And the rot sets in...

“Surprise me!”
“Oh for God’s sake, it’s getting boring now, make a decision"

I should have known it was only a matter of time before the rot set in. But hey we’ve done pretty well, almost a month in each other’s pockets and we haven’t killed each other. But I’m sure there have been moments where we’ve thought about it.

If you’re wondering where we’ve been for the past few days to a week, we’ve been busy. We’re not here to keep you entertained you know. It’s not all about you. It’s about me and don’t forget it.

We’re currently in Christchurch Airport, waiting to board a plane back to Sydney. It needs to be on time because we’re going to see Barry Humphries tonight at the Opera House. Well, when in Rome....slaughter a few Christians.

The last three days we have spent on mountain bikes riding the Otago Rail Trail. That’s 155km of arse numbing gravel tracks which, as you may have already guessed used to be a railway, travelling between Clyde and Middlemarch. I know what you’re thinking, 155km is nothing, and I would have agreed with you before setting off. All I will say is tarmac is easier, much faster and a million times smoother.

You may remember earlier this year we embarked on a similar adventure cycling from Whitehaven to Tynemouth. You may also remember that it was an ordeal doused with more than its fair share of horizontal rainfall and howling icy winds. Well the Otago Rail Trail proved to be quite similar in a number of ways.

Day One (AM) – glorious sunshine as we picked up our bikes and dropped off our luggage in Clyde. We’re not stupid, we had someone courier the luggage to our accommodation each day. You could almost smell the jealousy of other riders on the trail, with their bulging panniers, bloodshot eyes and salty brows.

We were advised that the first part of the journey was quite dull and that it would be better to take a quick diversion along the side of the river to Alexandra. Now, it’s never as simple as that is it? My arthritic knee and lack of cruciate ligaments has had a massive impact on what we’ve been able to do whilst we’ve been here, but we thought as the trail was relatively flat riding that it shouldn’t aggravate it too much. How hard can it be? A nice, relaxing riverbank ride under the shade of the poplar trees. Cool, even and sedate. Oh how wrong could we be?

The track from the bridge should have given us a clue, boulders the size of heads and an incline of about 1:5, that’s pretty steep in layman’s terms. Well as I’ve mentioned before Jane and balance don’t exactly go hand in hand and in these kinds of situations she has been found to crumble and shed a tear. But wait, I spoke to soon, she managed admirably. However, it wasn’t too long before the, what can only be described as a mountain biking, bone shaking, knee clanging assault course of a riverside track got the better of her. But not where you’d think. As per usual the NZ map was as clear as foggy day in old London town and we missed our turn. So Jane stopped pedaling, pulled on her breaks ready to turn around and forgot to take her feet out of her pedal clips. You know one day the leaning tower of Pisa will fall down. If it does, I can’t imagine it will fall with the same grace as my darling wife and it probably won’t consume as much gravel.

Anyway, long story short, we both survived. My knee and Jane’s pride were both still intact even if only just.


Onwards to Chatto Creek, passing and being passed as riders jostled for position and their natural rhythm. We’re still looking for Jane’s natural rhythm. They say once you’ve had black you never go back. Well Jane definitely isn’t black. A pretty uneventful ride, but enough to give you a feel for the majesty and magnitude of the country we would be passing through.

Chatto Creek, as we would discover about pretty much all of the stops on the way wasn’t exactly what you’d call a town or a village for that matter. Or a hamlet, or a row, or a street. It consisted of a pub that used to be a station house. So we ate, drank, rested and enjoyed our first taste of the hospitality that would be synonymous with the rail trail. After our toasties, which would become our staple diet, I lounged on a hammock while Jane worried the chucks, the cows and the donkey, and then we had to re-mount, the bikes that is, and be on our way.


One thing that you learn quite quickly on these rides is that if you stop for too long it makes life so much harder for you when you have to get going again. And guess what? We stopped for too long. Trying to get going again after your muscles have started to shut down and repair is a bloody chore, but slowly and surely you get back into your groove and then miles, because let’s face it kilometers are so gay, start to slip silently by.

To be continued, when I’ve got nothing better to do.... Look at some pictures if you want.

B&B and Nasty Habits

Bed and breakfast? Basic and banal? Boutique and beautiful? What’s your take on the ever so English in its origins B&B? Well I’m undecided. I think any of the above can hit he mark depending on the day of the week, the accommodation, the guests, the weather and the proprietors. We were recommended a book called Boutique Lodgings, which outlines some of the more quirky places to stay in New Zealand, ranging from ridiculously expensive to the very reasonable. The only thing they all have in common is their own brand of unique and the NZ Qualmark. A kind of AA recommended, but with a little more panache. So far we’ve stayed at two B&Bs from the book with very differing results.

The first was in Christchurch, I won’t mention the name of the establishment as I don’t want to be dragged through their courts by cahoonas. It was a lovely old building, well old by New Zealand standards. That’s anything over fifty years. You have to remember, the Maoris have only been here for a thousand years and Europeans just the last hundred and fifty, so old is a very relative term. Jane’s old by New Zealand standards, but I’m still just a spring lamb. Anyway, the accommodation was lovely, the location was great but the owner, who we’ll call Pete for the purposes of this blog was a bit of a cold fish. Now my gaydar is usually much better than Jane’s, but even she said “I think he might be a merry queen”. Was it the handlebar waxed moustache? The immaculate, starched, pastel appearance? The absence of a significant other? Or the way he minced around the breakfast room in his pinny? “I think it’s a safe bet love, he’s as camp as a chiffon tent” I said. “But I think he has children” she said. I slapped her, and she said no more on the subject.

I don’t know what it was. We just didn’t warm to him and I’m not sure he did to us either. Obviously it wasn’t anything to do with his sexuality as we both know and like a number of the afore mentioned stereotypes. You know who you are! The comfortable shoes and dungaree brigade too.

Whatever it was, it was compounded by the one thing that is really special about B&Bs. The clue is in the title. Breakfast. Not the food, which is usually pretty good. Let’s face it, why would you open a B&B if you didn’t like or weren’t able to knock up a good fry or continental buffet? It’s the communal table or the table of death as I like to call it. It is a very special place. Occupied by embarrassed people, who would rather die than strike up a conversation with someone they’ll never meet again. Or is that just me? Why do I think that everybody is thinking “I bet they shagged last night”. You can see it in their faces. I really struggle with it. Why do they feel the need to strike up a conversation with you? If I was more honest I would get up and say;
“I don’t care where you’ve been so far. I’m not interested in your recommendations I don’t know you, but from first impressions I don’t like what I’ve seen. Have the good bloody manners to sit quietly. You don’t need to know what we do. You don’t need to know how long we’ve been here or where we’re going. Mind your own bloody business.” But then the other option is to sit in silence. Mind this was the only option our first night there, because all the guests were Japanese. So obviously they spoke about us without our knowing and ear wigged our conversation. Bastards!

The second one was completely different. Te Anau Lodge in Te Anau. Again, a lovely old building, which used to be a convent and still retains many of its original features. I smiled as soon as I found that out as the Nun jokes from my teens came flooding back;

Sister Maria and Agnes in the bath. Sister Maria says ”Where’s the soap”, to which Sister Agnes replies “Yes it does, doesn’t it”.

It had stained glass windows and an old pedal organ in the dining room. A well stocked library/communal area with a fabulous old boxed gramophone and chesterfield sofas to relax in. Beautiful wooden interiors throughout and excellent views of the mountains and lake. Last but not least, an enormously welcoming couple, George and Margaret who literally couldn’t do enough to make us feel at home and who brimmed with a childlike, infectious excitement about their home and surroundings.

After a wander round the town and a bite to eat we popped back and sat in the library where we were joined one by one by a number of people, who all had a story to tell and who were all pretty interesting. I won’t go into detail, but we had a bit of a laugh, assisted I’m sure by the complimentary wine and beer. I don’t think it was supposed to last all night, but Jane found the cupboard it was kept in, so we helped ourselves. Obviously we didn’t take the pee as that would be rude, but we had enough to oil the wheels of conversation.

Anyway, long story short, it was a hugely different experience. Breakfast as always, was a little uncomfortable, but Jane said it was fine for her. I think what she’s trying to say is I’m an unsociable bugger.

I think she’s right. But I’m no nearer to solving the riddle of the B&B.

The notes we don't play...

Travel? Hmm? I started writing a blog about my disdain for travel, well more specifically the process of getting there, not the actual experience of the country being visited. I didn’t finish it, and hence didn’t post it because I fell asleep on the plane on the way over. Oh the irony. I’ll finish it and fill you in after our return leg to the UK, if I remember.

Anyway, after just over two weeks away from home, I’m here to tell you, I’m not sure I even like the “experience” bit either. Oh wait a second. Wind your neck in. Before you start condemning me for being a bah humbug, at least listen to what I have to say.

On one of our recent expeditions to Matheson lake, which incidently was very pretty, I overheard a group of Irish people talking about where they’d been and where they wanted to go –I know, they get bloody everywhere. I think the exact phrase was “Have you done Queenstown yet?” Well have you? It seems that an entire generation’s attitude to travelling is summed up in this statement. What have you done? Where have you been? Where do you want to go next? Quantify, quantify, quantify!

But what does it matter? Everywhere’s the bloody same. Wherever you go around the world these days one city is pretty much the same as the next. Overpriced food, overpriced attractions someone trying to fleece you at every turn. One set of ruins looks much like the rest. As I’m fond of saying to Jane, once you’ve seen one cathederal you’ve seen them all. Looking out of the window at the mountains, I can’t help but think it looks just like the Lake District in England.

There is next to nothing you can see when travelling that you can’t see from the safety of your sofa in a book or on television. If you’re on a package tour, you have no control and get to see what the guides want to show you which is inevitably the commercial rubbish. Made worse by having to travel on a bus with morons of every ilk. If you’re travelling independantly, you have to research and book, and research and book some more and you still end up where everyone else does, but at least you get there when you want to and not when someone else tells you to.

But the pressure to go and see stuff is extreme. You’ve come all of this way and you really must see.... Of course it would be a complete waste of a holiday to travel somewhere and do nothing at all, but why do we feel the need to do everything it says in the guide books? We’re going to get some T-shirts printed with “Jane & Mark’s Honeymoon Tour” on the front and out complete intinerary on the back. So everyone knows we maxed out and saw what we had to see.

If I can hark back to those damned Irish. I may be wrong, but in years to come I bet it isn’t the places they have been to that they talk about. I’m pretty sure it will be the people they have met along the way. I bet they won’t even remember where Queenstown is.

We’ve already visited quite a lot of the tourist traps in New Zealand, but before you think I’m not enjoying myself here are the things I think I’ll remember the most:

• Walking along the deserted beach from Milnthorpe to Collingwood.
• Meeting the quirky owners of the vineyards around Nelson.
• The generosity of our landlords and landladies in our accommodation; only this morning we had some freshly laid eggs left on our doorstep and a note saying help yourself to whatever’s in the greenhouse. I preseume the eggs were laid by the chickens and not the landlady herself.
• Travelling in the car, just taking in the scenery and singing along to Elvis – Jane really is the Devil in disguise.

I think what I’m trying to say that it’s just the process of living in a different environment I enjoy the most. For me, the longer I have in one place the better. The scenery, the museums, the food, the wine, the “things” can all be found elsewhere in one form or another.

Alright, if you’re being picky there are some things you can’t find anywhere, but so what. Do the “things” enrich you? Do they make your life fuller and more complete? I’ve heard it said of ambition that you can spend so much time trying to achieve a goal that you miss everything else on the way. Dave and I often joke about the pretentiousness of musicains who say things like “sometimes it’s about the notes you don’t play”. But surely sometimes less is more.

For me travel can be as simple as dinking a cup of coffee and looking out of a window at your surroundings. Breathing in the air. Enjoying the company of the people you are with. It should be a simple and relaxed experience.

Dave’s mum famously once said; “There’s a lot about the unknown we know nothing about”.

Sometimes that’s just the way I like it.

Glacial Misgivings

We tried to visit Franz Joseph Glacier yesterday. Well we tried, but thought better of it as neither of us had a coat and it was raining buckets. So we quickly switched to plan B which was to to visit Fox Glacier instad. Well as you can imagine I was very excited. I’ve never really understood the draw of glaciers, but with global warming and their imminent deimise I am now strangely attracted to them, like a chav to shell suits and Greggs the bakers.

Anyway, we’re staying in Franz Joseph so we had to drive for half an hour to get Fox Glacier. It should really go without saying that we’re in the mountains now, as glaciers are rarely found on beaches or in cities. So half an hour later after winding through mountain passes with Jane clinging onto her seat with every turn, we pull up in the car park and see the enormity and grandieur of the mountains up close an personal. It was cloudy here, but the rain hadn’t managed to break through as yet.

The sign at the bottom of the steps read “Observation platform - one hour return”, so off we trotted hoping that we would get there and back before the rain came. Up and over the first set of steps and the landscape changed drastically. It looked much as I imagined the surface of the moon might. An almost white, flat bottomed valley with bright blue scattered pools of water. Streams running down the surrounding cliffs and from the head of the valley where the glacier itself must be, a raging torrent of melting ice. It woud really be quite an eerie scene if it were not for the snakes of Japanese tourists, snapping away in their own inimitable fashion at rocks and each other. Did I mention I found one taking a picture of a poster in the aiport when we landed. What was he going to do with it? Photoshop the text out and claim it as one of hs own? Seriously!

So we plodded onwards and upwards over the undulating, rocky paths. You could feel it getting colder as you neared the tongue. That’s the bit at the end of the clacier that can be seen from below. Every day’s a school day. Over a couple of little streams, taking care not to lose Jane - she has the coordination of a dizzy toddler on acid – and around the final bend to reveal what we had both been eagerly anticipating.

Well what a bloody nerve. How very dare they. Fox Glacier? The sheer cheek of it. We’d driven and walked all that way, with massive expectations, to see a great white polar bear on a massive block of ice, just like in the adverts and what do we get? A big dirty blue ice cube. I’m going to call trade descriptions. I mean Fox, Glacier? The only word that’s missing is mint. It’s just not good enough.

It was with heavy hearts we travelled back to our accommodation. I wasn’t sure anything would be able to quell the disappointment. Well perhaps a politition being assasinated or fat bloke falling over and not being able to get back up. One thing that allways cheers me up is goats on a trampoline, but what’s the likelyhood of any of those happening? Well imagine my surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding” I thought.

"We shall fight them on the beaches..."

With a population of just over four million. New Zealand has the luxury of space which isn't afforded to many residents of the UK with our sprawling population of over 60 million. This was illustrated to us quite succinctly when we hired bikes and decided we would cycle to a place called Rabbit Beach, which is about 27 km from Nelson - that's just over 16.5 miles in old money.

They're pretty cycle friendly over here with lots of cycleways and marked lanes, but as I said in a previous blog, don't trust the tourist maps when it comes to finding your way round. We managed to miss one cycleway completely and ended up cycling on the hard shoulder of a dual carriageway for a few miles which left me windswept and interesting and Jane windswept. Other than that and the puncture Jane got, fixed by myself with aplomb I may add, the ride there was pretty uneventful.

When we hired the bikes we told the chap in the shop where we were going and he replied with a little disdain; "There ain't much there". I'm not sure why he said it with a west country accent, but that's just how I remember it. "You could pick up a picnic on the way my lovers and 'ave it on the beach" he added. Anyway long story short, he gave us the map with the blasted cycle lanes on it and we decided to stick with our original plan. With the afore mentioned incidents and several more stops to get the map out for navigation we made it there in just over two hours. It would have only taken an hour if Jane loved me enough to buy me a bike sat nav. I really don't know why I married her? We pulled into one of the car parks, with picnic tables and shady trees and pushed the bikes over a small sand dune to find the following scene:

That's right, a pile of wood lying on an almost completely desserted beach. I think Jane was trying to be arty here. More Pictures

Well I was infuriated. I'd put on my union jack boxers and England football top. We'd packed a jumbo sized towel with a picture of Liz Windsor on it and some egg and cress sandwiches with sand already in them. Expecting to be jostling for space with the knee high white sock brigade i.e. the Germans, we were both bitterly disappointed. Not a soul. There must be some kind of law against this. I mean, parents accross the world are frustrated when their kids spend more time playing with the box their Christmas presents came in rather than the toy itself. It seems to me New Zealanders are neglecting the space they have around them. Perhaps it's time we invaded, again? Perhaps we should fight them for their beaches? Or just steal them? They probably wouldn't even notice.

So what did we do? We got on our bikes and cycled back to Nelson. I mean there wasn't even a winkle van or "Kiss Me Quick" hat shop. No arcades or rollercoasters. We disposed of the sandwiches on the beach in the nice red pastic bag we'd brought them in and got some fish and chips on the way.

Living the dream

Nelson has been voted the most desirable place to live in New Zealand and I can see why. We've been here for a few days now staying in a lovely house that already feels like home. Our hosts have gone away for the weekend, leaving their own house open with a note telling us to help ourselves to whatever we need while they're away. How trusting is that?

Nelson has all the elements I enjoy in a place. It's close to beautiful countryside, mountains and beaches with great cafes, shops, restaurants and some fantasitc vineyards less than 30 minutes away - more on these in a moment.

Since we've been here, we've had some great meals, courtesy of Mark, cycled to a beautiful empty beach and today tasted some fantastic boutique wines. We decided to try out the Nelson wine region rather than the more commercial Marlborough. I am a big fan of the Marlborough wines and looking at the wine map have tried >60% of them so it made sense to try something new. Mark is not a fan of the 'flowery' sauvignon blancs synonymous with the Marlborough region, so we were on a mission to find some whites and reds to satisfy his palette.

Four vineyards later and we've bought some gems and discovered some unique people;

There was Bob Glover from Glovers' Winery. After navigating the potholer's delight of a driveway and stopping Mark from grabbing a very fat chicken for dinner, we found Bob up a ladder. You'd have thought by the ramshackle state of his buildings and tasting room he'd just opened up for business, but we soon found out he'd been making wines for 25 years. This is just the way he does business. We left with two bottles of wine one which was totally unidentifiable as the electicity was off so he was unable to add a lable or seal the cork.

The next vineyard was a real find, Himmelsfeld, run by Beth an ex nurse. Beth's dream was to buy some land and produce wine. She found her plot in 1991 and produced her first vintage a few years later. She has a flock of Romney marsh sheep that are adorable and just 4 wines to choose from, one of which is a Gold medal winner. Beth really is living the dream.

Back at 'home' and we're celebrating our two week anniversary with a Mark special and one of our wine purchases. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and it doesn't get much better than this.

Queen Charlotte's 'Blasted' View!

It is rumoured that the Maoris have 35 names in their language for various shades of green, the Eskimos have 27 words for snow, the Germans have 30 words for sausauge, the french have 20 words for surrender and the Americans have one word for anything that is better than average - awesome. Well I think it's high time the English, nay the British, get involved. I think we should invent several names for rain. We've already got rain, drizzle, spitting and that rain that gets you really wet when it's not really raining at all. We should be able to come up with names for them all. For example, there's that rain that comes at you sideways and the rain that literally comes down in droplets the size of a bucket and then of course is the rain that comes down when the sun is shining.

I'm rambling I know, but there is a point I assure you. I hark back to the Maoris and their shades of green. Of course I've made this up completely, but I bet you believed it at least for a second and it wouldn't be hard to see why when you look at how lush and green their country is. It is apparent from talking to anyone from New Zealand that they have a deep love of their country and a pride that is ingrained from birth.

Well bully for them! Our countryside may pale in comparison to theirs on many levels, mainly the sheer enromity and scale of their landscape. Whilst the most beautiful parts of ours nestles quietly but unashamedly in little pockets scattered to the seven corners. Their's flaunts itself at every opportunity, like a street whore with passing cars. Get me and my waxing lyrical.

But at least we can find our way around ours! Yes that's right, they're not as bloody perfect as they would have us believe, whilst globe trotting and singing the praises of their homeland. The truth is they're only globetrotting because they got lost on a tramp, or hike as we like to call it.

Having just returned from what should have been a ninety minute walk which in the end took nearly four hours I feel it's time to complain about the country that has so kindly allowed us to visit. Get some decent bloody maps! Of course they have maps, and of course they have decent ones, but not the kind we're looking for. Let me explain. In the UK we are lucky to have Ordnance Survey from which one could find the preverbial needle in a haystack, if given the correct coordinates. Well NZ has something similar as you would expect, but to buy one for every inch of the country would cost a small fortune and I'm not about to let Jane start spending my inheritence willy nilly. What they don't have that we do in England is a good book of walks, which merges topographical information and images at key stages of the walk with details of flora and fauna and any other tit bits of note.

The map we used in the afore mentioned walk had none of this. What it did have was a time scale to our chosen destination - Queen Charlotte View - from a car park in Picton, on the Marlborough Sounds. What wasn't plain was to which car park the map referred, the level of ascent or what Queen Charlotte View had to offer. As you may have guessed, we navigated from the wrong car park, up a slope that would have killed a teenage mountain goat, only to find that whatever view there had been in the past was completely obliterated by trees and bushes. Damn them pesky map makers. In fairness, the views on the way were absolutely stunning, but were marred drastically by the iron lung I had to carry to get me up there. Hey ho.

So what I think I'm trying to say is that Ordnance Survey rocks. No that's not it. New Zealand sucks! No that's not it either. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? No.

What I think I'm trying to say is that we take far too much for granted in old blighty and are only too eager to hear how wonderful other places are from visiting parties. It seems to be in our nature to whinge about the weather, the government, work, our rubbish football teams and the price of gallon of petrol. We need to shout about the things that are uniquely british; modesty (I hope the irony isn't lost), the BBC, Sunday lunches, a good cup of tea, our sense of humour, history and of course bloody good maps, to name but a few.

I guess what I'm tryingto say is, no matter how glossy and exotic far flung places may seem. To me there is no place like home.

It's all down hill from here...

When Jane woke me up this morning without her lipstick on I thought, "bugger, it's all down hill from here!" See artist's impression above.

But seriously, that's what she looks like first thing. Not like the bronzed Adonis that is me on awakening. He he, I'm going to get a smack in the mouth for that one, but I couldn't resist.

Now onto the travel blog bit:

We left Christchurch the day before yesterday. Not before time if you ask me. It wasn't my cup of tea if I'm honest. Not an awful lot to offer in terms of vibrancy, architecture or history but then when I go to a city, I compare it to those great British behemoths like Bath & London. Cities that are steeped in a millenia of history. Perhaps I was looking in the wrong places, or perhaps I was a little blinkered by the last remnants of jet lag. Who knows? In it's defence, we managed to find a couple of good eateries, which is always a plus, and a great little arts cinema. We even hired a couple of bikes for the afternoon and got 35km worth of exercise which was finished off beautifully by Jane doing her dying swan impression at a busy junction. She forgot she was clipped into her pedals, fell off sideways and dented an adjacent car with her head. The chap driving didn't have the heart to say anything. I promise you , I didn't laugh.

So on to Kaikoura. Just a short overnight stop on the way to Nelson, where we're going to base ourselves over the next six days. How exciting, my first ever night in a Motel. Woo hooo. I'm not joking when I tell you the proprietor had an uncanny resemblance to Anthony Perkins. Spooky. What a beautiful peninsula. Famous for it's whaling industry, although I'm not sure why, it was very quiet when we were there. Not even a whimper. Kaikoura Pictures

Breakfast and on to Nelson via the hills. Arrived and found our accommodation, which is great if a little limited in the kitchen department. But not to worry, our landlady can't do enough to oblige. As I write this she is washing my smalls, and also my undies. I was so impressed, I fixed her garage door - and that's not a euphemism. Well I thought it only fair, I did break it.

Ciao for now, I'm off to throw a couple of steaks onto the barbie. Mx

Honeymoon can be a magic word

We arrived in Sydney very early in the morning, Mark managed to sleep almost the entire way, I'm sure the G&T's, flat bed and duvet had nothing to do with it. We did manage to watch one film together - UP, it's charming, funny and brilliantly animated, just like my Husband (I'm still getting used to using the 'H' word).

We stayed in the Shangri-La hotel, I'd booked a room with a harbour view and mentioned to them we were on honeymoon and please could we have an early check-in. The early check-in didn't work too well, but we were able to go for a swim, sauna and shower. A couple of hours after our arrival we got a phone call to say our room was ready, we took the lift to the 20th floor and went in room 2013, oh my god, what a view, they'd upgraded us to a suite with the most amazing view. We popped out for a couple of hours in an attempt to keep ourselves awake, and returned to find a bottle of champagne in the room. The use of the word 'honeymoon' defiantly worked, I think we use it on all our trips!!!

Hong Kong - Phooey

Hong Kong. First leg over of the holiday.....oh you're sooo rude. I meant the first leg of the trip over. Would you believe it, more than fifty films to choose from to watch and what happens? Three G&Ts and it's all over. Out for the count. Bugger! Well I can't complain I've had no sleep. Not that I'm ever one to complain. Hmmm?

Now sitting in the Virgin lounge. It's 18:00 hours local time and boy is it quiet. Well apart from Jane....yabber yabber. They're so bloody polite here it's scary. I'd say it was a breath of fresh air, but I feel obliged to be polite too, which just isn't on my nature. Hey ho, an hour to reboard and another eight and a half in the air. Need to make up for lost time on the film front. Ciao for now, or as they say in local parts "harrow meester Mark". I'm so PC.

More Champagne please!

We probably should have checked out the visa requirements for Australia, no bother, travelling to Sydney in upper class means you get the upper class treatment and as if by magic two visas appeared.

On our second glass of champers and looking forward to lots of movies and sleep on the plane, we've already enjoyed slow cooked Guiness & Beef pie, Seabass and I'm about to tuck into Apple Crumble, don't have to worry about fitting into a dress anymore! Although Mark seems to be worrying I'm letting my self go.

We are now looking at our bording passes and wondering what the strange symbol means I'm sure we'll find out when we board.

Mr Williams I presume?

Standing at the bottom of the precipice after taking the plunge of a lifetime it's difficult to comprehend what all the fuss was about. Why was I worried? She turned up and so did the guests. It all went swimmingly, and then some. What a fantastic day with fantastic people.

The old adage is that "life begins at forty", but in fairness it all began when I was thirty nine and three quarters when I asked Jane to marry me. As a bloke you really have no comprehension of the organisational ordeal you're letting yourself in for, but if I was asked would you do it again, I'd probably say "yes, if I ever find the right woman". When Jane reads this, I'll have a black eye to go with the slipped disc I got carrying her over the threshold. I'm just an old romantic at heart.

But seriously folks, it's an exciting time. We're at the beginning of what will hopefully be a long and happy road and it's all rosy. We have it all, each other, wonderful friends and family, a beautiful home in a beautiful part of the world and enough Champagne to pickle an elephant.
What more could a man want? New Zealand on Tuesday and then it's Christmas.

Woo hooo!!

Standing over the precipice...

So she says "I'm getting really nervous now, I feel a little bit sick." And I say "Oh well that's just lovely, I'm pleased I make you want to vomit..." But deep down, well as deep down as a shallow individual can go, I'm feeling a little sick too.

The wheels are really in motion, the train has left the station. Hmmm, more like the juggernaught is hurtling at break-neck speed towards a school of innocent children and labrador puppies, it's going to be carnage.

People have started to arrive at the house and make claims on my space, TV and worst of all my sofa. And there are three more arriving to today. It's like I'm on a precepice at the bottom of a hill and as each person arrives they bump into the back of me edging me ever closer to the impending doom that for the time being has lodged itself in the pit of my stomach.

But of course I'm joking, or am I?

One step closer to oblivion.

Well, it's this Saturday. That's only five sleeps away. It's like counting down to Christmas, but knowing what your present is and knowing you can't take it back whether you like it or not.

But of course I jest. I really am looking forward to the wedding. Or am I just looking forward to the peace and quiet that comes from the planning being over? Or is it four weeks chilling at the other side of the word I yearn for? Or is it actually Christmas?

One thing is certain, I'll be spending more time with Jane than ever before. She broke up from work on Friday and doesn't go back until the middle of January. Will we kill each other? We'll see. Will we still be married when we get back from holiday...I think so, as long as she behaves herself.

Anyway, will keep you posted.

So the planning begins

The dilemma is how do you plan a 4 week trip, especially when one person likes to plan every detail and the other likes to be spontaneous?

So I have a spreadsheet that has every day mapped out where we are going to be and where we’re going to stay, I’m sure we’ll fit in some spontaneity somewhere.

Could this be the end of the Honeymoon Period before we even start?

Jane

We're Getting Married Next Week

Well, with only 12 days to go until the end of my life, I thought it might be a good time to set up a blog so people, who have no life of their own, can see what we're doing on our honeymoon.

Oh, yuk. I can't believe you even thought that. That's not what I meant at all. Hmmm? No, that's a really bad idea.

Anyway, here it is. Bookmark it if you so desire. We'll upload some pictures as we go to make you jealous, because we're just that nice.

Enjoy.

Mark x