Bridging moan

Although Auckland has never been half-hearted when it comes to rain, the city outdid itself a couple of days ago, when we had a downpour that was both startlingly torrential and unusually lengthy. There were flash floods all over the place, and here all the guttering on the house overflowed, naturally; but the real drama was happening in the back garden, where an open storm-water drain runs through the hen-run. Where our privileged neighbour's underground pipe debouches into our garden, it was spectacular: torrents of water raging out, scouring the stream-bed even deeper and picking up so much debris that when it hit the wire mesh fence at the bottom corner, it pushed a big hole underneath. 

I haven't seen that much water since I was at, cough, Iguassu Falls a few months ago. Yes, slightly tenuous connection, but it's just a matter of scale. Anyway, Iguassu is totally over the top, spectacle-wise: even standing there looking at it, it's hard to get your head around that much water, 1.5 million litres per second thundering over the 2.7 kilometre length of the Falls. Even more astonishing, in a way, were the hundreds of tourists like me who were standing, quite at our ease, on walkways built literally on the very edge of the falls, right above the 60-80 metre drop to the churning foam below. Especially since, on our way to this point on the Argentinian side, we'd passed the foundation stones of a previous walkway that had been swept away in a flood. Never underestimate the peace of mind afforded by a lack of imagination.

Cave Creek did pass through my mind, though: a terrible event on the West Coast in 1995 when 14 young people died when a viewing platform over a chasm collapsed and fell 30 metres to the bottom. The enquiry found that the platform hadn't been properly secured, there was a huge scandal, and ever since then every Dept of Conservation structure has been inspected and plastered with warning signs - inevitably, over-correcting. So now, all the bridges in the bush are allowed to have only restricted numbers on them at any one time, no matter how strongly they've been built. It's silly, but I saw it on the Hollyford Track, on all the sturdy wire swing bridges we had to queue to cross; and I've seen it in the Waioeka Gorge between Gisborne and Opotiki, where there's an old wooden bridge that's immense, built of thick timber and strung with huge cables, with a bossy yellow sign on it saying that no more than 10 people should be on it at any one time. Pft.

Buzzing

"More addictive than heroin - and more expensive, too" - that's what Peter the chopper pilot's first flying teacher told him about what he was launching himself into, and nothing about what he's experienced since has led him to disagree. Me neither. I was making my 6th flight today, 20 minutes that felt like 10 on a circuit over Auckland. That's how time works, in helicopters, in my experience: I did 90 minutes buzzing over the South African veldt looking for rhinos last year that I would have sworn was half an hour, tops.

I've hopped across Lake Wakatipu, I've done a sunset flight in Australia's Red Centre, a loop around Mt Taranaki, a swoop above Iguassu Falls in Argentina/Brazil, a dusk flit around Long Island and now this birthday buzz over Auckland. And apart from being trapped in the centre in the back on the Iguassu flight and able to catch only glimpses of the falls between the professional snapper's big camera on one side, and another writer's (spit) iPad on the other, they've all been brilliant ways to see the scenery.

Iguassu, in those snatched images, was truly spectacular; South Africa was amazing because for the guys in front this was their daily job and they were so matter-of-fact about the whole deal (also, you can never beat seeing a rhino in the wild however you come at them); Kings Canyon is a piece of work from any angle; so is Manhattan; and this country's not too shabby either, scenery-wise, and I wouldn't like to have to rank Mt Taranaki against the Remarkables - but despite all that, there's something very special about seeing your familiar surroundings from 300 metres up, everything recognisable but at the same time so strange. It all fits together so neatly - who knew?!

The whole experience was soured, however, by Peter's saying at the end that in a couple of days he's piloting a couple of Germans with tons more money than time on a 3-day chopper trip that will include a Tauranga winery, Huka Lodge, Rotorua, White Island, another fancy lodge somewhere further south, and Abel Tasman NP. Spit. I was just writing about that White Island helicopter trip this week for an inflight magazine, and I had to do it third-hand because, for once, I hadn't done it myself. Double spit.

A face only an orthopterist could love...

It's a bit startling to come into the living room and find something like this - or actually, exactly this - lying on the carpet struggling with the fluff. It's a weta, but not a giant fortunately. They can reach 10cm/4in in body length, plus spiky legs and antennae, and weigh more than a sparrow, the heaviest insect in the world. This one was a tree weta, half that size, and a bit woozy from the automatic flyspray, so it wasn't too scary to take it outside, though I did keep my fingers away from those fearsome mandibles. I'm guessing it decamped out of the Christmas tree, which is a very dense one this year. Of course now I wonder what else is lurking inside it, but I'm not going to look, just in case I find something.

Where to go with this, travel-wise? Insects I have met... there were cave wetas when I went to Waitomo and ziplined underground through the dark in an unfetching blue boilersuit and freezing works white gumboots. There was the vast net of spiderwebs connecting the tall thistles in a gully that I rode my horse through while wearing just a bikini in South Australia - obviously, I didn't see them till too late, and my skin is crawling still. There was also the tarantula there that the girl going into my room ahead of me spotted, and reduced to a big red and black smear on the bedspread before I had the chance to fix in my memory forever all its horrible hairy detail. Then there was the invisible swarm of whining mosquitoes in New Caledonia that emerged, voracious, from crevices in our long-unused room and spent the entire night feasting on our blood until, fatigued and frustrated, we were driven to sleep on the floor in someone else's kitchen before I went to work the next morning with 47 bites on my face alone. The man ahead of me on the 4-day Bay of Fires walk in Tasmania had a shiny black leech attach itself to his sock. But really, considering some of the places I've slept and walked through, my insect and spider encounters have been very few, thank goodness.

Rather than leave you with the nightmarish images above, I'll finish with the order that I've happily seen most of: butterflies. In an aviary in Kuala Lumpur, where I spent a happy but extremely sweaty hour chasing them from flower to flower. Up the Amazon in Peru, where I blithely blundered through the jungle surrounding the lodge peering through my viewfinder at the glorious iridescent colours and completely forgetting about my sandalled feet in grass that hid snakes. Much more tamely at Changi Airport in Singapore, where people, dislocated both mentally and physically, can reconnect with a bit of nature in the butterfly room. And with delight in Brazil at Iguassu Falls, where a yellow puddle edged with a flock of even yellower butterflies was in its small way as glorious a watery sight as the thundering falls themselves.

H to N (hears a who?)

[I’m actually writing this from the future. I started this post four years ago, and then got seriously distracted. I have no idea now what the title refers to - sounds vaguely Seussian, but who knows? Anyway, here we go.]

Continuing my copied-idea alphabet of travel associations/memories, today we begin at -

H: for Helicopters which, appropriately enough, summon both highs and a painful low. The low was meekly taking my seat in the middle with a professional photographer on one side with his huge camera, and a fat guy on the other with an iPad, and then setting off for a once-in-a-lifetime flight over Iguassu Falls, in Argentina/Brazil. I saw only glimpses of those huge and amazing cascades, and was so upset, but determined that would never happen again. Nor has it, though it could have. I have since stood my ground, and refused that seat, and always then been given a window seat, often in the front. So I've had glorious flights over New York, Kings Canyon, Auckland city, Waiheke, Milford Sound and the Southern Alps, and landed on snowy mountain tops, once courtesy of pilot (and ex-All Black captain) Richie McCaw. Fabulous! I love choppers, their effortless  flight, and the spectacular sightseeing they enable.

I: for Imposter Syndrome, which it took me a long time to shake off. Coming into journalism travel writing through the back door, as I did, I felt - and was - both unqualified and inexperienced. Being given, for free, curated trips (famils) overseas that started with business class flights and included fancy hotels, hosted meals, guides, transport and stuffed-full itineraries, was a thrill I never took for granted, even when I got to feeling somewhat authenticated. Wine tastings though? Always uncomfortable, trying to remember, from seeing other people doing it, what to do, what to say, all the while being genuinely flummoxed - even nervous enough, once, to confuse, in front of a clearly unimpressed sommelier, cabernet with chardonnay. Ouch!

J: For Japan, where I have not been, though I nearly got there in 2019 on a Silversea cruise. Covid killed that one, to my lasting regret, since it seems to me such a fascinating place to visit. Also on my to-go list is Greenland (ditto, Seabourn cruise for that one); plus Spain and Finland; and Iceland, for a proper look since my 5 day famil was not enough. Having, though, boasted since I was 15 that I could say 'the men are drinking beer now' in Japanese, after a taster lesson at school, Google now informs me that 'otokonoko biiru o nomimasu' has quite different overtones - so maybe it's just as well that trip got cancelled.

K: for Kayaks, in which I've had a lot of fun, as well as some strenuous exercise. Most of my outings have been here in Aotearoa/NZ - a peaceful glide along the Avon River in ChCh, a battle with head winds both ways here on Waiheke, a cruisy couple of days along the coast of the Abel Tasman NP, and stirring up bioluminescence on an evening outing to Brown's Island. But I also watched a dingo chase a kangaroo along the shore of a river in the NT, plus several other Aussie outings, as well as Hawaii, Seattle and Galapagos. Kayaking is easy and fun, and a lovely way to get in touch with nature. Recommended.

L: for Left - as in turning, when you board an aeroplane. I am irredeemably frugal, and could never justify to myself the outrageous prices of Business class seats, which are just mind-bogglingly exponential. Even Premium Economy I've shelled out for only under duress, and would never do that voluntarily. But, if someone else is paying... which, even before these end-times, was happening less and less often for us shameless travel-writing freebie-grabbers. Back in the golden days, though - ah! The sheer fabulous glory of wafting into that airy space, welcomed by name, then ripping into the amenities pouch as I sipped the excellent champagne, stowing my stuff in all the little cubbyholes, and tapping away at the iPad to see what entertainment was on offer. Lovely, leisurely food, endless good wine, SO MUCH PRIVATE SPACE! and then, come bedtime, classy, comfortable pjs, a magicked-flat bed with actual elbow room, a soft pillow and airy duvet. Bliss!

M: for Malbec which, despite (or possibly because of) my entry for I, above, was a revelation on a lovely LATAM famil to South America. Having, during my student years, drunk far too much cheap and horrible red wine, inducing ghastly hangovers, I then foreswore it for about 30 years, drinking only white. On this group trip, though, we were hosted by a charming vintner and were proudly presented with his best wine, which of course I couldn't refuse. What a revelation! Richly flavoured, velvety smooth, delicately scented... it was glorious. I was instantly converted to red wine, which I have drunk ever since, and delighted to be given a small bottle of the malbec to take home. Which some low-life hotel room attendant subsequently stole from my suitcase. Still not over that.

N: Noises that instantly summon up a place, like muezzin calls in Istanbul, cooing doves in Africa, melodious magpies in Australia, rowdy penguins in Antarctica. There was also the Penguin Café Orchestra that my driver played on repeat in Mauritius, plus clicking prayer beads in Greece, sirens in New York, gentle creaking on board Silversea ships. I heard sheep bells in Portugal, kokako on Tiritiri, a Spitfire clattering overhead on the White Cliffs of Dover, chainsaw-screeching of insects in the jungle in Ecuador... Honestly, this list could go on and on. So evocative, the tourism people really should make a feature of it.

All hail the travel agent

I hate this woman. Or, rather, I hate the TV ad that this actress appears in so much that I can't grab the remote fast enough to mute her whiny voice. What is even more alienating than that though, is what she's saying, which is dissing travel agents for being lazy, ignorant and incompetent, unable to access flight information that this clever woman can use WebJet to discover instantly.

I think travel agents are wonderful. To be able, as they do, to bring together so much disparate knowledge about places literally all over the world, from nuts and bolts to aspiration/inspiration, tailor it to the client, organise it all into a simple format, and then be there as back-up in case of unpredictable hiccups or even out-and-out disasters - well, that's so very admirable. I've worked with both high-end operations, like World Journeys, World Expeditions and Adventure World, as well as your literal high-street outlet like House of Travel, and have been impressed every time.

This year, for example, it was Marlene at Adventure World who put me in a place and at a time to experience the entire year's most unforgettable moment: standing just metres away from a wild elephant which was straddling the path between the restaurant and the bar at Royal Zambezi lodge in Zambia - a country I'd never even thought of visiting, until she slipped it into my South Africa itinerary.

Travel agents have in the recent past taken me effortlessly to Galapagos, Easter Island, Kakadu, Iguassu Falls, Machu Picchu: the travel so enjoyable because it was so stress-free. I knew I was in the hands of experts, and that everything would go smoothly. And it did.

Compare that with the trips I did this year that were DIY. They were only around NZ and to Tahiti and Hawaii, but the time and effort it took to piece them together, coupled with my perpetual mistrust in the value and workability of the final itinerary really did suck away a lot of the enjoyment of the trips. Instead of being proud of having done it all ourselves, I was suspicious of how much better - and, yes, more cheaply - it all might have been, if done with more inside knowledge and expertise.

So, out of this year's trips - horse-riding the Coromandel Peninsula, self-driving around New Zealand, ditto with exponentially higher stress levels in Louisiana, attending a conference in New Orleans, swanning through South Africa (and Zambia), sunning myself in Tahiti, swimming in Hawaii - it was the ones that were sorted by travel agents that were by far the most satisfying and the most fun. Suck on that, WebJet.

Consider me spiced

There's certainly no shortage of variety in my life at the moment. Today I've been writing about machine guns, diggers and dancers in Las Vegas, as well as tweaking another story about a Hitler tour in Munich. I'm getting emails about walking through the Outback in South Australia (starting from the Dig Tree of Burke and Wills fame, which I just happen to be reading a book about). Someone else is wrapping up loose ends from my airline disaster in Tahiti, which is the destination I'm writing about next. Meanwhile I'm organising a house-sitter and liaising with the PR people from Visit England and Visit Scotland about my trip there next month; answering questions about Hobbiton from someone in Kuwait; and going green with envy at the countdown for my South Africa buddies to their epic car rally from Namibia to Zimbabwe. Oh, and getting stuff together for another stay on Waiheke Island at the weekend while messaging a daughter in Chile.

It's hard to imagine what it's like to be my dear old aunt, who has no desire to travel whatsoever and has rarely ventured beyond the county borders of Surrey. It's not that she's uninterested in what the rest of the world is like: she just doesn't want to go there herself. There are still people like that around, in every generation. I met a young man yesterday who's lived in Auckland for years and has never been to Waiheke; the car hire girl at Townsville airport has never made the 20-minute crossing to Magnetic Island, either. "I get sea-sick," she protested. Well, pft. Pathetic.

Not wanting to go places, being perfectly satisfied with just seeing them on TV or in magazines, is really missing out, I reckon. It's literally 2D, and nothing like being there, feeling the heat or cold or humidity on your skin, smelling the frangipani or curry or drains, hearing the wail of the muezzin, the racket of galahs at dawn or the roar of millions of litres of water pouring over Iguassu Falls. You don't get the buzz of being somewhere famous, or connecting with people who on the face of it are very different from you but turn out to be pretty much the same after all, or doing things that are a bit challenging and scary.

It's sometimes tempting, as you squeeze yourself into the middle seat in a crowded plane with every overhead bin crammed with outsize bags, to remember the glory days of the '70s, when fewer people were travelling and you could get whole rows to yourself, and to regret that everyone seems to be on the move these days. But actually, it's just great that all those minds are being broadened. Now, if only the bodies that go with them could be a little less so...

Too hard to choose, today

So, what link do I go with today? The flash floods in Port Louis, Mauritius, that were reported on the news tonight, with scenes of torrents of muddy water sweeping through an underpass, helpless people bobbing along on the surface? Cars piled up on top of each other, human chains across roads running waist-deep in churning water, shuttered shops with water halfway up the doors? Eleven dead, apparently - so far: it's a busy and crowded city, of narrow streets choked with stalls, elegant old buildings as well as flimsy ones, a fort on the hill above and fancy new shopping and eating precincts along the waterfront, where beautiful young people pose and preen.

Or maybe the Earthflight documentary about birds that I watched tonight? This episode was focused on South America, and featured Andean condors, which I saw spiralling up out of the Colca Canyon; and the vultures that sit hunched on rocks above the incredible roaring maelstrom of Iguassu Falls, apparently impervious to the violence and power of the water all around them; and scarlet macaws clustered on clay lick banks along the Amazon, nibbling the dirt for minerals and to offset the toxic effects of the unripe fruit they eat. When I stood in the jungle, watching them, they circled restlessly and perched in the trees, but didn't land on the clay - something was worrying them, and on the programme I learned it could have been an eagle. Or a jaguar.

Perhaps Cotopaxi, which was an answer on QI last night? In Ecuador they claim that it's the world's highest active volcano, and according to Stephen Fry it's higher than Everest - if you're measuring from the centre of the Earth, that is, because the planet is flattened at the poles and bulges at the equator. When I went up to the high paramo for lunch - and delicious canelazo, cinnamon-scented orange tea with rum - at a lodge within sight of the mountain, it was skulking inside cloud and I didn't see it, though the normally more elusive Chimborazo, above, was for once in the clear; but late that night after a long and musical dinner in an Inca-built dining room, on the way to a bath by the fire before bed, Cotopaxi was clear and bright and symmetrical in the moonlight.

Or, prompted by the cover picture on a library book brought into the house today, the Glenfinnan Viaduct? It's a graceful concrete curve of 21 arches in western Scotland, build by Robert McAlpine, 'Concrete Bob', in 1901. It’s still standing strong as the elegant Jacobite train crosses it taking tourists from Fort William to Mallaig - or, in the Harry Potter movies, young witches and wizards to a new term at Hogwarts. I stood knee-deep in wet heather waiting to take a photo of it as it puffed towards me, and regretted, in my cold and soaking jeans, laughing at the Hooray Henry types at breakfast in the hotel that morning in their silly - but actually very sensible - tweed plus-fours.

Or I could just stop skiting, and go to bed.

Short and sweet

New York, New York. And, er, New York. That's three times now I've been to this insouciant city, and it's getting a bit familiar, though it's still somewhat alarming. So busy, so crowded, so noisy, so tatty and tacky and couldn't-care-less. Also, of course, so impressive, so tall, so stately.

We arrived by train from DC, which was easy, and though there was a hiccup with a missing booking confirmation at the hotel, they were very helpful and understanding. I would expect nothing else from the Peninsula, and Sinead at reception was just lovely. We hung about for a bit, admiring the marble and the thick rugs and artworks and the chandelier, and were eventually installed in our 3-room corner suite on the 16th floor, the last word in understated elegance but still with a TV over the bath, just as in Hong Kong.

We were out again straight away, bravely tackling the subway to get right downtown, full of anxiety about having chosen the wrong line, but it all worked out in the end, and we passed the Staten Island ferry terminal on our way to the heliport. Oh, yes, the heliport! Our first adventure was a 15-minute chopper ride around Long Island at dusk. Before that, though, there was a lesson. Six of us were led out onto the pier towards the waiting helicopter, two were loaded in the back, and then I was pointed towards my seat. It turned out to be the middle back seat, and I stopped still. I'd been here before, at Iguassu Falls in Argentina, stuck between a photographer and a big guy with an iPad, and I'd seen almost nothing. That wasn't going to happen again.

Instead of being a meek and easy-going Kiwi, I stood up for myself. "I don't want to sit in the middle," I said firmly - and I was motioned out again, and directed into the front seat right next to the pilot. Triumph! It's only taken till now to be confident enough to do that. But it paid off - the views over Manhattan were terrific. Some lights were on, but it was still light enough to see the detail - of the Trade Centre memorial, of Central Park, of Yankee Stadium, George Washington Bridge. First at 460 metres, then from just 275 - it was all there, and easy to see. Excellent.

But that wasn't all! Next was an hour-long water-taxi ride from the East River out beyond the tip of Long Island, past Ellis Island to the Statue of Liberty. By now it was pitch dark, the sea was almost flat, and the lights and reflections were literally brilliant. Good guide, a glass of champers - what a great way to see the sights. Recommended.

And then we went back to the hotel via the rampant electrons of Times Square, so bright it was like daylight, and ended the day tucked up in the Pen's big bed under a soft, light duvet. New York, done in half a day! No, of course not - but it was fun, and it'll do for now. Tomorrow? Boston.

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!

From all sides now

Today was all about the Iguassu waterfalls, which we've now seen from the air, from the water, from the Brazilian side and the Argentinian side. The helicopter view would have been terrific, had I not been sitting at the back in the middle with a column in front of me, a large man with an iPad on one side and a keen photographer on the other - if you do it, it's sauve qui peut: race for the front seat. Because these falls are so spectacular, you mustn't miss any of them. (Thank goodness for live view on my camera - it got a better view than I was able to.)

We drove back to the Argentinian side to walk right along the edge of the falls on a metal walkway with huge catfish lurking below and delicate butterflies floating above, and it was amazing to see so much water pouring and roaring over the drop. But it's not just spectacular: it's pretty too, with fresh green grasses growing on rocks in the river, flowering plants on the islands, and the butterflies. It helped, too, that after two days of cloud and rain, today was brilliantly sunny, with rainbows everywhere. (When it's a full moon, you can go out at night to see the falls under moonlight with moonbows.)

And then it was time to pack up again without really enjoying our lovely hotel with its inviting pool and wandering coati and pretty rooms and all, sigh. So tonight I'm in another fancy hotel, in Lima, and it's 1am here, which means 3am in Brazil, and I still have my homework to do, sorting out my afternoon activities for tomorrow. "Think about it overnight," suggested Johanna, without apparent irony.

Fly, my pretty!

The premise of this blog, that every day brings reminders of and connections to your travel, does mean that there have been a lot of references to world events that are less than cheerful. Terrorist attacks, floods, cyclones, earthquakes, pollution, eruptions... they've all featured here, and will doubtless continue to pop up at fairly depressing intervals. But today we'll take a break.
Today, I saw the first of the seven monarch chrysalises that I've been overseeing hatch into a beautiful butterfly, and I was as delighted and proud as if I'd birthed it myself. Her, in fact - the spots on the wings are the giveaway. It's been a long process, watching them first as hungry caterpillars, munching relentlessly through my swan plants, getting bigger and bigger. Fearful of wasp attacks like those that nixed them all last year, I brought them inside, to be astonished at the volume of poop - frass! - that they produce. Then, suddenly and always while I was looking elsewhere, they became pupae, in elegant green and gold. Long wait, then a colour change, and today, finally, I saw one that had emerged and uncrumpled its - her - wings, getting ready to fly. Magic, and a miracle, and a marvel, truly.

And of course, it reminded me of somewhere I've been: Iguassu Falls in Argentina/Brazil/Paraguay, where the magnificent, astonishing, overwhelming size and volume of the waterfalls were offset by the small, delicate and dainty beauty of the yellow butterflies that flocked to drink from a muddy puddle beside the path.

Iceland 2 - Today's theme: water

Thank you to Intrepid Travel for the discount on this Iceland Express trip 

That was a whole night of rare clear sky I wasted by sleeping, because it was still sunny this morning. But at least I woke early enough to have time to nip out before our tour departure at 9am, to have another wander around the city. It was lovely, with the streets quiet, to just mosey around, taking random turnings and discovering street art and cats in windows and more pretty painted houses with gables and window features. Eventually I ended up down on the waterfront where there was a striking modern aluminium sculpture of a Viking ship, just the bones of it, with a shiny silvery sea behind it and a snow-streaked range beyond that.

Unfortunately, in front was a large group of tourists speaking American-accented English and also something that might have been Indonesian or similar and boy! Were they focused on the photos. Not of the sculpture, you understand, but of themselves draped over it, in innumerable poses, all adopted under the loud instruction of the mother-figure. It went on and on and on, honestly, while a handful of other tourists including me just stood there, holding our cameras and waiting with ostentatious patience for them to finish and vacate the site.

That turned out to be the running theme of today: other tourists swarming over the places we visited. And yes, of course we’re tourists too, and it’s July, and that’s life, and also the big problem of modern Iceland that I knew all about before coming: population 350,000 and over 2 million visitors annually. But that doesn’t stop it from being dismaying.

We started with a drive around the city and up to The Pearl for coffee (a very decent flat white!) and views. It's a dome built on top of huge water tanks where water is heated geo-thermally to 100 degrees-plus and then piped to everybody’s houses for heating, hot tubs and even warming the pavement outside so there’s no ice-scraping required in winter. Clever, and so environmental!

We learned about the great rift valley, and drove across it from the North American to the Eurasian plate, while Páll told us about geology and hotspots and such. We went to ᚦingvellir, a culturally and historically important site that was also pretty spectacular with basalt cliffs, super-clear blue river pools and lovely views past a pretty church to the huge lake. There were purple lupins, yellow buttercups and dandelions, white yarrow, and larks and geese; and also lots of assorted tourists.

Then we left the National Park to enter Iceland’s farming centre: flat, green, fertile and populated by woolly sheep and cute shaggy ponies. Our next stop was at Geysír which, despite giving its name to the whole phenomenon, just steamed sulkily and these days scarcely performs at all. A nearby geyser, Sokkur, was much more active, spouting up about 20 metres every 10 minutes or so – but only for a minute. Burping, really. There were a few steaming pools nearby but the whole thing wasn’t a patch on Rotorua, truly. The thing that impressed me most about the whole shebang was how fast the queue for the women’s loos moved back at the visitor centre. Now that was remarkable.

I had my first Icelandic horse encounter, with four bored but long-suffering small horses in an enclosure patiently putting up with people patting them and posing for photos. Later on, we saw a herd being moved along beside the road, cantering past, which was fun – and also several groups of others being ridden. It was lovely to see they have such a presence here.

The most spectacular bit of today was the Goldfoss waterfall, which is the best water action I’ve seen since Iguassu: millions of litres of glacier water every second thundering non-stop over two high steps totalling 30 metres, with spray drifting above it. Well worth visiting and viewing from multiple angles. Also, it was quietly inspiring that the falls weren’t turned into a hydro-electricity project, mostly thanks to Sigridúr Tómasdottír, who fought the idea in 1907 and is recognised now as Iceland’s first environmentalist.

Mountains – volcanoes, actually – were the literal backdrop to today’s drive, never quite clear of cloud but sometimes brightly lit in the distance, streaked with snow. One of them, Hekla, is so big that the whole of Reykjavik would fit in its crater, and another is the famous one with the unpronounceable name that caused so much trouble with its ash in 2010. Since we’re tucked underneath it for tonight, in a guesthouse way out in the country surrounded by fields where lapwings scolded us for having the temerity to walk along its drive, it would be pleasing if it stayed quiet. Which is more than I can say for the half-dozen 20-something Aussies of our Intrepid group who loudly braved the luke-warm spa out on the deck in the spitty rain and then spent the rest of the long, long evening busily bonding. Yeah, I know. Grinch.