NZ Roadtrip Milford Sound: rain, more rain, and running.

The takahe pictured in the last post is one of New Zealand's endemic flightless birds, a knee-high, sturdy, slightly ridiculous creature that was thought for a long time to be extinct. Then, excitingly, in 1948 it was rediscovered near Lake Te Anau, in Fiordland, a part of the country so steep and remote that to this day there are bits no-one has laid eyes on. It was a cheerful thought that didn't sustain us long as we drove away from the threatening rainbow laid across the lake towards Milford Sound, famous for having the country's highest annual rainfall, at around 6.4 metres. It was about my sixth visit there, each time previously in bright sunshine, but today was clearly going to be much more typical, to the Poms' dismay.

Instead of being blue, white and gold, the palette was green, silver, blue and black - sombre, but still striking, especially with the steep-peaked mountains and the dense native bush. As always on the drive there, we were conscious of staying ahead of the hordes of tourist buses streaming in from Queenstown; but we did still stop at Mirror Lakes, to discover that someone at the Department of Conservation had been having a bit of fun.

Sadly, by the time we got through the mountains and the Homer Tunnel to Milford Sound (actually a fiord), the rain had properly set in and, apart from the odd gleam of sunshine, didn't stop for hours. It didn't help that the boat terminal had no café, just a vending machine, and not much comfort for people waiting for their cruises to depart. Ours was with Mitre Peak Cruises, in a smaller vessel that supplied tea and coffee but no biscuits. The Poms stayed in the cabin, near the tea, watching the scenery through rain-streaked windows, never stirring from their seats.

I, meanwhile, along with some damp but enthusiastic French tourists, was up on the top deck being stirred by a multitude of quite spectacular waterfalls, the like of which I'd never seen before on my previous sunny visits. The rain was simply gushing off the bare rock of the mountains, thundering, pouring, hosing, foaming, in huge torrents or clusters of trails, white against the black, spray going everywhere. It was amazing.

The drive back to Te Anau was also dramatic, with tumbling rivers as well as the waterfalls. Waiting for our turn to go through the (one-way) Homer Tunnel, we saw that the kea - alpine parrots - were not as lively as usual, looking distinctly bedraggled as they hung around hopeful for some (frowned upon) food to be thrown their way. It was probably just as well that they were feeling less mischievous - they can wreak real havoc on cars when they're in the mood. There's a persistent story about their pulling away the rubber windscreen seal on one so that the glass fell out - they certainly like to attack wipers with their fearsome beaks.

The sun was out again by the time we got to Te Anau (though still raining at Milford, according to the phone) and it was a pretty drive back to Queenstown and then on through the steep gorge of the Gibbston Valley with its incongruous vineyards to Cromwell, famous for its slightly suggestive cluster of big fruit. After dinner there, we were into the Golden Hour and the best place for it - real Grahame Sydney country. Unfortunately, the Pom who was driving was unable to remove his foot from the accelerator, so there are no photos of all that beauty. (You'll have to go and see it for yourself.)

Finally, we got to Wanaka and our roomy but rather bare Airbnb in a suburb back from the lake. The sun was setting behind the mountains as the last Ironman contestants ran gamely towards the finish line, spurred on by generous applause from the spectators along the route, and the thought of rest, food and fireworks just ahead.

NZ Roadtrip Te Anau: scenery, spaghetti and sainted stirrers

It wouldn't be a roadtrip without a bit of petrol angst, and accordingly we got a bit low on our way to Te Anau but the scenery was good enough (read: great) to distract us from the tension. This four-hour drive from Queenstown to Te Anau is, on the map, three sides of a square, necessary because there is no direct route. Every so often someone proposes a tunnel, or a monorail or some other such abomination desecrating the scenery just so foreign tourists don't have to waste their time driving through the sort of country as above, and can go straight from one hotspot to the next (ie Milford Sound). I mean, what sort of penance is that? I'm glad to say that no-one so far has got very far with their proposals, but constant vigilance is required.

There was another cheese roll en route, at Athol - a specialty of the south, it's white bread rolled up around some kind of cheesy concoction, and grilled. They're all a bit different, leading to local loyalties. This one had added onion and sweetcorn but was a touch on the dry side - not that any cheese roll is a waste of time, though. After we'd got to our motel at Te Anau, we made a visit to Lake Manapouri, once the subject of nationwide protests and the decades-long 'Save Manapouri' campaign. It might have been the first national environmental campaign in New Zealand - certainly it's the first I can remember. The baddies were Comalco, who wanted the lake level raised 30 metres to generate power for their aluminium smelter, and the weak National government was going to ignore the 10% of the population that signed the petition against it. Luckily, there was a general election in 1973, Norman Kirk's Labour government listened to the people, and the lake was saved, look:

Te Anau's lake is also lovely, just a bit less wild and spectacular. The town is dependent on the tourist traffic to Milford Sound, and in the Fiordland Cinema there are regular showings of the Ata Whenua/Shadowland movie showcasing the area's spectacular beauty. Our enjoyment of the film was subsequently enhanced by our realising that we should in fact have paid $10 each to get in, but we'd thought it was a tourism freebie and simply walked in and taken seats. Nobody said we'd gone the...

(This nearby sign has been a local joke for ages but now it's not so funny, after so many incidents of Chinese tourists causing accidents by driving on the wrong side of the road - however, even I am getting tired of my anti-Chinese comments, so that's the last you'll hear of them on this roadtrip.) 

We're into greenstone country now - nephrite jade to you foreigners - and there's a 3.2 tonne boulder in one of the souvenir shops, that's a really impressive sight. The lady in the shop said yes, it was insured for some fabulous sum - but that anyone who could steal something that size really deserved to keep it. Dinner was an unusual, but delicious, combination of crayfish and spaghetti at the equally unexpected genuinely Italian Dolce Vita restaurant; after which we hung a left at the giant takahe and went to our beds in the long southern dusk.

NZ Roadtrip Queenstown: rain, rabbits and financial ruin

In the spirit of the English philosophy about weather, today we paid for the sunshine we've had so far, with low cloud and even some rain. Despite that, three of us took the obligatory sail across the lake in the cute though smoke-belching TSS Earnslaw to Walter Peak station for morning tea in the homestead (scones and tea) and a demonstration of sheepdog skills and shearing in the woolshed. Some things are non-negotiable. This is New Zealand, after all.

Bravely, we made a run for (literal) Paradise but only got as far as Glenorchy at the head of the lake before the weather closed in, so what with the dull sky, the hair in someone's lunch there and the failure of the view from Bob's Bluff to live up to hype, it was a bit disappointing. We went to watch people step into the void at AJ Hackett's bungy operation over the Kawarau River - judging by the size and architectural novelty of the building, there's a lot of money in "Throwing people off bridges since 1988". The Poms, to their only moderate disappointment - it costs $145 each - weren't able to try the other iconic adventure activity, the Shotover Jetboat ride. Unexpectedly, they halted operations soon after we got there because there was too much water for the jetboats, which famously (and invented here in NZ I'll have you know) need a draught of only 4 inches.

We stayed at a very nice Airbnb outside town, tucked away down a country road on the way to Arrowtown. Kristen was almost exhaustingly chatty and friendly, welcoming us into her children's bedrooms upstairs which were perfectly comfortable and looked out over the tennis court and lots of rabbits. "Don't be startled if you hear a shot," we were told. She recommended a restaurant in Arrowtown, so we foolishly didn't get to sample the famous Chef's Choice at Amisfield, which I shall live to regret (especially when I have to write about it without ever having tasted it). Instead, we went to The Stables - in a typical Arrowtown old main street building, upstairs, lots of wood and stone, friendly fellow diners, and the cheeriest waitress ever. Good food, too, so really there's no cause for complaint.

The museum is well done there - extensive, thorough, interesting, museum guilt guaranteed - and, a novelty for this bit of the blog, giving a sympathetic view of the Chinese. Today they are everyone's (= my) unfavourite tourists because of their selfish and unpleasant (and sometimes dangerous) behaviour; but back in the goldrush days, they worked hard in great discomfort, were harshly discriminated against, and led tough lives, sending most of their earnings back home. Oh for a happy medium...

Arrowtown's Dorothy Brown's cinema is a lovely place: boutique, cosy, arty, with a fireplace, a bar and a bookshop. Very civilised, and named after a local character who may - or may not - have run an opium den. We saw The Big Short: I'm blaming the wine for my not following the financial intricacies of the plot.

NZ Roadtrip Otago: clay, Cardrona and Crown Range

I can’t imagine ever getting tired of the Lindis Pass. It hasn’t happened yet, despite having driven through there many times already. Those bare, brown rounded hills, that golden tussock, that invariably blue sky… it’s gorgeous. And it was just one of several quite different sorts of scenery on today’s route from the unarguably ugly little town of Twizel (built to house workers on the Benmore Dam back in the 60s and saved from demolition afterwards by the inexplicable enthusiasm of the residents).

First stop was near Omarama at the Clay Cliffs – such a typically factual NZ name – which are high, fluted, wind- and weather-shaped columns of silt and gravel, two million years in the making and every bit as good as anything Utah has to offer, if on a somewhat smaller scale. Then came Lake Wanaka, the town much bigger now than on my last visit, but nicely done, and the lake is still fringed by its iconic willow trees, a fabulous yellow foil in autumn for the deep blue of the lake and the snow on the surrounding mountains. We didn't stop: we'll be coming back for a proper look later.

Next was Cardrona, with its old wooden pub, still authentically weathered-looking, and welcoming inside with good food. Outside, three horses were tethered: now, that would be the way to explore this area, like the girls leading their packhorse back near the Clay Cliffs. Outdoors, connected, but not having to expend as much energy as the many cyclists (the Baby included in their number) toiling along these roads and trails.

The big novelty here is of course the Bra Fence. It changes all the time, sometimes the lingerie completely cleared away, but always soon replaced by more colourful bras. It’s a bit of a mystery, in its small (but sometimes double-D) way, but fun, too.

The Crown Range summit is higher than the Lindis, and gives southern-bound travellers their first glimpse of the tourist hub that is Queenstown. There are some sharp bends to negotiate first, though, and then a gentle drive past vineyards, willows and poplars, and Lake Hayes.

After all that open country, it’s a bit of a shock to get to Queenstown, with its wide roads, roundabouts, signs, chain stores and people. So many people! There’s a huge Chinese element these days, very noticeable not just because of their obvious ethnicity, but also their jostling and noisiness - and, disgustingly, the hoiking and spitting. It very soon becomes quite wearing, so it was a relief when the doors slid shut on the gondola up to Bob’s Peak, when all we could hear was “the gentle fraying of the cable” (joke).

The view from the top is always spectacular (“It’s like Windermere, except more stunning” conceded the Poms) and, even when forced to go down the nursery slope by the jobsworth operator, the Luge is always fun. Tip: just ignore the big yellow signs and don’t use your brakes at all. It all builds appetite for The Cow’s excellent pizzas and pasta, tucked away down its little lane and relatively peaceful, unlike the rest of the town, which was truly buzzing.

NZ Roadtrip Tekapo: Collectibles, canal and Cook

Today we left Akaroa and headed south to the real scenery - actually, south-west, taking the inland route after crossing the Rakaia. That meant we passed through quiet little Mayfield where, to our disappointment, the Overflow Retro Collectibles shop was closed. Such a shame: through the windows we could see that it was crammed with old and quirky stuff that it would have been fun to have a poke through, There's a mass of things in the yard alongside, too. But the lady who runs it only opens when she feels like it, so most people end up like us, pressing our noses to the glass and sighing.

Never mind: there were plenty of glories to come, so we carried on along Canterbury's classic long, straight roads lined with shelter belts, past paddocks full of sheep, into the Mackenzie country. The first proper stop, of course, was Lake Tekapo, blue and gorgeous, and offset by classic wispy lenticular clouds. We were so lucky that it was such a beautiful day, with everything clean and crisp and sparkling.

We could see Aorangi/Mt Cook at the far end, too - not something that can be guaranteed. So we were in a good enough mood not to be too irritated by all the crowds of tourists, mainly Chinese, swarming around the lake edge, the pretty little Church of the Good Shepherd, and the famous sheepdog statue nearby. It took some patience to snatch a photo without anyone in it.

Pressing on, the next marvel was the Pukaki Canal, which takes water from the lake to the Waitaki hydroelectric system, and is a quite stunningly milky aqua colour, thanks to the ground-up rock flour in the water. Glaciers will do that, you know. It's full of trout and salmon, apparently; and quite startlingly straight. 


Then came Lake Pukaki with even better views of Aoraki, and fewer people. Views like this are why tourists arriving in New Zealand need to come straight down to the South Island. This is the real thing - forget all that green lumpy stuff up there in the North, this is the proper New Zealand. Or it is to me, anyway - but then, I am a born Mainlander.

The Baby isn't, though, and she thinks just the same. She, the lucky, lucky thing, has been doing her own road trip from the very top to the very bottom of the country, on her bicycle, and this is where she's been really blown away by the scenery. Myself, I'm blown away not just by her adventurousness, her determination and her grit, but also by her proudly hairy legs and sun tan - both carefully cultivated as badges of honour. She's been Warm Showering, and free camping, but tonight I'm happy that she'll be safely under our roof. I just wish it were a nicer one: this is our worst Airbnb so far - clean enough, but so basic, and nothing, nothing! supplied in the way of breakfast. Not even any salt to put in my porridge! Appalling.

But, what can you expect of Twizel? The town is a bit of a blot, totally artificial (built to house hydroelectric workers) and only ever meant to be functional and temporary. It should have been pulled down years ago, as it was meant to be. Still, it's a convenient stopping-place, and Poppies restaurant served up an acceptable pork belly tonight.

NZ Roadtrip Akaroa: cat, dog and dolphin (not)

There was a 5.7 earthquake in Christchurch today, at lunchtime. It collapsed, fairly dramatically, part of the cliffs at Sumner, and no doubt opened up a lot of cracks around the city. Did we feel it? No, to the Poms' disappointment: we were in the car, and never noticed - though they did at Akaroa, where things fell off shelves. I was just quite glad we weren't in the gondola hanging off the Port Hills - or facing a tsunami along the Avon, in our punt.

Akaroa, on the other side of Banks Peninsula, was founded by Captain Jean Langlois, who missed out claiming the rest of the country for France by a matter of months. Ever since then, the settlement has clung to its Frenchness, which is now of course a wonderful tourism advantage, on top of its prime position alongside a sheltered harbour in a drowned volcanic crater. It's a pretty place, the streets all named Rue this and that, the buildings cute, the Tricouleur flying on the seafront, and an eager Town Crier in a tricorn hat called Steve Lelièvre - the man, not the hat - who genuinely is of French descent - and whose ancestor, François, was the man who planted the cutting that Christchurch's willows are descended from.

As you would expect, food is of great importance, and our lunchtime cheese platter on the pavement in the sun was beautifully presented (by a French waiter), with pork belly, potato salad and toasted sunflower bread. We couldn't linger too long though: we had dolphins to find. Akaroa is home to the world's smallest and rarest dolphin, Hector's dolphin, which is cute and easily identified by its Mickey Mouse-shaped dorsal fin. 

We set off in Akaroa Dolphin's little catamaran, with dolphin-spotting dog Hector on board, togged up in his life-jacket (with its spoilsport Do Not Feed label). Apparently he is the real deal, and we were looking forward to seeing him do his thing - but, sadly, the dolphins were a no-show today, possibly because of the earthquake, since they had been seen that morning. (So, don't tell the others, it was just as well I've been up close to them in the Catlins.) But it wasn't a disaster: it was a lovely day, we saw fur seals and fairy penguins instead, impressive cliffs and salmon farms, went outside the heads, heard history and geology, and had a glass of wine. And afterwards, I even persuaded the Poms to eat fish and chips by the sea as the sun began to set: so, win!

NZ Roadtrip Christchurch: cracks, cones and cathedral

It's a bit odd, coming to your home town as a tourist. In the case of Christchurch, that's somewhat less the case since the city is superficially so very much changed, post-earthquakes, from the place I grew up in - though still itself, underneath. Well, not literally underneath - that's where all the fault lines and lurking liquefaction lie - but in the parts that weren't so much affected by the shakes. So that's not my side of the city, where I was astonished to see entire suburbs completely gone, just the road network and garden trees remaining: so disorientating that I got lost just blocks from where my former home still (fortunately) stands, apparently unharmed.

The roads are still bumpy, there are still ranks of cones everywhere, and the Cathedral is still its sad self, crumbling, open to the elements and the depredations of pigeons, its future still, after five years, undecided. But. There's a lot that's new too, and exciting, and fun. The clanking old trams are running frequently, their drivers maintaining an impressive level of enthusiasm in their continuous commentaries, the re:START mall of converted container shops is colourful and buzzing (and serving excellent food - pulled pork and beans taco, yum!), and there's lots to do.

The Christchurch Pass ($80) bought us entry to first of all the gondola up the Port Hills, the easy way up to a view (though I watched a man hiking up the Bridle Path with a toddler on his back) over the city to the mountains, and over Lyttelton Harbour. There's a Time Tunnel thing included, which is slightly naff, but ends with a rather touching message about the future from a young girl.

The second element is a punt ride along the Avon through the Botanic Gardens: half an hour of - well, not peace, there were too many people enjoying the river for that - but interest and colour, and fun. Our punter (?) was full of information  - I never knew the the city's weeping willows are all descendants of the tree that grew over Napoleon's grave on St Helena - and skilled at propelling the punt (unlike the *cough* Chinese trio in the canoe ahead of us, doggedly zigzagging from bank to bank). I liked that two ladies sitting on a park bench called out to us, "Are you enjoying our city?"

The third part of the Pass was the tram ride. There is a dining tram for what I imagine would be a pretty bumpy - but very good, I'm told - dinner; but we tried several other places during our stay. Casa Publica in pretty, restored New Regent Street does a fabulous made-at-the-table guacamole; the Friday Food Trucks are less elegant, but the vibe was reminiscent of my youth's Friday nights in the city when the shops were open till 9pm! Best of all was Protocol, at the end of Colombo Street: pulled beef cheek on mash. Delicious.

We were up that end because our Airbnb place was up in Dyer's Pass Road, a grand old dame that the owners had bought as an insurance write-off, and were restoring. They have some way to go, but are full of the determined enthusiasm that kind of defines Christchurch now (if you overlook the worn-down depression that's resulted for many from insurance disputes and painfully slow progress).

But let's not finish on a low note: Christchurch is still a lovely city with much to offer and enjoy - Museum, Botanic Gardens, lively restaurant scene, shops, exciting renovations underway along the river, at the Arts Centre, Town Hall, pop-ups... It's a city just full of splendid sights.