Rotto day

It's a very long time since I was last on Rottnest Island - 1977, in fact - and it tells you pretty much all  you need to know about the place that what I did today wasn't much different from what I did then. Which is a good thing. So, I took the ferry from Fremantle, or Freo, in local-speak, which whisked me there in about half an hour. They gave me my bike, helmet and snorkelling gear, and just like that I was away, skimming along quiet roads along the coast through low, wind-blown bush, scratchy limestone outcrops and past two lighthouses and a series of beaches and bays with gloriously soft, cream-coloured sand and mind-blowingly clear, turquoise water that seemed to glow under an absolutely cloudless sky.

I pedalled and paddled, I stopped to look at views, I had a swim and a snorkel, and I thoroughly enjoyed the peace (no private vehicles on the island), the fresh air and the exercise. The snorkelling, to be brutally honest, wasn't that great - they're meant to have 135 species of tropical fish, thanks to the warm Leeuwin current that comes down from the north - but all I saw were boring regular fish. Mind, I didn't go very far out. "Better to be able to out-run the shark, than try to out-swim it," as a fellow lady snorkeller said.

But there were no sharks - dolphins, though, and ospreys, and New Zealand fur seals panting on the rocks and feeling the heat. "They come here because the climate's better, there's plenty of food, and we have a very generous social welfare system," said the guide on the Eco Adventure boat that circumnavigated the island in 90 minutes. It was a fun ride, fast and sometimes airborne, in a rigid inflatable "designed in New Zealand, the land of adventure, but made in Freo so we know it was done properly" - such gratuitous anti-Kiwi jokes,  and she didn't even ask if there were any aboard.

There were quokkas, of course - unique and endemic marsupial, wrongly thought by the discovering Dutch to be giant rats, hence the island's name - very cute and bold and inquisitive.

I recommend the fish and chips at the Geordie Bay General Store - no ambiance, but truly excellent chips, and though of course the fish was barra (when is it not?) it was very tasty. More cycling, more swimming, and then it was time to bounce back with the Freo Doctor driving us - that's the onshore wind that picks up every afternoon and gives respite to those wilting in the city.

This is where the day got messy - I certainly was, with no time for me to return to Cottesloe to tidy up  before a river cruise starting at the Royal Perth Yacht Club. The organisation fell apart, I had to get into the place by slipping through the locked gate behind an unsuspecting couple with a card pass, as seen on TV, and it was a long wait before the others turned up. Artists, you know. Like herding cats. So we missed most of the sunset, but in compensation had the almost-full moon rising behind the city across the Swan River, so that was good. So was the food, and it was a very pleasant cruise - though it was a long day and I was glad eventually to get to bed.

Sculpture by the Sea Cottesloe

Though yesterday evening the beach was crowded with people getting a sneak preview in golden light, today was the official opening of the annual Sculpture by the Sea Cottesloe exhibition. On a relatively short stretch of beach and grassy foreshore, 69 works by local and international artists include three by New Zealanders, two of whom live on Waiheke Island. And one of them, Virginia King, I was able to tell last night that I voted for her work in the People's Choice at last month's Sculpture on the Gulf exhibition. (Strenuously resisting the 'small world' cliché here.)

There was an unexpected rendition at the opening of Waltzing Matilda by the WA Police Pipe Band, and a more appropriate Welcome to Country by a local indigenous representative in a roo skin cloak (which actually turned out to be unexpected because it was the first time in 11 years that they'd done it. No comment.) Speeches followed, people and organisations thanked, and then it was back to what it was all about: people strolling about, considering the works, and generally enjoying themselves.

And who wouldn't, on a sparkling hot morning under a cloudless sky, the sea turquoise, everyone relaxed (apart from the teachers herding their classes round the exhibits)? There were red mesh flamingos, shiny metal balls, bouncy rubber balls, black Chinese men balanced on balls, Virginia's laser-cut disc, huge barcode-faced babies, stone shapes, wooden shapes, glass and bamboo and plastic. Big and small, lovely and sinister, inscrutable and silly - you know, art.

And again, as on Waiheke, marvellous though most of the art was, it was no match for the glorious setting of this beautiful beach. Another win for nature.

Three easy steps

This is how my long journey started yesterday: Step 1 of three taking me from Waiheke to Perth in Western Australia. It was the loveliest bit, skimming across a flat blue harbour, sitting outside in the fresh air.

Then there was almost an hour on the Airport Express bus, less lovely, but serviceable. And finally, Step 3, my first ride on Air NZ's (or anybody's) Dreamliner.

This was a bit of a connection in itself, having been to the Boeing factory north of Seattle about 4 years ago where a 'Welcome Air NZ' banner was hanging in the café and they were promising delivery the following year. Well, that didn't happen.

But it's here now, just, and how is it? Very new, obviously, and sort of stark inside, the black and grey slightly softened by the changing roof lights. The seats (in Economy, sigh) were narrow, not soft, and were pretty short on legroom. But the window was big! And fun to play with the button that makes it become obscure - so you can still see through it to check for interesting things while its dimmed for TV viewing.

The entertainment system works very well - genuine touch-screen with no need for that irritating finger-stabbing that's such a drag to have your head on the other side of. I was a bit alarmed to find myself asked to pay $10 for movies, but then the system realised I was a The Works passenger and all was well.

So the 7 or so hours flew (ha!) by - 3 movies, a late lunch, an afternoon tea of scones and jam, a brief zizz and we were there, dropping down over bare brown land patterned with round salt lakes, then bush, then the Swan River and that cute little cluster of skyscrapers, and I'd arrived.

Power through, no baggage claim as I only had a carry-on, white London taxi to Cottesloe, and here I am. Sculptures all along the seafront, orange sun slipping down out of a cloudless sky, hundreds of roosting lorikeets making an almighty racket in the trees, and a glass of Champagne with a NZ artist whose work I'd voted for a couple of weeks ago for the People's Favourite at the Waiheke Sculpture on the Gulf exhibition.

How's that again, Benedict?

I was swimming back to the beach this morning when I passed a little blue penguin heading out to sea. I looked at him (possibly her), he (she) looked at me, we considered each other, and then we continued on our separate ways, the penguin waggling its tail, me not. It wasn't a total surprise: I, sad to say, found a dead little blue washed up on the beach a few weeks ago, on the face of it uninjured, and, asking around amongst the long-term residents was told that they nest under a couple of the baches (= holiday homes) in the bay. I had thought, though, that penguins were dawn/dusk creatures, so I was surprised to come across one active mid-morning. Then again, it was Sunday morning, and who doesn't like a lie-in at the end of the week?

I have a short but pleasing history with penguins in the wild. The last ones I saw were down in the Catlins in the South Island, yellow-eyed ones. I watched them hopping remarkably nimbly, and remarkably far, up a hillside through the tussock and bush to their nesting holes in the late afternoon, as the low sun glazed with honeyed light the scattering of rocks beyond the lighthouse at Nugget Point. I had also seen them the previous day making their way across a petrified forest to their holes in the rocks at Curio Bay. To be honest, they're not the most appealing of penguins: small and cute from a distance, up close the yellow eyes are a bit off-putting, and I'd been far more entranced that afternoon by hanging out with the little Hector's dolphins at next-door Porpoise Bay.

There were what used to be called fairy penguins on Kangaroo Island off the South Australia coast, before they got all butch and switched to calling them little penguins instead. I went on an evening penguin-spotting walk with red-light torches, and we did see them and hear them as they squawked and squabbled in their burrows, but in the dark it's harder to get excited about something you only see as a shape. I liked the pelicans better.

The most remarkable penguin I've ever seen (so far - one day, who knows, I may get to Antarctica and see the Emperors) is the Galapagos penguin, on one of the first islands I visited on my cruise there. It's the only one to live north of the Equator, despite all those Christmas cards you've seen with polar bears and penguins on them, and then only just, so they're literally tropical penguins. Galapagos is full of wildlife anomalies, so that's not as remarkable as it might otherwise be - but they still find life a bit difficult, and have to go scouting around for the cold Humboldt current, which swirls through the island group. They're small, too, and decked out in that classic penguin formal attire that's so very appealing. Cute. Though, according to the people here, if they live under your deck you have to put up with noise, smells, and fleas. Fleas!

Onetangi Beach Races

I do admire those travel writers who produce stories on the move, flipping open their laptops in airports and on trains to patter out 1000 words of fresh impressions and accurate quotes. It's not something I've been able to do, myself, except very rarely, since my itineraries are generally so full-on that there's little chance during the day and by the time I close my bedroom door all I can think about is getting to sleep and knitting up a few ravell'd cares.

I did once write a New York story on the plane back home, and an Aitutaki one while sitting on the beach by that glorious lagoon, and they were the better for the immediacy of the experience. That's something that the tourism people ought to remember when they're packing their media programmes full of places and experiences: the usual quantity vs quality thing. Not, to be fair to myself, that the stories written afterwards from memory, notes and photographs are hugely inferior - just a bit less vivid, perhaps.

That's a good argument for doing more domestic stuff. Like the Onetangi Beach Races yesterday, about which I've been writing today, ending up with something satisfyingly pleasing. It helps, of course, that I really enjoy the Beach Races themselves - and it also made a difference

that this time, my second, I was able to see clearly what was going on, unlike previously when a rogue wave at Palm Beach had snatched my glasses from me a couple of hours before the events began. Thank goodness for autofocus, is all I can say about that experience.

Yesterday couldn't really have been better: clear sunny day, fluffy clouds, warm blue sea bobbing with moored boats, crowds of relaxed people strolling along the roadside food stalls and settling themselves with tables, chairs and chilly bins in the shade of the pohutukawa trees. The man doing the announcing was jolly, the marshals in charge of clearing swimmers from the beach before races were laid-back and pleasant, the music was Kiwi nostalgia, the vibe totally Waiheke chill. Charley Farley's and the 4th Avenue Eatery were busy but there were still benches to share on their decks to enjoy a beer under an umbrella.

There was the tug-of-war, the hidden treasure, the Fashion Parade, and of course the races themselves: Sealegs doing a tortoise and hare, fat little ponies hitched to miniature sulkies, lean fit horses ridden by lean fit girls, and chugging tractors in serious pursuit of the title of Fastest on Waiheke. All good fun, all relaxed and easy, everybody ready with a smile and a friendly comment. Classic.

Four years

It's been a hot, dry summer and Thursday morning was another in a long series of blue-sky days. It was the kind of weather that makes water-blasting the house seem like a treat, compared with, for example, mowing the lawns or weeding. So that was how it happened that I was up close with the window frames and noticed that here and there the paintwork is starting to show sun damage. And although I struggle to remember where I've left my phone or what I had for dinner last night, I know exactly how long it is since the painter was here: four years.

Because four years ago today, he and I were standing in my living room at lunchtime, watching in disbelief and horror the pictures coming from Christchurch, my home town. Christchurch, reduced by a 6.3 earthquake at 12.51pm to a cracked and broken disaster zone where 185 people died, instantly or slowly, in nightmarish scenarios that seconds earlier had been boringly mundane: office, shop, bus. Christchurch, the Garden City, more English than England, a place of wide tree-lined avenues and willows dipping into the placid Avon River, stately mock-Gothic public buildings, neat parks and gardens, and an iconic Cathedral smaller than many English parish churches but truly the heart of the city. In just a couple of terrifying minutes, it became - and has remained - unrecognisable, buildings collapsed, towers leaning, roads cracked and manhole covers risen up, stinking grey liquefaction seeping everywhere like ectoplasm, and everybody's lives changed forever.

In the four years since, progress has been made in resurrecting the city, although shamefully slowly. Whole areas, like where I grew up and first went to school, have been abandoned to nature while new suburbs have sprung up on the western, safer side of the city. The CBD, though still characterised by too many bare blocks of dusty gravel, is taking new shape, coming to life, drawing back the people. John Robert Godley's statue has just been put up again in the Square, though it's a bit damaged and faces a cathedral still in ruins with a future under threat. In some areas, you wouldn't know anything had ever happened - except when you speak to the people living there. Even those who escaped major damage to their homes still see their lives as split into Before and After, and that will never change.

The old Christchurch has gone. The new Christchurch will be a different place: newer, flatter, lower, more spacious. Eventually the ruined suburbs will be attractive parkland. The remaining heritage buildings will be stronger and more valued. Will the Cathedral be one of them? I do hope so. Abandoned by the Church, it's up to the people to save it, which is how it should be.

And then there are the 185 lives lost: all ages, all sorts of nationalities, residents and visitors, some suddenly, some agonisingly slowly in unimaginable terror. They will always be remembered, and not only at the memorial that will be built in time for the next anniversary, beside the Avon as it glides slowly to the sea.

Waswas - if only...

Arriving at the mall this morning for the first time on foot, and hence seeing it somewhat differently, I was in full imaginative flight about how I could easily have been in the US. You know, how what we take for granted and just don't see any more at home is exactly the sort of ordinary thing that becomes exciting when visited in another country. Literally exactly, since the totally interchangeable Westfield malls seem to be everywhere these days, especially in the States (which is quite a coup for an Australian company). I could even summon up the anticipatory buzz that I would have felt if I was travelling and not just filling in time at the local mall while my car was being serviced.

I had already got to the bit in this pattern of thought where I value the after-effect of travelling that has you, if you pay attention, looking around yourself when you get home and seeing things with new eyes and appreciating what had become completely ordinary - the neatness, convenience, safety, beauty - when, approaching the entrance by a different route, I passed a series of columns with inspirational quotes on them including this one by Eleanor Roosevelt. While it's hard to equate this particular bit of hopeful thinking with Westfield's seen-one-seen-them-all shopping machines, it did remind me of the last time I came across the sainted Eleanor.

It was in Washington DC, on an evening bus tour along the National Mall, when we stopped at the end to see that cluster of monuments - Lincoln, Vietnam, Korea, MLK and FDR - and I was delighted to discover that Eleanor has been accorded her own memorial near to her husband's. Though it's rather tucked away, it's still good to see that she was appreciated for the work she did and wasn't just seen as an adjunct to her husband - who probably wouldn't even have become President if it weren't for her. This was the first time a FLOTUS had ever been honoured like this. At first I thought the statue made her look a bit ordinary, in a coat, hands clasped as if waiting in a queue at the grocer's - but really that is her legacy, that anyone can make a difference if they want to enough. And the quote beside the statue could hardly be more apposite in these turbulent times where, actually, nowhere feels totally safe any more: "The structure of world peace cannot be the work of one man, or one party, or one nation... It must be a peace which rests on the cooperative effort of the whole world."