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.