especially as we were walking with Ultimate Hikes, whose lodges verge on luxurious, with seriously effective drying rooms that took care of all our wet clothes and boots. We were spoiled, and loved every bit of it, having passed the basic cold-water dormitory cook-your-own DOC huts earlier in the day. The independent trampers prided themselves on doing it real - but we walked every inch of the track same as them; we just had hot showers and three-course dinners with wine and soft beds to sleep in each night. Pft.

Great escape, but not a great movie

Christmas in England was synonymous with, well, many things - dismal weather, short days making the decorative lights that much more welcome and effective, a free drink at the pub on Christmas morning, and later Zulu on TV to digest the turkey by. I have heard, though, that The Great Escape has become the new Zulu, though not here; so we rented it to watch tonight for the first time, for me, since it first came out and we saw it as a family with my father, for whom it was part of his personal history.

Having visited Stalag Luft III last year and seen what is left of the prison camp at the museum there, as well as reading all about it for the story I wrote, it was a fascinating - if frustrating - watch. Of course, liberties were taken for story-telling purposes, I accept that; but it was a shame the compass-making wasn't shown, and that so much of the men's extraordinary inventiveness was purely background detail; plus that more of the real drama of the actual escape - the cave-ins, for example - didn't feature.

It was annoying too that some important things were wrong that should have been right: in the movie, Harry's entrance was in the shower sump - but that was Dick, which was never discovered; Harry was under a stove, which in the movie was where Tom began, instead of in a hallway. Also, the spoil from the tunnels was bright yellow sand, much more treacherous to dig and more difficult to dispose of discreetly than the brown dirt in the movie. And of course, no Americans took part in the actual escape, as they'd been moved to their own compound by the time it took place.

All the post-escape part of the story was, while diverting, pure "Hollywood ballyhoo" as Dad described it; and I do wonder why the order to murder 50 of the escapers was ascribed to "a higher authority" rather than to Hitler specifically - what, sparing his feelings, were they? Altogether, I'm glad the movie was made, and allowed the public to know something of the event - but it's time for a re-make, one that's more accurate and instead of making up stuff, values the drama of the real-life stories. Peter Jackson, are you twiddling your thumbs now The Hobbit is finished? How about it?

Happy New Year to you, of course

It was always going to happen. You get taught how to do sabrage, so when New Year's Day arrives with its various bottles of bubbly, who could resist showing off with the big kitchen knife and an audience? Not me, that's for sure. (The secret is in the realignment of the wire.) It was time to see off the sundry gift bottles of wine dutifully brought home from the hotels I stayed in last year, when sisters came round with, amongst other entertainments, stories of horrendously un-PC teachers at Mairehau High School (totally the reason why I went to Avonside GHS - and encountered pretty much the same there. Times have changed SO much!) as well as family put-downs and complaints about the sunshine and the furniture.

Suffice it to say, the table on the deck was moved out of the sun twice and into it once, three of the NINETEEN year-old director's chairs (one of which I mended only today) finally succumbed to wear, one 21 year-old champagne flute was broken (mea culpa), real Roquefort and Brie were eaten, a dozen freshly-caught snapper were filleted on the lawn, and two visiting dogs drank from the bowl that was dearly-departed Fudge's most precious possession. Agreement was reached that instead of waiting for Twelfth Night, it was much more Kiwi and appropriate to have a NY Eve party at which marshmallows were toasted  in the back garden over the blazing remains of the Christmas tree. Altogether, it was a cheerful beginning to what I, and everyone else, hope will be a better year than last.

And travel connections? Well, TV footage tonight, viewed one-eyed (as is this post - you wouldn't believe the back-spacing) of midnight fireworks from Sydney, Myanmar, New York, Shanghai, Dubai, London and Paris. Tick, tick, etc. The Burj Khalifa looked very splendid swathed in smoke and sparks, and the Eye, and the Eiffel Tower. One day I would like to spend New Year's Eve in Sydney where they have the ideal set-up for a wonderfully show-off fireworks display. Auckland has the same props, but lacks the $8 million disposable income to squander on 20 minutes (sadly, the maximum period of time that flibbertigibbet people are prepared to devote to appreciating money literally going up in smoke) of upscale sparklers and bangers. As I say, one day...

2012, wrapped up

The most remarkable thing about this year is that I didn't go to Australia. (I'm still feeling that I've used Oz up - although I'd be happy to be proved wrong. Anyone listening? Kimberley cruise, Kakadu, Maria Island, WA for the wildflower season...?) 

I did pass through, though, a number of times, on my way to more distant destinations; but my first travels this year were domestic, first to old favourite Waiheke Island, just across the harbour but in another zone entirely, ambience-wise. Beautiful, relaxing and laid-back, it never fails to please - even when the weather disappoints.

The weather gave us the runaround for the next trip, too: doing the Crater Lake walk on Ruapehu with the daughters - but after driving down there through thunder, lightning and torrential rain, the day of our ascent to and traverse along that precipitous crater rim was one of glorious sunshine that showed off the turquoise of the lake to great effect, while the cloud that came to swirl around beneath us made us feel like gods, on top of the world in both senses.

My Pavlovian addiction to checking my emails dozens of times a day was reinforced by an invitation popping up there in February to go on a LAN tour of South America. It was a wonderful circuit in a small but jolly group through Santiago to Buenos Aires, to the literally over-the-top spectacle of Iguassu Falls, to Lima where the food was a revelation, and then to Easter Island, which was very special and totally worth foregoing the Travcom/Cathay Pacific Media Awards (in which I was only Runner-Up, so, pft).

In April I began my longest trip yet, flying Etihad to Abu Dhabi, where the Grand Mosque was astonishing, though I could really have done without the sweaty nylon robe I had to wear. Next stop was France, for a glorious, fabulous cruise up the Rhone from Arles to Lyon and finishing at Chalon-sur-Saone. I do so love a river cruise, and Uniworld's River Royale was just perfect, with the best staff ever.


Then it was England for a wedding and old friends, and another cruise that didn't go so well, when I managed to dislocate my shoulder leaping off a boat in the Norfolk Broads. Ouch. But I soldiered on, fortunately joining an Insight coach tour of Eastern Europe for the next 3 weeks where I was very well looked after. It was all about history, war and architecture, subjects which would have bored me rigid in my youth, but which now I find deeply interesting. It helped too that on the way to starting the tour in Budapest, we'd called in at Zagan in Poland to visit the site of Stalag Luft III where my father had been a prisoner, which was a moving experience as well as being fascinating.




Home again after 5 weeks away, I was anchored to the sofa for the next three months, writing, writing, writing with a cat at each side and a dog at my feet. I popped down to Christchurch for a look at my sadly shaken hometown, and was both horrified and inspired by what I saw - the vast empty spaces, blowing with dust, and the cracks in everything; but also the optimistic spirit of the people I met, and their bright plans for the future.

September saw the start of another flurry of travel, beginning with flying with Emirates to Dubai again, where I went up to the 124th floor of the Burj Khalifa, and on to Portugal for a scant 5 days mostly in the province of Alentejo where I loved the fortified hilltop villages, the gnarled olive trees, the sheep with bells on and the friendly people; but hated the food-focused itinerary and unprofessional behaviour of one of the small party.




Back home for one night, I was away again next day for a week of glorious relaxation in the Cook Islands, purely a holiday of lying about, sleeping in the sun (not recommended: the sunburn was epic and I still bear the unsightly tan-marks) and doing very little of anything. Stand-out was the day spent cruising on and wallowing in the WMBL (world's most beautiful lagoon) at Aitutaki - just perfect, in every way.

Then, four days later, I was off to North Viet Nam in another group which was lots of fun. We had a brilliant guide, Duke, who took us from Hanoi up into Ha Giang province for a homestay, a day's trekking through the paddy fields and villages, and a long drive into the Dong Van Karst Geopark, which was just brilliant: spectacular peaks, cute kids, colourful villages and a mind-blowing road. The traffic throughout was fascinating - even in Ha Long Bay out on the water amongst those absurdly picturesque islands.



After a fun day out on the train down to Matamata for a look at the obsessive detail of Hobbiton, the year finished back on the sofa with, sadly, just the one cat now at my side. I've had 49 stories accepted for publication, about half of those in the NZ Herald, as well as writing around 30 blog entries for Air France and others for the Yahoo! website. I've been to lunches and dinners and a cooking class, learned how to take the top off a champagne bottle with a sabre, had massages, ridden a camel and a Segway, eaten insects as well as fabulous meals, and been given a huge and beautiful bouquet for my services to Australian tourism, having had over 100 stories published about that immense country. Ironic, or what?

It's been a good year and I've been to some amazing places, met lots of lovely people and written masses of stories (if you're interested in reading some of them, click on the links over there to the right). It's been busy, and tiring sometimes, but I've loved it and am looking forward to more of the, er, different: Alaska, maybe? Africa? Who knows - can't wait to find out. Watch this space!

My loss...

... the chickens' gain. Some of them anyway: what turned out to be disappointingly starchy and definitely not freshly-picked sweetcorn was a real treat for the old hens who ripped into it immediately, though the new ones had no idea what to do with it, regarding the cob suspiciously, as though it was an unexploded grenade (as if they'd know what that was, either). I look forward to the new corn, though it's a bit like the fallen mangoes that I scooped up with delight in Cooktown: they were just lying about on the road verges under the trees there and I couldn't resist making a pig of myself with them, fortunately in private. It's not actually the fuzzy teeth that's the main problem with sweetcorn, though that mustn't be discounted: it's the Mark of the Cob that I end up with on my upper lip, an odd red mark that lasts for days. Mystery.

And travel connection? Has to be Washington state, though in fact it could be anywhere in the States, in the rural areas: the corn maze is a fixture in the Fall there, and deservedly highly popular. Here's the start of a story about it that I must get around to finishing some day:

“We lost a teacher in there this morning,” said Farmer Pete with a cheerful smile. “The kids all came out ok, but I never saw the teacher again.” Standing there in his plaid shirt, braces and name tag, he seemed quite unconcerned that there might be a wild-eyed woman with a clipboard still flailing about in the maze behind him, vainly peering into the leafy green walls, hopelessly disorientated in the tangle of narrow lanes, hemmed in by densely-planted two-metre high sweetcorn canes.

Over in the corn pool, children were laughing as they waded and swam through a vat of dried corn kernels. Beyond, in the pumpkin patch, mothers with toddlers loaded into wheelbarrows wove through the plants, looking for the biggest, brightest, most shapely vegetable to take home for carving into a Halloween decoration. The sun shone warmly, over on the horizon Mt Baker made an unreal white triangle against the blue sky, and friendly cats purred around our ankles. It was a hard place to get stressed in. One teacher more or less scarcely seemed to matter.

There was a satisfying kind of irony anyway, in that this maze, one of many that grow up - literally - outside cities all across America in the autumn, had been sown in the shape of the state of Washington specifically for use as an educational tool. Almost five hectares in size, every major physical feature of this state in the Pacific Northwest, tucked up against the Canadian border, was faithfully recreated in maize for classes of ten year-old fourth-graders to find their way through, answering questions as they went about history and geography. They might have lost their teacher, but they would have found out all about explorers Lewis and Clark, as well as having a whole lot of fun along the way...

There's even a credit for 'leather stitchers'

Seen The Hobbit yet? I have, as of this afternoon, and am taking it easy for the whole of the evening in order to recover from the exhaustion. So much work by so many people (hundreds of names in the credits)! So much to look at! So much energy! (Also, so much fighting and falling down cliffs, all with a curious lack of blood or serious injury.) It was all very impressive: both the original by Tolkien, and the super-faithful HFR 3D movie version by Peter Jackson et al, replicating every obsessive detail. It's years since I read the book, which I galloped through for the story, without properly registering the OCD-ness of Tolkien's creation. I mean, what was this man on? The languages, the peoples, the depth of the history of his imaginary civilisations...

In Oxford, our Alice in Wonderland tour guide couldn't help including other writers and works too, pointing it out, for example, when we were following the lane that Tolkien and CS Lewis took walking back home from the Eagle & Child pub where they'd been, no doubt, comparing magical kingdoms. Philip Pullman was an Oxford man too - another creator of an intricate fantasy world for children; ditto Alan Garner, Susan Cooper, Penelope Lively, Diana Wynn Jones. I really wonder what it is about the city that inspired them all in that particular direction. Maybe it's all those carved stone gateways with glimpses through to enclosed and exclusive communities, each with its own style, traditions and rules? It's certainly something all visitors to Oxford do, peer through the railings and wonder about what goes on beyond those immaculate lawns, inside those ancient buildings.

It was good to see Hobbiton looking so green and pretty, and pick out the path we followed through the village - though it was a scandalous waste of all that finicking work, building it in such elaborate detail when it was seen so fleetingly. Of course I was checking out the locations all the way through, noting the tui singing, the native bush, the mountains and grassy hills and river valleys of the South Island - was that the Hollyford at one point? - as well as watching the movie. I was envious of the actors and the crew, though, being helicoptered onto remote mountain ridges for wide shots of the dwarves and Bilbo trailing through some truly spectacular scenery. If I want to experience that sort of view, I'm going to have to hit up Ultimate Hikes again, for the Routeburn tramp this time...