Viking Sun, Day Two - Ignoring Auckland

We sailed last night – all the way from Queens Wharf to Princes Wharf. So we woke up blocking the windows of the long-suffering Hilton guests and wondering what was so special about the ship we'd had to make room for. Everyone on board was busily readying themselves for a day ashore, many of them no doubt heading over to Waiheke Island to do the vineyard tour or mosey around Oneroa, but oddly we felt no such compulsion. (Having an afternoon, evening, night and morning in the city did feel generous, though.)

Instead we breakfasted in a leisurely fashion at Mamsen's - that's Norwegian for Mum's, and it's all modelled closely on the kitchen and food that Viking President Torstein Hagen grew up with. The thing to have here was apparently the waffle, so I did, but wasn't impressed - it was a bit dry, needed butter and lots more than the mingy amount of cream and fruit I was allotted. But the croissant I didn't have was, apparently, a (messy) triumph.

The fruit tea wasn't, though, so I popped ashore - mightily disappointed, I have to say, to see everyone offered a plastic bottle of water as they left the ship - to buy myself a box in town. Then I just nosed around the ship till sailaway at 2pm. We'd been looking forward to this, never having sailed in or out of the Waitemata before, but sod's law dictated that this summer's long hot drought broke today, and the cloud was so low that even the top of Rangitoto was blotted out, and there was no chance of seeing Waiheke.

There was a Halfway Point Party on the pool deck, celebrating Day 65 of the 130, which was rather spoiled for me by an American OWM getting territorial over a couple of chairs that - truly, reader - I reached first. The Cruise Director, Heather someone, was full of the news that Viking has done excellently in the just-announced Cruise Critic Cruisers' Choice Awards, getting first in 11 categories (trouncing Silversea, I have to note with surprise). People seemed smug and content - though there was some disappointment still swirling around that weather meant the cruise had had to miss out Stanley in the Falklands, and Easter Island, adding to the already pretty high number of at-sea days. (I, of course, regular readers 😃 will be aware, have been to both those places, so I had my own reasons to feel smug.)

Though we certainly weren't hungry, our lunch having been very nice, we felt obliged (it's tough, this job) to try out the High Tea in the Wintergarden as Minky G strummed away on her guitar. We eschewed the cake stand of sandwiches and fancies, which looked very good, and just had tea and scones. They too were good but I have to say the allocation of jam and cream was again on the mingy side.

I skimmed past a performance by the Virginia Gentlemen in the Atrium which was completely full, three levels and even the stairs jammed with sitters. These young guys, all very short-back-and-sides, smart suits, clean and wholesome, sing doo-wop which, while not in the same category of intolerably self-important nerve-janglery as jazz, requires a very specific kind of finger-snapping musical appreciation: you need to be American, for a start. Much more to my taste was the pianist later when we had pre-dinner drinks - though, again, they give out automatic PLASTIC STRAWS???! Whatever is Viking thinking? 

Dinner was at the much-vaunted Manfredi's, and my goodness, they spoke the truth. I really wasn't that hungry but the bistecca fiorentina was SO fabulously tasty and tender. All I had to do to cut it was to draw the knife across it and the mere weight of the blade was enough to do the job. A triumph. I ate the whole thing. And then, despite deciding to skip dessert, our lovely waitress was so enthusiastic about the Nutella panna cotta, showing me a photo of it on her phone, that I gave in, and it was indeed delicious.

I cruised through the shops - lovely Nordic stuff in glass, felt, silver, at typically Scandinavian prices - and then we took our seats in the theatre, for Gary Arbuthnot, who despite his name is Irish, and a whizz on the flute and penny whistle. I would happily have sat there and watched his fingers blur over the instruments, but there were clips from movies playing behind him. That was fine when it was a James Bond theme tune - slightly less comfortable when it was Rose and Jack dancing down below deck in Titanic. The movie's listed in the entertainment schedule, too. They like to live dangerously, on Viking Sun.

Viking Sun, Day One - All aboard! Or not, whatever

With thanks to Viking for this cruise

Yes, I am a hypocrite. About four blog posts back, regular readers 😃 will recall, I was riding my high horse about the hideousness of big cruise ships and declaring that I would never lower myself (er, from that high horse) to set foot aboard anything bigger than 900 passengers. Well, guess where I am right now? Oh yes, comfortably ensconced on the Viking Sun, home to 930 smug guests. And here I will be happily staying, as it sails from Auckland to Wellington, as part of the 130-day world cruise it began in Miami at the start of the year, ending in London.

This was one of the lastest-minute famils I’ve ever participated in: 48 hours from offer to boarding, which is only slightly dizzying because all it took was a ferry trip and a short suitcase trundle along the wharf. The ship arrived this morning, and is overnighting in Auckland before departing tomorrow afternoon, so I could actually have delayed my embarkation until then – but why would you, and deprive yourself of a night’s dinner and entertainment?

So here I am, in a suite that is a touch on the snug side but, since the ship is pretty new (2017), it's neat and elegant and eminently acceptable. All Viking suites have verandas, and as we are happily on the starboard, ie landward, side (we will be sailing south down the east coast – can you work that out?) the sun is shining in through the ranchslider beyond which is the Cloud on Queen’s Wharf and just above its roof a peep of the harbour bridge, busy with rush-hour traffic.

Soon after boarding, I fortuitously tagged along on a travel agent tour and have already seen all over the public areas of the ship. Right now they are all still a confusing muddle, but I have hope that I will get everything sorted by the time we reach Wellington on Sunday. First impressions are of easy elegance, lots of blue and beige and blond wood, many appealing places to sit, quantities of glass, a very Nordic presence in terms of artwork, a novel (to me) infinity pool at the stern, and some seriously tempting restaurants.

I have already learned that all the flour used in the kitchens (by France-trained chefs) is French, so I have high hopes of proper croissants and baguettes; and more than one person has strongly recommended the beefsteak at Manfredi’s Italian restaurant. I have been urged to try the Nordic bathing experience, which includes an actual snow room, and a bucket shower. 

Tonight there is a Maori concert party in the theatre after dinner; beforehand there will be Norwegian music in the atrium; and I am hoping that both the Irish flautist and – tarah! – old Buskers Festival faithful Nick Nickolas, who are part of the entertainment programme, will be performing before I disembark in Wellington. Fingers crossed.

Taranaki 3 - Birds and MAMILS

With thanks to Venture Taranaki for hosting me

I don't know, MAMILs, they're everywhere, but when you want one, can he help? No, he can't. Not this morning, anyway, as I was just setting out on my bike ride along the Coastal Walkway to the Insta-famous Te Rewa Rewa Bridge. I'm from Christchurch, you see: flat city, so bike gears always flummox me, and this morning I managed to seize them up so the pedals wouldn't, er, pedal. So, failed by the MAMIL - actually, more of an OMIL - I flagged down, I had to wheel the bike back ignominiously to the hotel and take another.

Anyway, that aside, it was a splendid thing to be doing on a clear, warm, sunny morning - and lots of others had the same idea. Cyclists, walkers, runners, with or without dogs and/or kids, they were all out there appreciating the sparkling sea, the white foam on the black sand, the Sugar Loaf islands and, of course, glimpses of The Mountain which, in Taranaki, is always there, peeping or looming. People were friendly, smiling and greeting me, and it was all just lovely. And the bridge, when I got there, didn't disappoint: freshly painted white, it was as artfully sculptural as it looks in all the photos, and make a perfect frame for the mountain. 

I already had my eye in, art-wise, after having a guided tour of the Govett-Brewster Art Gallery and Len Lye Centre. It's a real mouthful, that - but the building itself is a marvel, all wavy stainless steel walls, reflecting and distorting. And inside is a regularly-changed display of Len Lye's kinetic artwork, which is mesmerisingly lovely and fascinating, and impossible to photograph. Plus, of course, in the art gallery, there was the usual arty-farty stuff that I always secretly suspect to be an elaborate con-type joke. I mean, a dark room full of black Venetian blinds hanging from the ceiling, scented with wildflowers and gunpowder?

Much more to my literal tastes was the Brie and sausage tartine that I bought from a Frenchman at a container café on the way back, and shared with a bunch of sparrows (only the bread base - the topping was too good for the likes of them).

Then I headed for Pukekura Gardens, near the centre of town, which are famous for their being lit up at night. Also for being the main venue during WOMAD, which is about to start, so some of the grounds were closed off. Never mind: I had a pleasant stroll around, under huge trees and ferns, past the azaleas and rhododendrons that grow so well here, and the traditional Tea House, and the big fountain that I set off by pressing a button. I walked around the lake with its ducks and swan, and crossed the Poet's Bridge - which is not as poetic as it sounds: it was funded with the winnings from a horse race won by The Poet.

Next I went back into town and flitted round Puke Ariki, which is the museum/library complex here: modern, well-presented and not too guilt-inducing for those of us with inadequate time/energy/eyesight. There was a nice little section on Taranaki ingenuity, which has led amongst other things to mechanised hedge trimmers, NZ's first purpose-designed farm bike, a device for practising brass instruments quietly, a mobile TB unit, and a no-dig hangi. I also learned, a little disquietingly, that Mt Taranaki has had numerous eruptions over the last several hundred thousand years, each time collapsing some time afterwards. The last time it blew was 250 years ago - I wonder if another collapse is on the cards?

And then my Taranaki visit was over - though I will happily return, there's lots more to see and do. Besides, I've got that damned mountain under my skin now, just like a local.

Taranaki 2 - Cicadas, surf , shiny cars and cycles

With thanks to Venture Taranaki for hosting me

There's nothing like waking up halfway up a mountain with plains stretching out to the hazy horizon all around you, and the super-sharp peak of a volcano looming right above your head. So I set off before breakfast for a walk past, first of all, Dawson Falls Mountain Lodge's own little power station, which sits over a gushing mountain stream and provides the lodge with a literal source of super-cheap DC power. 

It's the oldest continuously-active power station in the country (when a superlative needs a conditional clause, it's hard to be as impressed as people would like you to be, I find). More impressive to my mind was the fact that at the lodge they use it for the 'under-bed heaters' which are apparently much more efficient than your common-or-garden electric blanket. But never plug your electronica into a DC power socket, people! Despair will result.

Anyway, it was a lovely walk through the goblin forest, as they like to call it here: trees stunted by the cold and wind, growing hunched and small, and hung with moss. It was busy with birds - and had been even busier with spiders, I discovered, as the cobwebs broke continuously across my face. Miss-Haversham-wedding-cake scenario, honest.

But the falls were pretty, and it was a lovely start to the day to be out there in nature and breathing that pure air. After breakfast I was back in the car for the winding road back down the mountain, heading for Hawera, a typical little country town with a sprawl of undistinguished suburbs around a neat centre featuring some officiously sturdy pedimented buildings - banks and their ilk - from early last century. Prime amongst them is the Water Tower, which was built in 1914 to stop the place from keeping on getting burnt down. It's concrete, but not ugly, and from the top of its 215 steps you get a grand view of, well, the mountain, of course.

My next visit was to be to an Elvis Presley Museum, run by an enthusiast in his home - but he was away at a sports event so, though it would have been useful story material, at least I was spared the effort of having to pretend to be a fan of The King. I'm too young!

Instead, I set off along SH45, the Surf Highway, along the coast and through a succession of little towns focused on their beaches - black sand affairs between high cliffs, with even today fairly big waves rolling in. The Surf Life Savers Clubs are very active here, and their red and yellow flags were easy to spot. As it's a Sunday, there were people everywhere, swimming and surfing, riding horses along the beach, fishing, playing with kids and dogs, and just chilling (actually, the opposite) on the hot sparkly sand. Ohawe, Manaia, Opunake, Oakura... all worth a little look.

The main thing on this drive though, was the looming presence of the mountain over my right shoulder - foregrounded by lumpy no doubt volcano-related little hills, or rolling green paddocks dotted with sheep and cows, or fields of maize almost ready to harvest, or artily framed by flax flower spikes. It was always there, a magnet, asking to be admired and photographed. Very distracting. I wonder if the locals ever get to the stage of ignoring it? But it always will look different, according to the snow, or cloud, or just the light generally.

I drove through New Plymouth to fill in a gap from yesterday, dutifully turning up to the Hillsborough Museum, which is a shrine to the Holden car. Inside a big shed are 44 different models, from the first 1949 car that looks just like a larger scale Morris 8, right through to the last one to come here from Australia, in 2017. That was a dark day, according to the museum's owner and obsessive, Steve. He owns all but 8 of them. Some of them - 8, again - have never been driven. Occasionally they get an outing to a show, where it's all about how pristine they are, but otherwise they're tucked behind their ropes inside the shed, safe from stone chips and (horrors!) even worse.

Honestly, I would have had more fun at the mini-golf course there, which looked inventive and challenging, but even I admit that would have appeared more than a bit eccentric, on my own. Instead, I headed off to Pukeiti Gardens, which I thought were in town and spent ages deeply mistrusting the GPS - but it turned out I was thinking of Pukekura. Pukeiti is a scenic reserve near the mountain with a garden in the middle: winding paths under big trees, lots of massive, and lesser, rhododendrons, hydrangeas, ferns, birds and cicadas, a tumbling mountain stream, and a fancy new Rainforest Centre with elevated metal walkways and lookouts. Nice.

Then I headed back into town, to stay at the King & Queen where they were expecting me, yay, and I had a very comfortable room. It's not far from the Coastal Walkway, where I went to catch the Golden Hour, the wet rocks shining in the low sun, Len Lye's 45m fibre glass Wind Wand waving gently in the breeze, and lots of people strolling, cycling and feeding little fish in a stream. All very Sunday evening. Again, nice.

Taranaki 1 - Clockwise round the mountain

With thanks to Venture Taranaki for hosting me

It's only a half-hour flight from Auckland to New Plymouth, so I could have got a really good start on this weekend's jaunt - if only the first ferry of the day on a Saturday left at 6am, as usual, and not 7am. So instead I arrived in Taranaki (never, I was soon to learn, to be referred to as the 'Naki) at midday. It was a glorious clear day and Mt Taranaki, that fabulously symmetrical Fujiyama lookalike, was clear and sharp against an almost cloudless blue sky.

Having started in thrall to natural beauty, it felt especially perverse to go, as the first item in my itinerary (of course, I am here for work), to look at thousands of dead animals. But yes, that is what Manutahi Museum is: a celebration of the taxidermist's skill. John, who owns the collection, is a fanatic but not a trophy hunter - he is as aware of looming extinction as anyone and, since these animals have already been killed and mounted (many years ago, most of them) he just wants them to be cared for and admired and kept as a kind of memorial. For me it was at first quite confronting and uncomfortable, especially since he has not only a white rhino head on the wall but a black rhino too, and you, dear regular reader 😀 know my rhino connection. I can see his point, though. The rhinos, by the way, you poachers out there, have had their horns removed long ago and replaced with fibreglass. So don't bother breaking in.

John's enthusiasm is a marvel in itself, and his intimate knowledge of each of the animals preserved there is astonishing: he just reels off the names and statistics, without hesitation. There's a huge polar bear, a lion, a zebra, warthog, black bear, reindeer and masses of mounted birds (his speciality) plus scored of various types of deer and antelope from all over the world. There are stuffed possums and foxes and jackals and a cheetah. There's a bison, scores of varied antlers and horns (again, no rhino - or ivory), bulls, an African wild dog, a dingo, possum, two-headed lamb, and a plastic dish of baby rats preserved in methylated spirits. Plus tarantulas and other spiders and insects, fish, shells, eggs, fossils, rocks... Astonishing, truly. Oh, by the way, though John wouldn't dream of killing these animals, he does make an exception for wild pigs and deer, the shooting of which he refers to as a "meat recovery mission". Fair enough, i suppose. No native species in his collection, incidentally - it's not allowed, even if he finds a dead bird on the road.

It was still a relief to emerge into the sunshine again. My next mission was to drive the Forgotten World Highway to Whangamomona - which did turn out to be a mission, truly. My hire car was a neat little Corolla, but even so, on that narrow road that constantly wound up, and then down again, it took a lot of attention - attention that was equally constantly being enticed away from the road by the scenery. The mountain was initially in every view but eventually sank away out of sight, leaving enticing views into valleys, across farmland and volcanic lumpy bits, some neatly grazed and golden, some bushy and green. There were saddles to cross, a railway to follow, sheep and cows and horses, and, with the windows open, cicadas and birds to hear as I wound my way through the hills. It was gorgeous, really. And - thankfully - no traffic!

Then I got to Whangamomona, population 20, which is self-consciously quirky, having declared itself a republic within NZ and occasionally electing a sheep as its president. You can buy a passport to have stamped at the pub. It's a bit of fun I suppose, but the French girl behind the bar didn't have her heart in it so it fell a bit flat really. Oh well, it's a tick.

And then I drove all the way back again, seduced by the Golden Hour gilding everything I looked at, and up into the huge perfect circle of bush that surrounds the mountain. There was yet more winding until I got to Dawson Falls Mountain Lodge, which is meant to have a Swiss cottage feel to its rooms. I can't vouch for that because when I went to check in they said "Um, who are you again?" Turns out the manager got the booking confirmation email from Venture Taranaki, but didn't get around to putting it into the system. And the hotel was full. But his nice wife Bernie (he, notably, didn't show his face to me at any point during my stay) offered me a staff bedroom, which was perfectly fine if not at all fancy and definitely not Swiss. All's well that ends well, eh? Especially because they do a mean sticky date pudding there, with lashings of butterscotch sauce.

Pining for the kauri on a Red Boat cruise

With thanks to The Red Boats

It's a bit embarrassing, to recommend to friends, who live for most of the year on the other side of the world, an outing here that you've just enjoyed, only to have them tell you that they've been there, done that already - twice. It's not an unusual scenario, though, for tourists to have done a better job of exploring your taken-for-granted backyard, so I'm shrugging it off, and just being pleased that I've done it myself at last.

What it was, is a cruise up into the upper harbour here in Auckland, and along the Rangitopuni Creek to the little town of Riverhead, for lunch at the historic tavern there, and then a gentle chug back again to the city's marina. All very laid-back and undemanding physically (apart from the 52 steps up to the pub from the jetty) and so, unsurprisingly, the passengers were mostly grey-headed, and some of them quite tottery. Up on the open top deck, though, where you needed to climb a steep ladder to get there, were the ladies' day out groups, and younger tourist couples, all of them seemingly as keen to sun themselves as to admire the scenery.

And what lovely scenery! There was the marina first, with a mind-bogglingly large assembly of boats, some of them huge luxury jobs, all white and sleek with names like Promise and Dream, and others, even bigger, with unfeasibly tall masts. Owha the resident leopard seal was absent today from her usual pontoon - she's been a regular for about three years now - but the scow Ted Ashby was sailing picturesquely underneath the Harbour Bridge, so that was good compensation. 

Captain Ben gave us lots of interesting information en route, including about the kauri forest that used to cover the north shore - oh, so that's why it's called Kauri Point... - and the ferreting around for gum that happened once the timber was gone. A sugar bag of gum was worth a week's wages back then. The Chelsea Sugar refinery, in all its pink glory, is all that's left of a surprisingly busy industrial history along the water, which included flour, tobacco and paper bags. There were also shipwrecks and a crashed wartime plane, but there's nothing much left of any of all that now: just appealing little sandy bays beneath cliffs topped with (now) pine groves, farmland, a golf course, a Hare Krishna temple, and a remarkable number of very attractive, and big, homes with lawns sloping down to the water and sometimes private jetties. 

Our route was surprisingly circuitous, the MV Hogwash occasionally heading straight for a cliff before doing a right-angled turn - but that was because, despite having a draught of just 4 feet, she had to follow the winding channel in the silt-clogged creek that in places turned the blue water yellow. She's a very cute little vessel, built in 1949 and on only her second engine after seventy years of solid work, and chugged along steadily at 10 knots, so it took an hour and a half to cover the 18km to Riverhead.

The tavern is proud of holding the country's second-longest liquor licence (after Waiuku's Kentish Hotel, where I went last year) - but, really, should be prouder of being NZ's oldest wooden building, which is a much bigger achievement (and especially pertinent given our current recurrent wildfires in Nelson). It's quiet, laid-back and comfortable, with tables inside and out, and the food is excellent. Super-tender beef cheek, since you ask - though that was put into the shade by the fabulous beer-battered chips with truffle dip, which were crunchy perfection. (No photo - they got eaten too fast.)

There was plenty of time to relax at the hotel, and then the trip back was notable for being simultaneously livelier and more somnolent, depending on the age of the passenger and how much they had had to eat/drink at the Riverside. I took particular satisfaction of getting, for the first time ever, the sea-view of the suburb where I lived for 23 years.

It was a really lovely day out, especially on a warm sunny day, and - who knows? - I might even do it a second time myself.