Roadtrip to paradise

[skyring]

Sleep knitted up my ravelled fatigue and I arose bright, early and ready for the day. Cereal and a hot drink in my new mug. I decided on tea, because it was a Tea Papa mug.


Packing is easy with a duffle bag. Just open it up, chuck everything in and zip it back up. Shuttle bus to the ferry terminal right outside the hostel door and I drank in Wellington for the final time as we drove along the waterfront, past the great museum, the parks, the old warehouses, the huge rugby stadium. And on the other side, the modern office blocks rose above the few remnants from the 1800s and early 1900s. The great round “Beehive” parliamentary annex, an escapee from the brutalist period of the last century, showed as a glimpse up a side street.

And here was the ferry terminal, busy with backpackers and campervans. We pulled up, and there were my companions waiting for me, ready to check in as a group so our luggage would be offloaded together at the far end.

“Follow me,” called Discoverylover, and we spent a pleasant ten minutes touring the ship, before finding a group of reclining chairs with a view. Big ferry, as these things go. There was a plaque showing her previous name: Isle of Innisfree, as opposed to her New Zealand name of Kaitaki. There was another name painted over on the hull outside: Pride of Cherbourg. Not to mention the name of Stena Challenger she’d had on the Baltic run. All very confusing, really.

Cafe, bar, giftshoppe, restaurant, a couple of observation areas. The ship was sharply divided into tourists and regular passengers. The tourists scampered up and down the stairs, clogged the rails, taking photographs of the ship, the harbour, the hills, each other… The regulars found a comfy chair and went to sleep.

We backed out, turned around and began our crossing. This is really the best way to see Wellington. Across the water and the narrow strip of flat land, the hills rise steeply, crowded with houses – wooden houses against the earthquakes – set amongst trees that had grown with the city. A delightful prospect from either viewpoint, come to think of it.

Down the harbour, past one end of the airport, around the rocky headlands, feeling the first swells lift the ship as we headed out into Cook Strait, more headlands, tiny beaches and clusters of houses, past the other end of the airport’s sole runway, and then the North Island began to fade away.

Not that we’re ever out of sight of land. The South Island is visible from the North Island, if you stand in the right places, and when I find a way out onto one of the viewing areas, I’m rewarded with a flat sea, land on both horizons, and tourists busily finding spots that are in the sunlight, out of the wind, and blessed with a view. In sheltered nooks, off-duty crew members stand with cigarettes.

Ahead of us, we’re sailing into solid land. No bay, no gulf, no river mouth opens up; plain unbroken South Island. Just as we start to wonder if the entire bridge crew is down having a fag on deck, an inlet opens up, hidden behind a cape. This turns out to be one of the passages of the Marlborough Sounds, a maze of drownd valleys leading down to the port of Picton.

The steep-sided green hills rise high from the water. There is very little flat land here, as we cruise along, marvelling at the beauty of the scene. MissMarkey and I stand entranced, turning from port to starboard and back again, pointing out details to each other. A sweet little holiday house with an impossibly steep path to the ridge towering behind. A fish farm with rows of pens. A millionaire’s yacht cruising along with us. A sudden vista opening up to a far mountain over a long water passage.



The sun silvers the water as we turn to come in to Picton. The ship slows and turns to back in for the vehicle ramp to engage. Drivers are called to vehicles, and before long we foot passengers are crowding the foyer, filing down to the main deck, walking out in the sunshine, waiting around the luggage carousel.

What I should have done, in hindsight, is to go straight to the car rental office. I’d reserved two cars to take us down to Christchurch, and getting hold of both of them before other hirers began cluttering up the rental office would have saved a lot of time. My fellow travellers could easily have recovered my two bright yellow bags.

Oh well. When we got out of the terminal building, there was a queue in the rental office, some of those ahead had problems, and when I was served, I found they’d somehow combined both reservations. My car was waiting in a priority slot outside the office, but we needed two cars. That took more time to sort out, but we ended up – eventually – on the road south.

South as far as the local supermarkt, anyway. Here we bought the makings of a picnic, found a park by the waterside, and passed a knife around as we prepared our meals, slicing cheese, rolls, meat, fruit. Thuh knife. Mack the knife.

So pleasant to have a simple meal, good friends, a fantastic view and a few days of leisure. Our ferry loaded up and moved away down the sound, passing another coming in. We took photographs of the sun on the water, people playing with dogs, kids, Frisbees. Photographs of each other, posing under our tree, in front of a war memorial, on park benches.



But, delightful though it was, we still had a long drive ahead, and after making sure everyone had had a comfort stop, we got on the road south.

I lost sight of Kevin’s car in the carpark, and assuming that he was on the road ahead of me – there’s only the one road south – off I went. We had loose plans to drive in convoy, but I wasn’t too fussed at losing him. We both knew where we were headed, we both had GPS units, we both had mobile phones in case of neeed.

And, if the truth be known, I very much prefer to drive at my own pace. Give me a good road, a good car, an accelerator and a brake, and I’m happy.

In this case, I had good company and tremendous scenery as well. I’d scored MissMarkey and Discoverylover as my passengers. I was rapidly becoming a total MissMarkey fan after spending a bit of time with her enjoying the scenery on the ferry and listening to her tales of adventure on the North Island. New Zealand is such a small place, but she’d found a few parts that I hadn’t visited yet and she talked, her eyes gleaming, of the beauty of those parts. The way she showed her delight in the scenery and the experience was infectious. She had a gleeful sense of wonder at this wonderful land, so wild and different to the green and pleasant English countryside of her normal life.

As for DL, her smile and lively sense of humour make her good value at any time. She passed over a stream of CDs as we headed south, and as the scenery became more impressive, so did the music. There were even a few songs MissMarkey and I recognised!

The last time I’d driven this road, in 2003, I’d been keeping an eye out for sealife. Whales, dolphins, seals. I’d known there were seal colonies to be seen and I’d scanned every beach passed, as well as stealing glances out to sea in the hope of seeing a whale spouting in the breakers. No joy, and when we had stopped for lunch at Kaikoura, it had been a long walk over sharp rocks to see seals.

I later read in a guidebook that there were several viewing places along the coast road, and I then remembered seeing clusters of cars here and there.

So, this time around I was going to find one of those places and look for seals.

At first, we drove inland. Farms and hills and small towns. Pleasant driving. To my Australian eyes, the whole country is a lot greener than anybody has a right to hope for. Grass that isn’t golden brown at the end of summer. Whole hillsides covered with the stuff.

And then the sea began creeping closer on the GPS map. Little glimmers of blue off to the east, and now and then from a high place, a flat distant horizon would present itself.

And up ahead, the hills were turning into mountains. I delved into my limited reserves of New Zealand geography. Kaikoura was the town we were passing through before heading up inland to Hanmer Springs for the night. It was hard pressed against the ocean by two parallel ranges of mountains, imaginatively named the Seaward Kaikouras and the Inland Kaikouras. We’d return to Kaikoura tomorrow for the whalewatching cruise, so there was a certain amount of backtracking involved.

“What are those mountains?” MissMarkey asked from the seat beside me. Her village in England doesn’t have much in the way of mountains. And certainly not a Misty Mountain range of tall snowcapped peaks striding across the land.

“Ah, those are the Seaward Kaikouras,” I said. There was a snort from the back seat, Discoverylover critiquing my pronunciation.

MissMarkey unfolded the map. “Oooh, so they are! Clever you!”

Aww shucks. But it’s hard for an Aussie to get a tongue around these Maori placenames.

No sign of Kevin in the other car. Either he was driving furiously well ahead of me, or I was outstripping his more leisurely pace somewhere along the road behind. I suspected the latter, but it was a lovely road to drive, twisting and swooping as we came down to the sea, and I knew we’d catch up somewhere along the way.

Finally, there was a stopping place. A wide outlook over a crescent of beach, picnic table perched over the bright blue sea. I pulled up and announced a break for stretching of legs.

It was good to just look out on the view without having to concentrate on the road. I’ve always liked having a water view, and this was one of the better ones, with the mighty Pacific stretching away without a break to Chile. I had a look for seals, and glanced hopefully out to sea for whale spouts and dolphins. No luck, but I was pretty sure we’d find seals further on.

Right. Back in the car and away we go…

MissMarkey was nowhere in sight, but a distant figure away down the beach, hair blowing in the wind might have been her. And Discoverylover was doing the good BookCrosser thing, wrapping up a book in a release bag to leave on the picnic table. “The Mermaid Chair”. Right.

So we stopt for a few more scenic minutes, wind in our faces, seagulls curving overhead, a silver Ford passing by, people waving at us…

So Kev had been behind all the time. And now he was ahead.

MissMarkey came back, happy. And off we went, leaving a book in a bag beside a lovely, lonely beach.

I told my companions about my 2003 trip, and how we’d missed out on the seal views. That set them looking off to the side, down onto the rocks as we passed by, mountain edge close on one side, short drop down to the coast on the other.

“Oooh, there’s one!” MissMarkey, excitedly.

“And another, look!” Discoverylover, pointing from the back seat.

I stole a moment from the road ahead, glancing down at a field of rocks by the water. Rocks of various sizes. Kelp fronds waving in the swell offshore. There could be a dozen seals, swimming amongst the kelp, lazing rocklike on rocky platforms. I wouldn’t know it in a fleeting glance.

“There’s loads of them!”

Right. This must be the spot. Up ahead the roadside verge widened into a dusty stopping place. I indicated left and pulled up, wrestling the car to a narrow halt above a steep drop off, where a cement fixture offered a viewing platform.

Slam-slam. My passengers were out, cameras in my hand. I rummaged around for mine and followed to where they were sitting on the concrete flat, pointing out to each other.

I looked along the pointing fingers. A seal, sitting up on a rock, scratching itself with a hind flipper. And another! My eyes got the measure of all those grey-brown rocky shapes. There were hundreds of them! Seals everywhere. Sleeping, yawning, scratching, squabbling, swimming amongst the kelp.

MissMarkey was beside herself with excitement. She started giving names to the nearest seals, waving at them. They waved back!



We contented ourselves with photography for a bit. My camera has a good zoom, and I could get close to the seals, composing shots, getting the expressions on their furry faces…

I looked up. Discoverylover was beside me, clicking off photo after photo. But MissMarkey had found a way down to the rocks, and was crouching as close as she dared to a friendly seal.



After a while, we were sealed out and up in the car on the road again. It was coastal driving all the way down to Kaikoura, where Kev and the other two had stopped for coffee. We drove up and down the main street, but didn’t see them.

The main street of Kaikoura is about a kilometre long, by the way – it sticks out on a peninsula, with a beach on one side and the port and light industry on the other. There were numerous sidestreets, and I wasn’t keen on exploring them all.

At this point I’ll mention the GPS unit we’d hired with the car. A standard model with the usual sort of options, but I hadn’t had much time to fiddle with it, and as a safety feature you couldn’t reprogram it on the move. It knew when the car was moving, how fast you were going, whether you were on a road, what your thoughts were…

My thoughts were rapidly becoming unprintable. I’d entered Hanmer Springs into it as a destination, and as we moseyed around Kaikoura the GPS kept on thinking we’d gone off track, and would announce this in an exasperated female voice. “Recalculating!” she would sniff in a huffed tone as she worked out a fresh route. I’d blithely sail past the nominated intersection – I was looking for a silver Ford, not the quickest way to Hanmer, after all – and you could feel the voice pause in disgust before taking another snipe at my ability to follow directions. “Recalculating!” “Recalculating!” “Recalculating!”

But I had to laugh when we agreed that we’d have to name the voice. “I know!” Discoverylover said. “Wanda!”

Wanda? Wander! Laughter all round. Wanda she was from that moment. When she wasn’t announcing that we’d gone off track once again, she was wildly mispronouncing the names of roads and streets. Normal English words were no trouble, but the Maori names totally threw her. Join the club, Wanda!

We gave up on afternoon tea. The road up to Hanmer Springs branched off from the coastal highway just outside Kaikoura, and we still had a couple of hours to go before we got there. We’d have to check into our hostel and then race down to the hot springs for whatever soak we could get before they closed.

Wanda was pleased as we settled back on the optimum route. There was really only one way to go, because we were heading into a valley between the two mountain ranges, and we weren’t equipped for mountain climbing.

From this point on we left the ocean behind us, turning inland. The mountains that had formed a barrier opened for us at Kaikoura and we skirted their lower flanks, looking up in wonder at the snow-covered ridges far above.

The rivers and roads we followed were golden in autumn foliage, the hillsides were green, and in every direction the mountains embraced us. It was an extraordinary beauty. The sun dropped behind the taller mountains, giving us a dappled late afternoon in gold and shadow as we followed the road higher.

A driver’s road, deserted, winding, narrow bitumen, and I enjoyed every metre of it in our rental car, testing the Holden’s abilities. And my own.

At one bend I took a line a little too fast and wide, nearly clipping a guidepost, and my passengers began pulling their eyes away down from the peaks gleaming in the sunset and towards my hands grasping the wheel.

I slowed down a bit. I might be a professional driver on familiar city avenues, but here, where every corner could conceal a flock of sheep, a tractor, or a roadworker holding a big red STOP sign, aiming for my best travel speed probably wasn’t a winning strategy.

And I took the time to enjoy the scenery. I often say that to an Australian eye, the landscape of New Zealand is spectacular, the mountains leaning in to say hello, but to any observer, the drive up from Kaikoura is magnificent.

I was smiling happily, scarcely able to believe that I was here in this time and space, a fresh new car at my command, eye-popping scenery all around on this clear golden day, and two beautiful women sharing the moment. It was perfect.

Then it got better. Discoverylover handed over a CD and MissMarkey slid it into the player. “The Lord of the Rings soundtrack,” Discoverylover informed us, and I sighed in happiness.

The Lord of the Rings movies had been filmed in New Zealand, the dramatic landscape a perfect setting for the epic tale. As the first few notes thrilled out through the speakers, I looked up at the mountains, the golden trees, the rolling hills and the clear bright sky and I knew that I had found paradise.

The rest of the drive was pure magic. We listened in rapture to the music, the flowing music as we drove along the valley, and later, as the twilight gathered, the music turned darker and more threatening. At one chilling point, the forces of the Dark Lord racing through our minds, a row of trees along the roadside grew from a distant shadow to a murky wood shape towering over the speeding car.

We galloped away from danger, silent and enthralled as the music turned triumphant and peaceful again.

Wanda woke up. “Turn right into Mouse Point Road,” she commanded.

We looked at each other and laughed. “Look,” said MissMarkey, pointing ahead through the windscreen. “A wee little mousie!”

A sign appeared, warning of a one lane bridge. It stretched out ahead of us as we turned to cross the Waiau River, a narrow bridge half a kilometre long over the braided streams. The last glow of evening reached down to touch the banks, and when I pulled into a passing bay midway along to let an oncoming car proceed, Discoverylover got out her camera, wound down her window, and tried to capture the moment.

The other car went past us, and I continued on.

“Hey, Speedy,” came a voice from the back seat. “I hadn’t finished taking pictures!”

Her wish is my command, and when we reached the far end of the bridge, I turned around and we travelled slowly back, every opportunity for camerawork given.

And then, of course, we were on the wrong side of the river, so we made another turn and crossed for a third time.



This time, I stopped the car in the passing bay, got out and took my own set of pictures. Traffic passed us in both directions, drivers smiling at the happy tourists.

From then on it was a short drive, ten minutes or so, to our homely hostel in Hanmer. The town of Hanmer Springs is small, stretching along the highway for a kilometre, motels and restaurants, bed and breakfast houses, all centred on the compound enclosing the hot springs. Our hostel was a tiny place, two wooden buildings and a small carpark.



A carpark with a silver Ford in. Kev had somehow gotten ahead of us, and he and his passengers were checking in, lugging bags around, chatting with the host, stroking the hostel cat.

We joined them, settling in for the night, with one eye on the clock for our evening bathe in the springs.

I’ve staid at hostels around the world, but this one in the remote mountains of New Zealand, is right up there in every sense of the word. Not a big place, but beautifully furnished, clean and tidy to a fastidious degree, and graced with one of the friendliest, most enthusiastic hosts it has ever been my pleasure to meet. He even had a big bowl of easter eggs on the table for his guests.

Edwin, from the Netherlands, had bought the hostel a few days earlier, and was determined to make it the best in the world. I don’t know what it was like before, but he was pretty close to his ambition already. He couldn’t help us enough. Gave us a guided tour. Big dining table, spotless kitchen, two big bathrooms and some private rooms downstairs, upstairs a lounge with internet computer, fireplace, well-stocked bookshelf. And outside, in an annex, a couple of bunkrooms.

The hostel cat, Pepper, knew her job, strutting around with a proprietorial air, occasionally settling in a lap, ever willing to be patted. A very prosperous looking cat, I suspect that she did well out of leftovers and scraps from the cooking!

We signed the books, handed over credit cards for the reasonable charge, stowed our gear and got our costumes for the hot springs. It was just after seven, they closed at nine, we had a good hour or so of soaking, and then, Edwin assured us, there were still restaurants and pubs open for dinner.

A few minutes walk through a mellow evening to the baths. The main street was lined with cafes and boutiques, and we window-shopped in passing, taking note of displayed menus and closing times for the eateries.

The hot springs had a small entry charge. Extra if you had to hire towels and togs. There were large change areas and showers, private pools for the more modest, and many large pools at a range of temperatures, in which an amazing number of people were lounging, almost hidden in the steam rising from the water.

We changed, stoad our clothes and shoes in lockers, and found a pool with a reasonable temperature.

Lord, but it was pleasant to soak in the hot water. There were ledges at just the right height, to lean back and relax, a few of us in companionable silence or quiet chat, just letting the long day seep away.

We explored the various bathing options. The evening was growing cool enough that the pools down around the thirty degree mark were unattractive, and we gravitated towards the forty degree end of the spectrum.

Half past eight, and the place was crowded. I reckon the entire floating population of Hanmer was there. And even a few minutes to nine, there were stlll a few lollygaggers – like us – waiting to be chaste out of the water.

And we were. Reluctantly we left, showered, changed and left the compound, searching for our late dinner.

We found it at the dairy over the road, where we ordered golden fish and chips, wrapped up in real actual newspapers, just like the old days. Mmmmm!

And then we sauntered back to the hostel, where we drained our second bottle of duty-free champagne, hit up the internet, made hot drinks (free supplies of tea and coffee, thank you Edwin) and chatted into the night.

And finally, to bed. What a long but lovely day it had been. Heaven must be like this.

Comments

[holmesfan.livejournal.com]

That is absolutely brilliant SR. Almost like being there.
You must be able to sell travel writing like that and pay for a few more trips - or do you do that already? Dumb question perhaps.
But I do take issue with Tea Papa!!!! Your readers are not mugs.

[skyring.livejournal.com]

Tidy it up a bit, I'll see if I can sell some articles

But no, taxidriving pays for all my trips.

*sigh*

[discoverylover.livejournal.com]

What I love about your writing is that it really captures the essence of the trip - none of this 'and then this happened and then this happened' like mine!!!

Thanks for letting me relive it again!

(((((((((((((Pete))))))))))))))))

Re: *sigh*

[skyring.livejournal.com]

I need to tidy away some of the clutter, but you saw how quickly the writing flowed when I got going. I was reliving the absolute delight of the trip. Couldn't ask for better companions - you and MissMarkey and Tom

[wombles.livejournal.com]

amazing, no more words...

[skyring.livejournal.com]

It was a day I'll remember the rest of my life. And the next was just as good. And the next, and the next...

[lyzzybee.livejournal.com]

Oh goodness that's a wonderful read. Quite took me away from my leafy green campus, students' voices drifting in the windows... I was in New Zealand with you all. Lovely!

[miketroll.livejournal.com]

Wish I'd been there! Fabulous scenery and DL sunshine is a hard combination to beat!

:)

[martip.livejournal.com]

Sounds like the most enchanting day ever. And your pics are gorgeous! I've never seen a seal not in the zoo, but would love to.

[alkaline-kiwi.livejournal.com]

Wonderful description of that day.. love the photos too :D

[lusks.livejournal.com]

Having done that trip before in reverse, I was picturing everything in my mind. Thank you so much for bringing my memories back to life.

[whytraven.livejournal.com]

I've been on at least one of the Pride Of ships, but not this one. She used to be P&O. Here's some history:

http://www.simplonpc.co.uk/PrideofCherbourg2002.html

Pretty cool. Reminds me of family trips across the Channel on the way to Slovenia.

[skyring.livejournal.com]

Wow! Some people have way too much time on their hands.

Bit like me, I guess, with my photographs of airliners.

Thanks for that.

Reminded me of the ferries serving the Channel Islands.

[(Anonymous)]

Lovely memories of an unforgettable day. You rock, by the way.