RAGLAN - I See a Pale Moon Rising

Or rather, I didn't, but the first words directed at us as we took a walk on the beach after arriving at Raglan late afternoon were "Out to see the moonrise eh?", shortly followed by a woman on a horse who told us that we were at the perfect place to see the moonrise, then on arrival back at the hostel "Did you see the moon then?" We hadn't, despite having a good look for it. Maybe we'd missed it as we darted along the piece of footpath that crossed the runway at the local airport, listening out for the roar of an engine. What was it about this place? What had we stumbled across? As it turned out, we'd arrived at a fabulous little town that has remained refreshingly uncommercialised with a great beach town feel, despite having what is believed to be the best surfing beach in New Zealand. They come here from all over the world to ride what is rumoured to be the longest and most consistent left-hand break on the planet. If I'm honest, I've still no real idea of the significance of a left hand break or a barrel but they seemed mighty proud of theirs at Raglan.

The hostel was wonderful. The french-doors in our room opened out onto a circular courtyard filled with trees and flowers. Hammocks hung between the trees against which dozens of surfboards and canoes were propped up and wetsuits draped over the branches. The kitchen had a big box of baking ingredients from which guests were welcome to bake old favourites from home or something new from the recipe books on the shelf. There was only one rule - anything made with stuff from the box had to be left of the kitchen table and shared with the other guests. Marc thought he'd died and gone to heaven. While out on a bike ride one afternoon we called into a little shed on the quay and bought some Catch of the Day - some lovely gurnard that we baked in foil parcels with vegetables and herbs from the garden. It smelt wonderful as it was cooking and there were a dozen pairs of eyes on the steaming parcels as they were opened up but only two very satisfied souls half an hour later.

Raglan was the venue for our third foray in a kayak. With the assurance from the hostel owner that it was practically impossible to capsize these ocean-going kayaks (why did he have to say "practically"), off we went from the wharf heading across the estuary, under the main bridge into town and upstream as far as we liked. The water was nice and calm and with me up front and Marc at the back, the kayak seemed to go where it was steered - what a novelty! All was well but there was still some degree of trepidation up front, when suddenly things perked up no end when I realised that I could see the bottom. Hey - this was fun ... On we went up the river which after a while seemed to split in two and we went left. Soon we realised that we'd paddled into a giant bay with a small island in the middle so we decided that we'd go around the island then head for home. Still comforted by the sight of the riverbed through the clear water we rounded the island which was carpeted in seabirds, then the bottom seemed to get closer and closer until we were paddling in about four inches of water about 200 metres from the shore of the island. On we went until there was a scraping sound and we howled with laughter. Here was I, afraid of drowning, when in reality we could have probably walked all the way. The knight at the back of the boat got out and without getting his ankles wet pushed us back into navigable waters and by the time we got back to the wharf we had built up such a turn of speed that had we not shot up the gravel landing spot onto the beach and had hit the wall instead, Marc would have been catapulted out of the back, straight into the hostel garden at the top of the hill.

We had arrived at Raglan on 'Boxing Day'. Traditionally the hostel holds a Mid-Summer Christmas Day and the place was trimmed with tinsel and a Christmas tree complete with twinkling lights. After enjoying a turkey dinner in fancy dress, all the guests had got a gift from Secret Santa (all were alcoholic) then half of them had gone surfing and the other had fallen asleep in front of the telly. I wonder which Bond movie was showing ...

p.s. Raglan will always be etched in my memory as the place where I had the first twinges and stiffness in my back. I apologise for all the mutterings and whingeing about the clapped-out bed at the hostel when it was in fact a clapped-out backbone that was falling apart.

KING COUNTRY - Otorohanga and Waitomo

And so we arrived in King Country where a very cheery fellow called Bill was awaiting the arrival of our coach at Otorohanga to drive us the few miles to Waitomo in his shuttle bus. Otorohanga is the Official "Kiwiana" Town of New Zealand and here they celebrate the icons, heroes and events that are uniquely Kiwi. The main street is dedicated to huge murals and displays of the silver fern, kiwi, gumboots, pavlova, kiwi boot polish, buzzy-bees, jandals, sheep, the paua shell, butterflies and many others and last but definitely not least, hokey pokey ice-cream - a fabulous combination of vanilla ice-cream and chunks of Crunchie - a national institution. Everyone here seemed to be of a sunny disposition and the town had a big carnival feel about it. Bill was very enthusiastic about everything in general and stopped at a kiwi fruit plantation on the way to Waitomo to take us for a combined walk and horticulture lecture under a huge pergola structure that was just dripping with huge clusters of fruit.

Back in his minibus, he gave us a potted history of the region. King Country is named after the Maori King Movement which developed here in the 1850's. Legend has it that after King Tawhiao and his people were forced to move south after being defeated by British troops during the Waikato Land Wars, he placed his hat on a large map of New Zealand and declared that all land covered by it would be under his authority. He meant business as it was only at the end of the 19th century that white persons were permitted into the district and it still retains a powerful Maori influence under Tuheitia - the present Maori King. He is the seventh in the line of succession and is descended from the first settlers that arrived on the Tainui ancestral canoe many centuries ago. Bill made sure that we were paying attention as he would slip in the occasional question and we sat nervously at the back of the minibus wondering if we were nearly there yet. It turns out that he was a retired teacher.

It is not advisable to go wandering about aimlessly off the beaten track around Waitomo as you are likely to fall into one of numerous shafts dotted across the countryside and land in one of at least three hundred caves or an underground stream that have shaped the landscape. The more adventurous can hire a big tyre tube and a hard hat and cling on whilst being swept through underground cave systems and plummeting over waterfalls, sometimes in pitch darkness on a black water rafting trip. For those who prefer less adrenaline-pumped adventures there is the more tranquil Glow Worm cave trip on a little boat. The Glow Worms got my immediate and unwavering vote and Marc conceded gracefully and came with me without much protest. After leaving the warmth of the day at the mouth of the cave we walked downwards to the top level and the chamber known as the Catacombs, home to stunning limestone stalactites and stalagmites. Long, narrow passageways carved out by water led us down to the next level known as the Banquet Chamber and the amazing sight at the foot of the Pipe Organ - huge gleaming pillar formations hundreds of thousands of years old. Down we went again on very green and slippery steps to the third and final level and the magnificent Cathedral Cave. At twenty metres high this cavern has excellent acoustics and has hosted many concerts (and a verse of Bread of Heaven). The three levels are linked by a vertical limestone shaft called The Tomo which marks the course of an ancient waterfall. At the bottom of The Tomo was the Waitomo River where our little boat was moored on a quay, waiting to take us to see the little critters.

The glow worm is the glamorous name for the larvae of the less attractive-sounding fungus gnat. They emit a soft blue-green light to attract unsuspecting insects towards the sticky threads they have dangling from their rear-ends, which they simply reel in when they've trapped lunch. The hungrier the gnat, the brighter the light. We made up a dozen as we climbed into the boat, then our guide, standing on the bow, silently pulled us away and around the corner into the shadows using a network of fixed ropes running down the middle of the cave. As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, tiny dots of light started to appear on the ceiling and within no-time a milky way glowed overhead and I could just picture our twelve craned necks and wide-open mouths as the boat slid through the darkness without a sound. The best bit was saved until last as the cave roof dipped low and it looked just as if the night sky had fallen down to within touching distance. It was magical.

Our second cave experience was very different. Ruakuri Cave reopened only a few years ago after the old steep and slippery entrance had claimed one too many casualties, having had a new entrance and a complete makeover in the meantime. Part of a small tour group, we were driven out to the cave and entered via a sliding steel door in the rock face. We were instructed to walk forwards through the darkness, until we reached the end of a semi-circular handrail. We did as we were told and suddenly a circle of lights appeared below us, then another and another below that, and that, until a spiral staircase twisting down the sides of a huge drum-like shaft was fully lit. Round and round and down we walked until we reached another sliding door leading into a link corridor which closed behind us before the door at the far end had opened - ooh! But open it did into a glittering cavern. The shapes here were different from the first cave - there were threadlike 'straw' stalactites hanging from the ceiling and for me, the most dramatic of all - the 'sheet' stalactites which hung down like massive folding curtains. The pathways here were also different - it often narrowed quite a bit and sometimes involved crouching to get through. I've never considered myself to be a claustrophobic but decided that this was exactly the kind of place that would push me out of the closet. We peered down from a high platform into a black chasm at the bottom of which a river sweeps along 'black water rafters' on tyre-tubes. I shuddered at the thought.

As only small guided groups are permitted into the cave, as part of the 'refurbishment' which included new boardwalks and viewing decks, a new lighting system was installed. The whole place is now beautifully and dramatically lit by a system which works on a series of timers operated by the group leader along the way. All very nice but no one considered that the leader may be called back to help push a lady in a wheelchair whose friend had grown too weary to carry on. I was at the front of the group and went on with another three as far as the next control panel with instructions to press the next light button while he went back to push. Meanwhile, about a hundred metres further back down the tunnel in another 'light-zone', someone who will remain nameless but said after coming home that it was worth it, was still snapping away trying to get the perfect shot when the lights went out. He made his way back to the middle group by a combination of feeling the walls and taking the occasional flash photo to show the way. By the time the leading pack had reached the control panel, the wheelchair party had also been plunged into darkness and there were no labels on any of the identical six buttons. We umm'd and ahh'd and decided to leave well alone as we could just as easily have turned off the last remaining light as turn on the next. We had the bright idea that two would make a run for the steel door and try some buttons there while the other two would wait by the panel and just press everything if it went completely dark. I've never been so glad to see daylight. Where's a glow worm when you need one ...

TARANAKI -The Perfect Volcano

If you were to draw a volcano, chances are that it would look just like Taranaki as this mountain is one of the most symmetrical volcanic cones in the world. We had arrived at New Plymouth on a grey and windy afternoon which meant no view of the mountain despite having our noses pressed to the window of the bus, but the forecast for the following day was for cold but dry weather, so we booked a couple of places on a shuttle bus which would take us to the Visitor Centre - base camp for all walks up the mountain. As predicted, it was a cold and sunny morning, and with a rucksack of sarnies and chocolate, and me snug in my zebra thermal wear, we were picked up early by Tom along with one other passenger called Patrick who was completing the High Altitude Circular track around the mountain in four days, camping along the way. Tom was explaining the logistics of the trip as we drove out of town (he would drop us off, go surfing for the day and pick us up from the same spot late afternoon) so none of us were prepared for the first sighting of Taranaki. Rising from lush and flat dairy pastures, it looked like a perfect backdrop from a movie - the perfect volcano with snow on top. We fell silent after the initial gasp and Tom's face was plastered with a big proud grin. He explained that Taranaki is a sacred place to the Maoris, a place where the bones of their chiefs are buried and a place that would once have been used as an escape from the terrorism of other tribes. They see Taranaki as a grandfather figure, looking over them all as they go about their lives , treating each other with respect. Maori people that walk on the hill go no higher than the snowline as they consider walking to the summit akin to stamping on Taranaki's head.

We reported in at the Visitor Centre and took advice from the staff on the best options for walking tracks for the weather conditions of the day. It turned out that we were talking to a guy that had worked at the Outward Bound Centre near Dolgellau for six years and hadn't long been back in New Zealand! Our route would be the Holly Track initially, turning off onto the Veronica Track which would break out above the tree line and meet the High Altitude Track. We would follow this track as far as the Ranghuni Hut, then start our descent down a 4wd track, turning onto the Ngataro Bush Loop to complete the hike. We noted our route in the book and signed out. Almost immediately we were lost in an amazing world of gnarled trees, mosses and ferns which seemed to hang from every branch - the camera went into overdrive. We gained altitude quickly and I was starting to regret wearing my long thermals but by the time we walked out above the trees I'd changed my mind as the wind was bitter. We climbed upwards along a shingle ridge and eventually turned around to the most spectacular view . The roof of the Visitor Centre was a tiny dot in the trees miles down below and we could see lots of villages dotted over the green plains. On the horizon, the trio of Ruapehu, Ngharahoe and Tongariro peeked out over the clouds. We joined the circular track and were glad of a fairly flat and undulating path after a couple of hours climbing. The snowline was getting nearer by now and the puddles on the track were frozen and we had to cross a couple of slips where the track had just fallen away down the side of the mountain. The last climb was over a tussocky landscape with hebes and flax and at last we reached the snowline which we followed for a couple of miles to the hut. The Ranghuni Hut is a privately owned cabin which can be used by members of the public in an emergency situation. I presume that you just phone the Visitor Centre who will tell you that the spare key is under the mat. It was locked when we got there but through the window we could see a dozen comfortable looking bunks and a big wood-burning stove. But there was no time to hang around - we had an estimated return time, after which the dogs would be sent out on our route and we didn't want to be late.

Going down was far more strenuous than going up - parts of the path were very steep and required little steps to prevent toppling over. I found the Franz Shuffle, a sideways technique of steep descent that we'd learnt while glacier-hiking quite effective and managed to stay on my feet - which is more than can be said for the other member of the party. The Ngataro Bush Loop was a lovely end to the walk - it zigzagged over a mountain stream through ferns and lush vegetation and we were followed by robins and fantails feeding on the insects disturbed by our footsteps. We arrived back at the Visitor Centre before our deadline but five minutes after the cafe had closed so there was no cup of hot chocolate that we'd promised ourselves all afternoon.

There wasn't much energy left over by the time we got back to the hostel so we watched a movie over supper and went to bed early. As I closed the curtains in our room, I couldn't help but wonder about Patrick, alone in his little tent on the mountainside and Tom's words that Taranaki had last erupted in 1755 and was due to go again at any time ...

Wanganui - A Peasouper on the Road to Damascus

Wanganui or Whanganui – that is the question. Once upon a time, the town, the river, the region and the national park all shared the same name and all was well in the world. Then some bright spark had the idea of inserting an ‘h’ into Wanganui to indicate that the ‘Wan’ should be ‘breathy and aspirated’. Unfortunately only the traditionally Maori populated areas adopted the new spelling so the name of the river and national park became Whanganui while the settler dominated town and regional name remained ‘h’less which caused much confusion so moves are afoot to insert the missing ‘h’s to clear up the matter once and for all. Unfortunately ‘Wh’ is pronounced as an ‘F’ everywhere in New Zealand apart from here so Whanganui will probably be widely pronounced as Whanganui by those who know no different, so it's just made a pigs ear out of a silk purse. Whanderful.

It was a fine afternoon when we arrived at err... Wanganui, so we booked a trip up the err… Whanganui River Road the next day. This was no ordinary journey – we were joining Noel the postman on his daily round up the river as far as Pipiriki. The road follows the river for 130km there and back, but by the time Noel has driven up sidetracks to isolated settlements, he will have clocked up over 200km in a day. The road opened in 1934 – until then it had been river traffic only with paddle steamers which accommodated up to 400 well-heeled passengers in sumptuous quarters taking three days to reach luxury hotels upstream. The most famous of these was the Waimarie which was shipped in a box from the UK in 1900 and reassembled in the town. She paddled up and down until 1952 when she sunk but was raised and restored over seven years and relaunched on 1st January 2000, now taking day trippers in flip-flops during the warmer months. Jet boats, canoes and kayaks are also aplenty in summer – paddling the Whanganui, a 5 day trip, is classed as one of NZ’s Great Walks, despite the fact that there’s far more sitting down than walking involved. A large part of Noel’s summer revenue involves transporting canoes and passengers up and down the river road.

Noel picked us up at 7.30am and already on the minibus was Neil from Germany, the only other passenger that day. It was a grey and chilly morning and as we left town and headed off onto the river road, we were enveloped in a thick blanket of fog. Europeans first put down roots in the area in the 1830’s and missionaries sailed up the river, establishing settlements along the way such as Damascus, Corinth, Athens and Jerusalem, all of which seemed very bleak that morning. On we went through the gloom, looking down for a glimpse of the river and allegedly breathtaking scenery through the murk but there was nothing.

Outside city centres, New Zealand letters are always left in boxes at the gate and on rural rounds these must be accessible by leaning out of the window of the post van. Many of the post-boxes along the route raised a smile. There were a few old microwave ovens perched on top of posts, a pedal bin, a bread bin, a wood burning stove, lots of old barrels on their sides, canoes and even an old fridge. The house numbering system on the route was also a revelation. I’d been wondering why they were numbered in the thousands when there were only a few dozen along the road. It turns out that the number on a rural house is its distance in metres from the beginning of the road which makes it unique and easy to identify in emergencies for example. How sensible.

Mid morning and we reached the village of Jerusalem or Hiruharama in Maori. Hiruharama was once the largest kainga (village) on the Whanganui River in the middle of a populous district and was known as a meeting place for korero (discussion). in 1892, a Frenchwoman called Suzanne Aubert founded the world famous Roman Catholic Order of the Sisters of Compassion here and she devoted her life to helping the homeless, poor and sick. Fluent in Maori, she worked as a teacher and a nurse, produced herbal medicines and established homes for children and old people throughout the country. She died aged 91 in 1926, the legacy of her life's work having influenced the development of social welfare, education, and health in New Zealand. It is hoped that the church will eventually recognise Mother Aubert as New Zealand's first saint.

The mist still hanging, on we went to Pipiriki, formerly a glamorous resort full of international tourists having arrived on the paddle steamers but today, a nearly deserted little settlement which mostly serves as the landing and launching point for canoes and jet boats. The latest attempt to rebuild the burnt-down Pipiriki Hotel stalled due to funding 'issues' (it all disappeared somewhere) and vandals have stripped everything of value leaving a very sad looking concrete skeleton by the side of the river.

We had one delivery left and took a very rough track across fields where wild peacocks strutted and wild boars snuffled around. We were warmly greeted by Victoria, an elderly Maori woman who had lived on this smallholding all her life. She has spent decades here alone after the loss her parents and all her siblings. Surrounded by squealing piglets she asked Noel what news there was down in the town and remarked that her electricity bill was due any day now. Like many who live along the river, she rarely ventures far from her home - Noel brings her groceries and also pays her bills, being entrusted with her bank card and PIN number. Noel also provides a taxi service, taking villagers down to the town to see the doctor for example, where they may also do a bit of shopping, then stay in town overnight and return with Noel on his round next day. Marc and I were delighted to hear his stories of this aspect of his job. We are both children of postmen, Marc's father having driven the Royal Mail Post bus on his rural rounds for years and years ago my brother and I would go with our dad in his van during school summer holidays up the valleys of the Rivers Ceulan and Leri, delivering newspapers, prescriptions and the odd bottle of something stronger to the farms along the way with the post. Just like Noel, they were a major part of life for many. As we said goodbye to Victoria she predicted that the sun would soon be out and it would be a lovely day.

We left Pipiriki and headed back towards town and within a couple of miles, sure enough, the mist began to lift and we could see steep wooded slopes plummeting down to the lazy brown river. We were due to stop at Jerusalem for our picnic lunch and by the time we reached the village, the skies were clear. Noel took us down a track to the riverside and one of the most striking views imaginable. Standing tall on a spur above a deep river bend, the picture-perfect white church of St Joseph was set beautifully against the blue sky. Even though it is the most photographed church in the country, no camera will ever capture the feeling of being somewhere quite so special. Lunch was taken in the garden of Mother Aubert's Convent, alongside the church. These days, just three nuns remain here, Sister Anna Marie, Sister Alisi and Sister Sue who run the convent as a hostel, offering a cosy bed and the use of all the facilities for £6 per night. We had a look around and it looked very homely, with pots of home-made jam in the kitchen and colourful knitted bedspreads in the dorms. Noel took us into the church, the inside of which was decorated with woven Maori panels and art alongside the more traditional ornaments. Outside we met Peter, an elderly man who leaned over his stick as he asked us in a soft voice where we were from. He liked to come and chat with Noel's passengers every day.

On the way back to town, we stopped at the Kawana Flour Mill at Matahiwi, which was restored as a major project a few years ago. As well as rebuilding the mill and re-positioning the original millstones which were a personal gift to the Maoris from Governor Grey, all the belts and pulleys, chutes and machinery, they have also refurbished the tiny millers cottage in the style of the late 1800's when the mill was in full production. It was a fascinating place.

Our last call was to the Koriniti Marae with its traditional collection of colourful buildings with intricate carvings. There is a pre-school nursery here where children from settlements along the river come to play and where parents and extended families can also stay and socialise. Travellers' accommodation is also available here and whether pre-booked or just turning up on a canoe from the river, it is polite to make yourself known at the gate of the marae and wait to be invited onto the sacred land. Our last glimpse of the Whanganui was from high as our eyes followed its glistening waters down in the valley below, meandering towards and over the horizon.

Back in the early 1900's, the residents who lived on Durie Hill in Wanganui were fed up of the challenging, near vertical walk home and they decided to do something about it. After much deliberating and measuring, a horizontal tunnel was bored 200 metres into the rock at the base of the hill. This met up with a vertical shaft 66 metres high, which hosted an elevator, big enough to transport pedestrians, bicycles and prams up and down the hill. We decided that $1 was a very reasonable fare and entered the semi-circular tunnel with shiny white walls , which at first seemed to get longer with every step but eventually the dot at the far end became a doorway and as instructed, we tugged the bell-pull which gave a lovely old-fashioned ring and within a minute the doors opened and we were greeted by a lady lift-attendant who didn't even want to consider how many times she's been up and down over the last twenty years. I took a seat for the ride and admired the old wooden panelling and the board which held regular commuters' tickets, clipped on each journey. On the top of Durie Hill, a war memorial constructed of local shell rock looks out over the town. We climbed up its 176 dizzying steps to the observation gallery at the top and were amazed a t the view of the sunset towards the sea, snow-capped Mt Ruapehu , the silhouette of the northern tip of South Island and the mighty Whanganui cutting her way through the middle of the city. We splashed out another dollar each for the ride down.

We had a couple of hours to spare before the bus left the next day and visited the museum to view an extraordinary photographic exhibition. Te Pihi Mata - The Sacred Eye by William Partington, the son of an early settler, features life and scenery along and up to the farthest reaches of the Whanganui River at the turn of the last century. The collection of hundreds of glass plates and previously unseen vintage prints of families and more formal portraits of Maori in traditional dress, was discovered in a suitcase in a garage back in 2001 and put up for auction. The Whanganui Maori protested as they regard photographs as embodiments of the deceased and saw this as the sale of their forefathers and the auction was abandoned after the group bid just $200 in an attempt to reclaim a piece of their heritage. Eventually the local community and iwi (tribal) groups banded together to buy the collection for over $150,000 and it is now beautifully staged at the Regional Museum. The entrance to the collection passes through the gates of a marae to the chant of a Maori Welcome and the photographs are displayed in small nooks and around corners to soft background music and voices. It felt just as if I was wandering through a village.

WELLINGTON – It's a Breese

Kay Creswell has lived on the Kapiti coast for so long that she needs no official telephone call in the morning to know that the boat to Kapiti will not sail that day. One glance at the sea conditions and she was tapping on our bedroom door at 7.00am to tell us to have a lie-in as our second attempt at visiting the island would also be a failure. Word had made it up the beach that the island ranger had crossed to the mainland early that morning to collect provisions, and from the warmth and comfort of the house we watched his boat battling its way back to the island in high winds, being tossed about by huge waves. Rather him than me I thought as I tucked into my perfectly poached eggs. Later that morning, we wrapped up and took Millie, their great little dog, for a long blustery walk on the beach until we reached a wide estuary and could go no further. Along the way we spoke with many people also walking dogs who just stopped to chat – either they were very friendly or curious about the strangers on their shore. Probably both.

Kay and Hallam are a supposedly retired couple, who never seem to have enough hours in the day. Stalwarts of the sailing club, Kay gleefully told us the tale of when they hosted a visit of past and present Commodores (Captains) from other sailing clubs when Hallam was Commodore of Kapiti just a couple of years ago. Kay, no doubt as elegant and enchanting as ever, was circulating with a tray of fancies when she approached a gentleman who asked her what she did within the club. With a twinkle in her eye, Kay leaned towards him and whispered that she was sleeping with the Commodore. Her subtle wit obviously lost on him, his eyebrows shot upwards, he dropped his scone back on the tray, turned on his heel with a snort and avoided further encounters with her for the rest of the afternoon.

We had a great day out with Kay at the Lindale Food & Craft Centre where we sampled lots of mead, liqueurs and honey, preserves, olives and cheese, the cherry on top being a fabulous lemon meringue ice-cream. Marc couldn’t decide on a flavour and asked, tongue-in-cheek, for a sample of around four and much to his delight, the nice lady said yes. We didn’t make it to the wood carving shed or the art studio …

A month after leaving, we arrived back full circle at Wellington with the assurance that our room had not been re-let in the interim. The door to the Breese family home was open which meant that there was someone at home and we were thrilled to bits to find Uncle Alun sat on the window seat with a big smile. He had not arrived alone and soon back from a shopping trip were Rhiannon, Jamie and little Ioan who had flown across ‘The Ditch’ from Melbourne to stay with Uncle Alun at Christchurch and they had all travelled up by train to Wellington for a week. Then Jo, Ed, Gwilym and Geraint arrived home and house was soon full of the racket and chaos you’d expect from roasting half a pig on the bbq and drinking a lot of wine.
Accommodating ten people in the house had meant some creative sleeping arrangements with just one relegated to the sofa and Uncle Alun bunking in with Geraint. All was well until Alun woke Geraint one night, urging him to get up as his mum had knocked on the door several times telling him it was time to get up for school. It was not until Geraint had hauled himself out of bed, into the shower and his school uniform that it was it discovered that the time was 3.00am and Alun had dreamt it all. Less cheese before bedtime I think Uncle Alun.

Ed managed to get his hands on a heap of tickets for the All Blacks test against the Irish. We would be split into two groups, Rhiannon, Jamie, Geraint, Alun and me on one side of the stadium and Marc, Ed and Gwilym on the other. It was a fine and dry night when we got to the pub just opposite ‘The Cake Tin’, but as an experienced spectator, Ed had stopped in the supermarket on the way to buy two rolls of bin liners incase of rain. Just as we left the pub the heavens opened and my group was soaked by the time we got to our seats, our trousers clinging to our legs before we got a chance to don our bin bags. Apparently, Ed had guided the other group to the stadium via a covered car park and they were bone dry. Unfazed, we took our seats in the downpour and got out our big Welsh Dragon flag which flapped damply around Uncle Alun’s head for eighty minutes as he sat between Rhiannon and me. We did get on the telly though! It got colder and windier as the game went on and we wrung out our dripping gloves every five minutes and couldn’t feel our fingers as could none of the players in the dug-out who apparently were praying that there wouldn’t be any substitutions as they didn’t want to go on! The post match interview with Brian O’Driscoll was abandoned as his teeth were chattering so much they couldn’t understand what he was saying. The plummet in the temperature and atrocious conditions made it to the front pages next day. It had been our intention to meet up with the dry group at the Welsh Dragon bar in town after the game, but our immediate priority now was to get home, showered and into dry clothes, Rhiannon and I particularly concerned about Uncle Alun but we needn’t have worried. We arrived at the Dragon an hour later to find the dry group well into celebrations and looking forward to coverage of more games that night on the tv. Most of us took a taxi home in the early hours, but guess who stayed out with Marc, partying until 4.00am …

The Melbourne Breeses flew home as did Uncle Alun a few days later, with a promise that he’d come and stay with us next year. Jo left for a week working in Fiji and I was given authority to give the boys (all 6 foot something of them) jobs and instructions as I saw fit. In charge of supper for the first evening, I thought I’d wow them with my ‘sticky chicken’ and make a dessert from a recipe book in the kitchen. All was going well until Gwilym wandered in as I was preparing feijoas for a fruit crumble. He glanced over my shoulder and casually observed “Ooh, feijoa crumble – mum’s speciality”! Thanks Gwilym, no pressure there then … The end of the week arrived with no disasters apart from a minor burn sustained whilst bbq’ing a leg of wild goat rubbed with Moroccan spices and losing the dog for a morning (she was by the front door, greeting the return of the search party). The boys had been model individuals (that was $10 each, remember) and Jo arrived home bearing beautiful gifts. She gave me a gorgeous red Fijian sulu (sarong) painted with exotic flowers and body lotion that smelt good enough to eat. Marc had a grey and black ‘man-sulu’ and Ed gave him instructions on how to wear it so as not look like a girl.

We had been given a mission to accomplish whilst at Wellington. We had the possible married name and address of a childhood friend of Marc’s grandmother who had emigrated to New Zealand from Tregaron as a young woman and with whom Mamgu had exchanged cards and letters for many years until they eventually lost touch. A quick search of the telephone book revealed that Mary Cook lived about five minutes from the Breeses and they would have passed the house countless times as they took the boys to rugby training over the years. Marc telephoned to introduce himself and we were invited down for tea which was served in china painted with images of Aberystwyth that Mary had been given as a wedding gift many years ago. She had arrived in New Zealand in 1949 but it was not her intention to stay for ever. The plan had been to travel to the furthest place possible then to make her way home experiencing different countries and cultures on the way, but she had not counted on falling in love and marrying Jacobus who had emigrated from Belgium. Widowed many years ago, we had tracked her down just in time as she had sold up at Wellington and was due to move to Australia to live with her son and his family in just a few weeks. Mary just never got around to getting NZ citizenship during the 59 years she spent here but now needed to in order to get the same entitlements in her new life in Australia. She was presented with her citizenship in the City Hall and singled out during the ceremony for much ado and congratulation so she thought she’d best not admit that she’d only got it because she was leaving! Mary is a joyful lady, as bright as a button and we spent hours with her, poring over old photos and exchanging tales. We have promised to look her up next time we’re in Brisbane!

We paid a visit to the city Art Gallery. Viewing the first exhibition involved lying down in the dark on one of dozens of mattresses under a row of huge fish-eye screens on the ceiling, watching underwater footage of bits of machinery and other objects rushing past to a watery soundtrack. The images of flooding and immersion were symbolic of cultural and traditional loss - the submerged Waikato village of Horahora in local context and global warming in the bigger picture. It was also a chance to lounge about for ten minutes. We were greeted at the entrance of the second exhibition hall by a ten foot inflatable rabbit and sauntered past items that made me wonder if they were in the exhibition or not, like the crisp packet on the floor and the fire extinguisher in the corner, not sure whether I should be ignoring or pondering them - which would make me look less of an idiot. I tried to understand why an axe stuck to the wall with big strips of sticking plaster was called Oranges and Lemons and thought that the blank white wall at the far end was just that until I saw a small card at the corner which read “White Map Pin, acrylic and stainless steel”. It took me about two minutes to find the pesky little thing. I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon and would recommend it to anyone, but take a tip – enter the first exhibition hall on all-fours and go for a mattress near the wall. That way, you lessen your chance of having an up-close and personal experience with a stranger.

I loved Sunday morning visits to the fruit and veggie market in Wellington. Down on the waterfront, it was like walking through a rainbow with produce in shapes and skins the like of which I’d never seen before. A sign for fresh fish pointed down towards the end of the quay where we joined a queue buying from a boat decked with coloured bunting. Looking down into the boat, the deck was jammed with rows of boxes from which one man took the orders whilst two others worked non-stop on the filleting table. A woman called down for the tail of the large fish she was buying to be removed as well as the head. Asked good humouredly by one of the fishermen if this was a canny move to pay less for the fish, she replied no – it was the only way it would fit in her pan!

During our last few days at Wellington, we went walking along the beach and cliffs at Seatoun – one of Jo’s favourite rambles, we dined at Simply Paris and drove around the city’s pretty bays and headlands – the snowy Southern Alps of South Island just visible on the horizon. It was a wrench to leave Wellington and the family for the last time – it had been our haven for two months and wherever we’d been, we’d always looked forward to coming home.

Good News & Even Better News

The good news is that the neurosurgeon was so pleased with my progress that there is to be no surgery. The even better news is that there is to be no hoovering for a year either - wahey! I just have to exercise care and common sense for the next twelve months both and work and at home, but he was happy for me to return to work as originally planned at the start of November and to get out and start walking and swimming again which is great news as I'm going stir crazy doing nothing.

Well if we'd stuck to our original plans, we'd be starting to think about coming home about now. We were due to fly from Buenos Aires next Thursday but as it happened we didn't get close enough to even sniff a steak or turn a tango. Apparently my mum has been robbed of the opportunity of blowing up dozens of balloons and dusting off the old jubilee buntings. Next time eh mam ...

TAUPO

Taupo sits on the edge of a lake of the same name, which in turn fills a huge crater blasted into the ground by the eruption of a volcano many centuries ago that makes Krakatoa look like a damp squib. It prides itself as being the trout fishing capital of the world and every competition weekend the population is multiplied almost as many times as the size of the ones that got away. Gaze across the lake at sunset for a picture of the pink snowy heights of Mount Ruapehu on the horizon.

We had been invited to stay in the holiday bach of Ian and Margaret, turning our nose up at the option of the Huka Lodge that charges $3750 per night for cottage accommodation. Margaret is a sister to Duncan from Napier, who is a University friend of Edryd, who is Marc’s first cousin, once removed they always hasten to add. They were waiting for the bus and drove us back to their bach then left for home, leaving us to it. The house was so comfortable and cosy that we spent a lot of our time over the next few days just relaxing and reading after poking around antique shops and walking along the lakeside.

We did venture a little further, firstly hopping on the Taupo Hot Bus to the Craters of the Moon. Created by changes in underground water levels and shifting pressure with the building of a geo-thermal power station, Craters of the Moon is a vast steaming landscape of dried-out scrub scattered with craters and boiling lakes of mud and water. When we visited five years ago, closed shoes were the only permitted footwear in the park and notices warned visitors to stay on the paths. Since then, someone must have melted their flipflops by wandering off the straight and narrow as visitors are now requested to stay on a new boardwalk. We spent a couple of hours ignoring the notices and peering down into the hissing and simmering depths, watching birds flying in and out of their roosting places in cosy nooks on the side of the craters.

The next stop on the Hot Bus was the Huka Falls. The Waikato River is wide and slow flowing until it reaches the Huka Falls where it thunders into a narrow chasm, shoots out of the other side and drops ten spectacular metres into a churning pool. It has to be seen and heard to be believed. The Huka Jetboats will take you for a soaking at the foot of the turquoise falls but we opted for a nice dry walk through the bush upstream and gave some visitors that hailed from Auckland some tourist information and advice about things to do in the area!

We bought thermal long johns and tops in the sales at Taupo ready for the chilly nights on the Inca Trail. Marc had a nice black set and I ended up with green, black and white stripey ones as the only other ones left were too short in the leg and my stride length would have been somewhat restricted. They were too much of a bargain to leave behind (I wonder why) but I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to venture out of our tent in the Peruvian night in my zebra suit.

Just before we left Taupo, we booked another permit to visit Kapiti Island Nature Reserve, hoping for better weather this time and that the boat would not be cancelled again. We were staying for a couple of nights with Kay and Hallam at Paraparaumu – just across the water from Kapiti. Kay is a sister to Dave from Tarawera who is another university friend of Edryd. The bus journey from Taupo to ‘Paraparam’ was beautiful. We travelled along the lakeside for many miles, then took the Desert Road into the Tongariro National Park and stopped for a Kodak moment to capture the snowy trio of Tongariro, Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu. We stepped off the bus and it was like a different world – it was absolutely freezing and I took my photos peeking out from behind the bus, sheltered from the icy blast.

Hallam picked us up from the bus station and explained that he and Kay were going out that evening but that we were to make ourselves at home and they’d see us later. No sooner had we stepped into the house than we were clutching the largest glasses of wine we’d ever seen and toasting ourselves in front of a roaring fire. Our supper was cooking in the oven and later on, we may like a soak in the hot-tub on the deck, overlooking the beach. Is there no end to the generosity and kindness of people here towards strangers with the weakest of connections that just descend on them from nowhere?

ROTORUA - Hangis and Hongis

Rotorua is the geo-thermal hotspot of New Zealand. The crust of the earth is so thin here that the holes and vents that are dotted around parks, back gardens and on street corners hiss with steam, simmer with scalding water and are filled with bubbling mud that boils with a plop and a wallop. Mighty geysers erupt like clockwork in the thermal parks around the town and a dip in the balmy waters of Kerosine Creek, deep in the bush, is heavenly. It all makes for an extraordinary landscape. Steam rises from the forests and bush on the approach to town then you are overwhelmed by what makes Rotorua unique – the nose-screwing pong of rotten eggs which makes you wonder if you can even open the car door let alone stay here for a week. Oddly enough, you get used to the sulphuric bouquet very quickly and after a few minutes it’s no longer an issue unless you happen to be in a particularly pungent part of town. Europeans first came here in the 1880’s to take the waters and some very weird and wonderful therapies which are still popular today but without the electrodes.

Tarawera

We had been invited to stay with the Townsends at Lake Tarawera. There is dad Dave, mum Carol, Finlay and Tessa and Reggie the crazy little dog who runs his own single-handed possum eradication scheme and proudly leaves his trophies on the front lawn, barking until sufficient praise has been bestowed. Tarawera is a few miles out of Rotorua and over supper on the first night Dave told us that there was a car in the garage at our disposal for the week. He added that is wasn’t much but it was reliable and would get us around. It was waiting outside for us the following morning and it took all day for the big grin to fade from Marc’s face. We spent the week riding around in a bright blue sports car and although it was autumn with crisp mornings and a chill in the air, we had to go everywhere with the top down – my woolly hat pulled down over my ears to my eyes and a scarf up over my nose with the heater blasting hot air to my feet. It was great fun.

Lake Tarawera has to be amongst the most idyllic of places to live. The sparse settlement, glowing in autumn colour, runs along the edge of the lake under the shadow of Mount Tarawera which blew its top in a massive volcanic eruption in 1886 that buried an entire village and destroyed the Eighth Wonder of the Natural World – the dazzling Pink and White Terraces of silica on which people would come from far and wide to bathe (ladies and gentlemen segregated of course), leaving nothing but a deep crater. The disaster had been foretold a few days earlier by the sighting of a ghost war canoe silently crossing the misty early morning waters of Tarawera. Tourists and Maori guides on the lake on the way to view the terraces sighted the craft’s double row of occupants, one row paddling and the other standing wrapped in flax robes, their hair plumed as for death with the feathers of the huia and white heron. To the terrified Maoris these were the souls of the departed being ferried to the mountain of the dead and an omen of disaster, dire and inevitable.

Thankfully, there were no apparitions on the water the night we went out. We had a fantastic evening on the lake with all five Townsends and a couple with a lovely Valleys lilt who had emigrated from Ynysybwl. We boarded the boat at sunset and enjoyed a bottle or three in the cabin on big white sofas as we crossed the lake to Hot Water Beach. We stripped down to our togs and went ashore where Finlay sat a large saucepan filled with frankfurters in a scalding hot stream running into the lake. Back onto the boat and around the corner to soak in a hot rock pool on the lake edge. The perfect spa-like hollow can easily sit six bathing in moonlit bliss but the person nearest the ‘hot tap’ has to be careful not to get too close and end up poached. Soak over and peckish, we got back on the boat and returned to the steaming pan and dined on hotdogs and beer – the perfect evening.

Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud

After spending a morning following very clearly marked paths through the steaming, blistering landscape of Hells Gate Thermal Reserve we treated ourselves to a mud spa. The attendant led us behind a bamboo screen to a small private pool and we stepped down into waist high hot murky water. At the bottom of the pool was a six inch layer of the softest and silkiest mud which we had great fun throwing and slapping on each other. Within two minutes we were covered and calling the attendant who must have know beforehand what was coming as he is probably asked to take dozens of photos every day. After the prescribed half an hour came the shock of the cold shower before a medicinal soak in an even hotter sulphur pool and a final warm shower to wash off the ingrained mud. I felt so relaxed and floppy and my skin was as smooth and soft as a baby’s …

Te Puia

Te Puia is home to the NZ Maori Institute of Arts and Crafts and also boasts the fantastic Whakarewarewa thermal reserve. What was intended to be a short visit turned out to be an all-dayer and once again, our car was the last in the carpark. The day started with a walk around the park to see the geysers. Pohotu Geyser erupts every couple of hours, shooting water tens of metres into the sky and obliterating the sun with clouds of steam. A sign that Pohutu is about to blow is the smaller Price of Wales Feathers geyser nearby going for it twenty minutes earlier. Our guide informed us that the eruption lasts about 10 minutes but a few years ago it blew continually for 215 days! We were then led from bright sunlight into a pitch black building, feeling our way along a railing in front of a big gloomy enclosure. As our eyes adjusted, mine grew wider and wider as I recognised what was snuffling and poking around in the undergrowth right in front of me – it was a kiwi, and it was huge! At last! We stayed for about half an hour watching her forage about then we had to leave for the afternoon concert which was to take place in the whare (meeting house). We all assembled at the gate and appointed a leader who went forward to accept the leaf of friendship offered by the Maori in traditional dress and brandishing a spear in the traditional friend or foe ceremony. After a lot of tongue poking and eye rolling, they greeted each other with a hongi - the pressing of noses and sharing of a breath and we followed our leader into the beautifully carved building. The concert was wonderful – lots of singing, traditional poi and stick dancing and of course, the haka, which makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up every time I see it. We had a hangi lunch, which is the traditional way of cooking here. A hole is dug in the ground and meat and vegetables are wrapped in large leaves and placed on top of white-hot stones lining the bottom of the pit. The food parcels are covered in cloth then the earth is replaced on the top and in a few hours the whole thing is dug up. Baskets made of flax are also filled with vegetables and dropped into boiling springs to cook. Everything is so tasty and bursting with flavour.

Like the pictures of a book, arts and crafts are the pages of Maori culture. It’s how their stories were told and passed down through generations and how traditions and ancestry were preserved. History was carved and woven and these skills are taught and kept alive at Te Puia. Every year the Carving School takes a dozen students from different tribes to learn under the watchful eye of masters for three years and at the Weaving School, Maori young and old are taught hands on in a centuries old craft. It was awesome to watch their deft and skilful hands at work. A Maori called Mick with a fantastic moko on his chin invited us to have a go at carving a simple design into a piece of totara wood using a mallet and chisel. A long time ago, I had the third best exam mark in the whole of my class for woodwork and fancied my chances of turning out something beautiful but alas my skills had somewhat diminished and giving the finished article a coat of varnish was like trying to make a proverbial silk purse.

White Water Rafting

Marc sprayed on a wetsuit again at Rotorua for a morning of white water rafting on the Kaituna River – this was Grade 5 stuff with the first waterfall being a eight metre drop. My plan was to see them off, have a frothy coffee in the village then stroll back to the huge shed that was base to wait for them to return. The ‘dry training run’ was hilarious to watch. Fully kitted out with lifejackets, helmets and oars, the six paddlers took their place in the raft which sat in the middle of the car park and practised jumping into position and gripping anchor points for hands and feet for when the going got rough and crossing over to the opposite side of the raft in lightning speed on cue from the man barking orders at the back. Marc sat at the pointy end on the right-hand side, or should that be at the bow on the starboard side.

The run was to be captured on camera and just as the lads lifted the raft onto the back of the trailer and my thoughts turned to cappuccino, the photographer, a short man as wide as he was tall, asked if I’d like to come along so I accepted, thanked him and started to move towards the van. Instead, he directed me up a lane then down a marked track for a couple of kilometres to the river where he’d be waiting on a viewing platform after dropping the rafters off. Off I shot and got to the first viewing point well in time where I could hear him puffing and wheezing his way down the path from the road. We were high above a huge pool right opposite the thundering eight metre cascade and couple of minutes later I heard shouts and whoops through the trees then the pilot canoe appeared and shot over the falls followed by the raft. All was well until about half way down when I saw two falling out of the boat as the whole thing disappeared into the raging depths, one from the bow on the starboard side … He bobbed up quickly in the shallows and was instantly hoiked out the water still whooping and off they went again, hotly pursued along the bank by me and the photographer. Our pace quickly dropped off and I was afraid that I was about to witness some sort of cardiac incident but thankfully we arrived at the second waterfall intact and in time to capture them yell and plunge over the edge. I was relieved to hear that the photographer was making his way to the next viewpoint in the van. I was directed down the track for another few kilometres so off I darted again, keen to get there in time. I jogged along, camera in hand, checking my pocket for the spare battery, feeling just like the paparazzi. The river meanders its way back and forwards through the trees here and I could hear the raft or rather the rafters making their way down to the last big buzz. I waited on the landing ramp as the raft made its way down the rapids then it turned around at the bottom and everyone took it in turn to sit at the front and have a good dunking as the raft was paddled forward and forced down into the waves. Then it was all over and the sight of the lads carrying the raft aloft looked like a big twelve-legged insect emerging from the bush. It had been a fabulous morning and I don’t know who was more sorry to see it all come to an end – me or the six in the boat.

There are another hundred and one other things at Rotorua that I could tell you about like the Duckboat bus tour that made me laugh everytime I heard it quack by; careering down the side of a mountain on a 3-wheel cart and jumping on the cable car to go back up for yet another go; the world-famous sheep show in the Agrodome; the brilliant museum and the video of the volcano complete with quaking seats and lovely walks around the lake at sunset to name but a few. There are also another hundred and one things that we didn't get round to - this time ...

THAMES - THE LESS SAID ...

We’d stopped at Thames for a couple of hours on the way up to the Coromandel and had pre-booked into a hostel for two nights on the way back, arriving on Sunday night and leaving on Tuesday morning. We’d read up on what there was to do there and it looked quite interesting. How wrong can you get. The hostel was a real dive or “twll o le”. The advertised laundry facilities had broken down "earlier in the week" – early last year more like, and the whole place looked tired and threadbare. The rooms were also a little chilly in the evening but as a matter or principle, I was not going to pay $4 to hire a heater for a couple of hours. The only redeeming feature was that you almost stumbled into their back door straight off the bus. Finding $3 and a cigarette lighter down the back of the sofa which was upholstered with dog-hair gave me a smug feeling for a while. Having said all that, I was fascinated by the kitchen. The utensils were probably at the cutting edge of technology when Mrs Beeton was a girl, but still in remarkable condition and the crockery was a mix of seventies style patterns and colours. We could have been in a time warp.

What had really caught our eye in the guide book was the Thames Gold Mining Museum just out of town where we could take an underground tour then see rock crushing and gold processing as it would have been done yesteryear. We went along to the town tourist site in the evening shortly after arriving to ask about opening times. Very sorry, it was closed on Mondays. Oh. What about the Museum of Mining History then? Sorry, that was open on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays only. Oh. What was there to do then? Well there was an excellent bird hide at the end of a boardwalk when two hours either side of high tide you could observe hundreds of wading seabirds in the Firth of Thames but high tide was very early morning and after dark! Great …

We did find a little cinema that was warm and free of dog-hair where made up two thirds of the audience to watch a classic piece of kiwiana and we paid a couple of visits to the town swimming pool that looked like a space capsule. Nice big cold drops of water dripping from the ceiling plopped steadily on the heads of swimmers below.

As we waited for the bus out of town the following morning, I was browsing the dusty souvenirs at the station when I spotted a little kiwi toy all alone at the back of a shelf. The stitching on his bottom had frayed and his beak was a little wonky but he seemed to have an imploring look in his eyes. I got him for a knockdown price and as I boarded the bus I’m sure I heard a whispered “thank you” and a little chuckle.

COROMANDEL PENINSULA – THE EAST COAST

We stayed at Whitianga for five days. Our room at the hostel on the seafront was great – comfy bed, fluffy duvet, dressing table and mirror, wardrobe, reading lamps and a heater! By the time Marc had carried up the last bag, the room was as warm as toast, my few reminders of home were arranged on my bedside table and I was catching up with ancient celebrity gossip and with a dog-eared copy of Hello. I was well and truly settled in for the night.

We were up early next day to explore the bays and headlands of Mercury Bay on foot. Armed with a bag of sarnies and sketchy map we took the passenger ferry all 50 yards across the estuary at Whitianga and started out by climbing up to the site of an old Maori pa – a fortified lookout , high on the rocks overlooking the harbour and town. After slipping and sliding our way down the muddy track to Back Bay we walked across the shoreline of the sheltered little cove full of swanky yachts and scrambled up the other side through the bush and out onto the creamy coloured sands of Flaxmill Bay, fringed with pohutukawa trees. It was beautiful as it was – it must look stunning when the trees are ablaze with colour at Christmas. We walked the length of Flaxmill Bay towards the next cross on our map - Shakespeare’s Point, a headland high above the water on bush-cloaked cliffs. James Cook woz 'ere too and he named Shakespeare’s Point after he spent a week sat at the top observing the transit of Mercury across the face of the sun. As I sat there munching my cheese and tomato sandwich, fantails flitting around us, I couldn't help wondering what he he’d enjoyed for lunch all those years ago and about the poor souls who had to carry it all up to the cliff top as he gazed into the sky from the comfort of his deckchair. We took a steep cliff track down to Lonely Bay – a small cove hemmed in by rocks that felt a million miles from anywhere as the only views were straight out towards the horizon. Marc seems to have a compulsion that makes him want to know what’s around every corner so he disappeared over the rocks whilst I walked the shore soaking up the late afternoon sun. The last ferry of the day was the school-run and the post-run and we joined a dozen children and a pile of brown paper parcels for the journey back across the strong currents of the estuary. No sooner had we had supper than we were out again. We had reserved tickets for the Whitianga premiere of the new Indiana Jones film. Marc judged the film as disappointing and predictable but I’d had low expectations to begin with so didn’t feel let down, only that I’d wasted precious time.

Next day, we picked up a nice, shiny, white hire car to go exploring more of the east coast of the peninsula. Otama Beach and Opito Bay are said to be two of the finest stretches of sand on the Coromandel. Off the beaten track in the middle of nowhere these were deserted and windswept, made even more beautiful by the dark skies on the horizon and a silvery sun on the crashing waves. Behind the dunes of Opito Bay, a small community of boarded-up baches huddled together against the wind awaiting the return of their owners and calmer weather.

We took the ‘309 Road’ inland to look for a small grove of Kauri trees that had escaped the saws of the loggers many years ago, probably because they were in a gold mining field. An unsealed road, the 309 was being resurfaced in what can only be described as grit in thick mud. In about two minutes flat, the car was covered in it and when we stopped at the Kauri Grove, huge lumps just dropped off making a perfect outline of the car. Young Kauris, known as Rickers, grow very tall and fast in a race for the forest canopy. Once they reach the light the shape of their leaves change and they shed all but the top few branches, maturing over hundreds and sometimes thousands of years into kings of the forest. The trees were magnificent – a small group protected and viewed from a boardwalk that had survived against all odds. A little further down the 309 we took a walk down to the picturesque Waiau Falls – not very high or dramatic but a beautiful setting with a deep round pool at the base.

Two popular features of this area are Hot Water Beach and Cathedral Cove. We’d taken our swimming togs and a shovel from the hostel to Hot Water Beach as two hours either side of low tide it is possible (apparently) to dig a big hole in the sand and wait a few minutes for it to fill with hot water for your own private spa. One problem – the sea was crashing over the rocks in a howling easterly and it was impossible to dig anywhere. A busload of backpackers were up to their knees in the surf, burrowing their toes into the seabed where they could feel a little warmth but it was all a hilarious waste of time. Never before have I seen people standing shivering in the sea – bare legs below, fleeces hats and scarves on top, and I was one of them! Marc, of course, braced himself and went for a swim.

Cathedral Cove was a different story. An hour’s walk along the coastline led to a beach with a giant limestone arch above it. It was ‘side-on’ to the sea and as it was low tide we were able to walk through without getting our feet wet. Not far down the beach a tall limestone island with trees growing on the top sat in the water a stone’s throw from the shore. Many years ago this would have been another arch before its erosion and collapse into the sea. On the walk back we wandered down to the gorgeous rocky shores of Stingray Bay and Diamond Bay and daylight was fading fast as we made it up the last pull to the top of the cliffs. Our car was a forlorn sight as it sat all alone in the middle of an otherwise deserted car park, caked in mud. Fantastic!

The Coromandel really is somewhere special.

WE’RE BACK ON THE ROAD …

Marc went out at midnight wearing a stripey jumper and eye mask and carrying a bag marked SWAG and came home with a laptop so that we could get this blog back on the road. I’m still waiting for the appointment to see the specialist but I’m comfortable at home, being waited on hand and foot so I’ll carry on from where the wheels came off, on the beautiful Coromandel Peninsula in fabulous New Zealand.

OLA AMIGOS !

Gweler isod am y fersiwn Saesneg / SEE BELOW FOR THE ENGLISH VERSION

Helo Bobl - rwyf adref yn ddiogel ar ol taith a hanner a spelen fach ym Mronglais. Cefais ddisgrifiad da o'r broblem gan y ffisio yn Aber - mae disciau cefn fel jam donuts - yn feddal yn y canol - ac mae na rywbeth wedi gwasgu'r jam allan o ganol fy donut ac mae hwn yn gwasgu ar nerfau fy nhgefn ac i lawr fy nghoes dde. Mae arbennigwr o Dreforus wedi astudio lluniau y scan MRI eisoes ac mae am fy ngweld i benderfynnu'r cam nesaf. Rwyf yn aros am apwyntiad ar hyn o bryd. Yn y cyfamser mi fyddaf yn bachu ar y cyfle i ddiweddaru'r blog gan ein bod wedi bod ar y Coromandel yn Seland Newydd ers dau fis bellach!

Cofiwch bod croeso i chi alw yn Ysgubor Lon unrhyw amser gan fy mod ddim yn bwriadu mynd yn bell am dipyn bach! Efallai bydd rhaid i chi wneud cwpaned eich hunan os yw Marc yn digwydd bod allan! Diolch i bawb am y dymuniadau gorau a phopeth arall.

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Hello Folks - I'm back, safe and sound at home after the longest journey ever and a stint at Bronglais Hospital at Aberystwyth. The physio at Aber gave me an excellent description of the problem - spinal discs are just like jam donuts - squidgy in the middle, and something has squashed the jam from one of my donuts which is pressing on my spinal nerves and down my right leg. The MRI scan images turned up as promised and have been viewed by a neurosurgeon at Morriston in Swansea who wants to see me to decide on the next step. So that's where we're at - waiting for an appointment at Swansea, but I shall keep you posted.

I don't intend going very far in the near future so visitors are more than welcome. You may have to make your own cuppa if Marc is not home, but if this is the case there is an increased likelihood of there being something in the cake tin! I will also be taking advantage of the chance to update the blog as we have been on the Coromandel in New Zealand for about two months now.

Thanks to everyone for the good wishes and everything else but not for eating my Maltesers when I was helpless in hospital (you know who you are ...)

Nôl yn Aber / BACK IN ABER

Gweler isod am y fersiwn Saesneg / SEE BELOW FOR THE ENGLISH VERSION

Adre’n ddiogel

Rydym ni’n dau yn ôl yn Aber. Wedi siwrne cyffroes i ddweud y lleiaf, a barodd 28 awr, cyrrhaeddom Ysbyty Bronglais mewn Ambiwlans ar nos Wener am ddeg y nos. Mi’r oedd y siwrne yn brofiad a rhaid oedd i Nia druan drafaelu yr holl ffordd yn fflat ar ei chefn. Collais cownt o sawl ‘stretcher’ yr oedd rhaid iddi drafaelu arno gan iddi orfod newid o un i’r llall ar bob cam o’r daith. Oherwydd tywydd gwael mewn rhannau o Preu, nid oedd yr awyren ambiwlans yn medru ein cyrraedd yn Arequipa a rhaid oedd i ni drafaelu mewn awyren fach 9 sedd gyda Nia mewn ‘body brace’ ar ‘stretcher’ ar ben rhes o seddi wedi eu plygu ymlaen. Nid oedd y siwrne dwy awr yma yn un gyfforddus. Wedyn cawsom siwrne o dros 12 awr o Lima i Amsterdam a ninnau’n hedfan o gwmpas y stormydd mwyaf dwi erioed wedi eu brofi mewn awyren. Roedd ein taith awyr olaf o Amsterdam i Heathrow yn dipyn yn dawelach ond roedd taith o 5 awr yn ein disgwyl i’n tywys o’r maes awyr i’r ysbyty ym Mronglais. Ni wnaeth Nia fwynhau dim o’r daith adref ond dwi’n falch i adrodd erbyn bore Sadwrn roedd ysbryd Nia nôl ar ei uchel.

Rydym nôl yn Aber oherwydd mae’r driniaeth mae doctoriaid y wlad yma yn ei rhoi i berson yng nghyflwr Nia yn dra wahanol i’r driniaeth sy’n cael ei ddarparu ym Mheru. Yma, dim ond 10% o achosion tebyg sy’n gorffen lan yn derbyn llawdriniaeth. Hefyd, cafodd y sefyllfa ei chymhlethu’n bellach gyda’r doctoriaid a wnaeth ein hebrwng adref yn mynnu cymryd gofal o’r ‘MRI scans’ ac yna yn eu gadael ar un o’r awyrennau adref. Felly, ni chyrrhaeddodd y ‘scans’ Bronglais tan bore ddoe. Gorffwys a ffisiotherapi yw gorchymyn y doctor a gobeithiwn bydd Neurosurgeon yn gweld Nia’n fuan.

Diolch yn fawr i bawb a wnaeth helpu dod a Nia adref yn ddiogel. I bawb arall, fe synnech chi faint o fobl roedd ei hangen i gwbwlhau’r dasg a hefyd y nifer o seddi mewn awyren mae’n gymryd. Rhybudd i chi gyd – pan yn trafaelu dramor, peidiwch da ddim ac anghofio’r polisi yswiriant!

Bydd rhagor o newydd yn dilyn.

Home Safely

We are both back in Aber. After a long and gruelling journey that lasted 28 hours, we arrived in Bronglais Hospital in the back of an ambulance at about 10pm on Friday evening. The journey was an experience and an eye opener with poor Nia flat on her back all the way. I lost count of how many times Nia had to change stretchers at different stages of the journey. Due to bad weather in parts of Peru the air ambulance that was meant to fly us from Arequipa to Lima could not reach us and we had to fly instead in a small nine seater plane with Nia in a body brace on a stretcher lying on top of the passenger seats that were resting forward. This two hour journey was not a pleasant one to say the least. The next stage of the journey, a 12 hour flight from Lima to Amsterdam was not much better. In my experience, I have never encountered so much turbulence as the pilot tried to steer us round numerous storms. The ride was so bumpy that I’m sure at one stage that Nia’s whole body actually left the stretcher she was meant to be strapped into. Thankfully, the flight from Amsterdam to Heathrow was far less eventful but we still had a 5 hour journey from the airport to Bronglais Hospital in an ambulance. Nia certainly did not enjoy the journey home but I’m pleased to report that her spirit was much better by Saturday morning.

We have made it back to Aberystwyth as the treatment offered by doctors in this country is totally different to what we were offered in Peru. Here, only about 10% of cases where an individual has suffered a slipped disc end up on the operating theatre. Nia’s situation hasn’t been helped by the fact that the doctors that accompanied us home from Lima left Nia’s MRI scans on the plane. The scans only arrived at Bronglais yesterday morning. Rest and physiotherapy are the doctor’s orders and hopefully she’ll get to see a Neurosurgeon soon.

Many, many thanks to all those involved in helping to get Nia home safely. For everyone else, you’d be amazed as to how many people were involved in completing this task and how many seats in an aeroplane was required. A warning to all of you – when travelling abroad, do not forget that insurance policy!

Up-dates will follow.

Ar Ein Ffordd / ON OUR WAY

Gweler isod am y fersiwn Saesneg / SEE BELOW FOR THE ENGLISH VERSION

Dyma ni'n dod

Nodyn bach i ddweud ein bod ar y ffordd bore 'ma. Rydym yn hedfan mewn awyren ambiwlans arbennig o Arequipa i Lima ac yna fyddwn yn hedfan o Lima i Amsterdam lle byddwn yn cymryd lle naw sedd yng nghefn yr awyren, gyda Nia ar 'stretcher' yn cael ei hebrwng gan ddoctor a nyrs. Ar ôl seibiant byr yn Amsterdam byddwn yn glanio yn Heathrow ychydig ar ôl 3yp. Ni wyddwn eto lle fydd pen y daith i Nia - nid yw'r mater wedi ei benderfynnu eto ond fe gadwn mewn cyswllt.

Diolch i bawb yn yr hostel am y gofal gorau a phob caredigrwydd dros ein cyfnod yma. Diolch hefyd am y llyfr hardd. Fe fyddwn yn ôl.

Here we come

A quick message to say that we will be on our way home this morning. We are flying in an air ambulance from Arequipa to Lima and then onto Amsterdam this evening. We will be taking up the rear nine seats in the plane and Nia will be on a stretcher accompanied by a doctor and a nurse. After a brief stop in Amsterdam we should land in Heathrow just after 3pm on Friday. As yet we are still not sure as to where Nia will end up after arriving home - this matter is yet to be decided but we'll keep in touch.

Many thanks to the hostel for the best of care and every kindness over the last 16 days. Thank you also for the beautiful book and the lovely message within. We'll be back.

Dychwelyd Gartref / COMING HOME

Gweler isod am y fersiwn Saesneg / SEE BELOW FOR THE ENGLISH VERSION

Tua Thre'

Mae'r trefniadau ar gyfer dod a ni adre' wedi eu cadarnhau bore 'ma. Mae'r tîm meddygol bydd yn ein hebrwng ni adref yn cyrraedd yma dydd Mawrth. Byddant yn rhoi asesiad olaf i Nia dydd Mercher cyn i ni adael Peru dydd Iau a chyrraedd Heathrow pnawn Gwener. Mae'r trefniadau ar ôl cyrraedd gartref yn ddibynol ar asesiad dydd Mercher gan y bydd Nia yn cael ei throsglwyddo'n syth (gobeithio) i'r ysbyty mwyaf addas, agosaf i gartref.

Diolch i bawb am y negeseuon a'r dymuniadau gorau. Gobeithio bydd yr haf ddim drosto erbyn penwythnos nesaf! Fe gadwn mewn cyswllt.

Homeward Bound

The arrangements for bringing us home have now been confirmed. The medical team that will escort us home arrive here on Tuesday. After a final assessment of Nia's condition on Wednesday we will leave Peru on Thursday and arrive at Heathrow via Amsterdam on Friday afternoon. There are no definate plans after London as Nia will (hopefully) be transferred straight to "the most appropriate hospital closest to home", to be decided after the assessment on Wednesday.

Many thanks for the messages and best wishes. We will keep you posted.

One other thing - get your orders in now for your hand-knitted alpaca hats and ponchos (ideal Christmas pressies) as Nia will have plenty of time on her hands when she'll be recuperating.

Newyddion / BREAKING NEWS

Gweler isod am y fersiwn Saesneg / SEE BELOW FOR THE ENGLISH VERSION

Mae`r ffidil yn y tô ... am y tro

Yn anffodus, newyddion drwg sydd gennym y tro yma. Ychydig cyn gadael Seland Newydd dechreuodd Nia gael cefn tost (a herc). Wrth deithio drwy Chile fe ddechreuodd wella ychydig ond erbyn cyrraedd Arequipa yn Ne Peru roedd rhaid ymweld a doctor. Ar ôl rhedeg profion fe gadarnhaodd yr arbennigwr fod gan Nia 'slipped disc' a bod angen llawdriniaeth frys arni i wella'r cyflwr. Rydym yn Arequipa ar hyn o bryd yn disgwyl i'n cwmni yswiriant ein hedfan ni gartref - o fewn ychydig ddyddiau gobeithio. Gobeithiwn caiff Nia y driniaeth angenrheidiol yn syth ar ôl dychwelyd ac mae ar hyn o bryd ar ei gorwedd ddydd a nos er mwyn leddfu'r poen. Er hyn mae ei hysbryd yn dda ac yn edrych ymlaen i gymryd y cyfle i ddiweddari'r blog am weddill ein taith. Felly daliwch ymlaen i ddarllen y blog am rhagor o hanesion a'r newyddion diweddaraf.

A spanner in the works

Unfortunately, it is bad news we have for you this time. Shortly before leaving New Zealand, Nia developed a stiff back and a slight limp. Over the counter drugs seemed to improve the condition somewhat whilst traveling through Chile, however, a marathon bus journey from North of Chile to Peru's second city of Arequipa totally finished her off. We consulted medical experts here in Arequipa and after running some tests it was confirmed that Nia is suffering from a slipped disc. The neurosurgeon has advised that Nia requires and urgent operation to rectify the condition and we are currently still in Arequipa waiting for our travel insurance company to fly us home. We hope the necessary surgery will be carried out as soon as possible upon our return home. Nia is currently bed bound to alleviate the pain though her spirit remains high and she is looking forward to up-dating the blog for the rest of our journey. So keep watching this space for more adventures and the latest news.

THE COROMANDEL - WEST COAST

The Coromandel Peninsula is the bit that sticks out of the top of North Island to the east of Auckland and the big pointy finger that is Northland. The spine of the Coromandel is densely forested and mountainous and narrow winding roads trace the outline of the coast with its tiny islands. Some of the best beaches and scenery in the north can be found here and it´s little wonder that they escape here in droves from Auckland for the weekend and holidays.

There is a rich gold-mining history here and Coromandel Town where we based ourselves for a week was once a thriving town of more than ten thousand when gold was discovered in them hills. Wages were fabulously high for the day - miners would have been paid 3 pounds a week and the cost of a house in the area averaged at 8 pounds. These days the population is down to a sleepier one thousand and something with a thriving tourist industry with paua, pacific oysters and green-lipped mussels being farmed on old shipwrecks off the coast.

Kauri tree logging was big business on the peninsula for more than 60 years. This beautiful timber was shipped as far as San Francisco for construction and ship building and after Kauri on the coast got scarce, the loggers moved deeper into the bush for timber and built Kauri dams, known as Driving Creeks that used water power to propel the huge logs down to the sea. By the 1930´s the industry had died after virtually none of these magnificent centuries-old trees remained.

We were picked up from the hostel in the pouring rain by the shuttle bus taking us to the start of the Coromandel Coastal Walkway. Peter, our guide, had lived at Aberystwyth for a summer many years ago and recalled such joyous occasions as listening to the town choir singing at the castle on a Sunday night and enjoying a pint on the way home every night from his job as a brickie´s labourer (just the one mind). On the 65km drive to Fletcher Bay and the start of the walkway, the sun came out as Peter told us the tale of an old friend who used to drive wagons along the stretch of road and would quite often have a long wait before being able to return to his depot. His favourite pastime would be propping up road-kill possums with bits of stick, then lodging empty cans between their claws so they looked as if they were just sat on the side of the road enjoying a beer!

The coastal walk was lovely. Pointed in the right direction, off we went on our way to Stony Bay about 10k along the coast where Peter would be waiting to serve afternoon tea about four hours later. The walk started across hilly farmland where the track passed Sugar Loaf Rock and the Pinnacles then into dense bush past waterfalls and caves and lookouts over the trees down to the water. We took side tracks down to three tiny rocky coves along the way and spotted Peter a couple of kilometers from the end, getting tea and muffins ready on the beach. We even got a certificate and a book on the history of the area, written as a community project, for our efforts.

Driving Creek Railway is extraordiary. Each and every length of rail has been bent, shaped and laid by a potter of international fame who just wanted to use the railway as a means of transporting clay from the hillsides of the section he bought a few decades ago for a few dollars. Feats of engineering by this brilliant man who can´t abide sleeves (he cuts them off every shirt he owns as they just get dirty and in the way) takes the train up a track of steep grades, across four trestle bridges, around two spirals, reversing into two double switchbacks and through two tunnels before it finishes at the ´Eyefull Tower´ with superb views of Coromandel Town and the coastline beyond. The track passes through bush and an area of recently planted Kauri trees and pots, sculptures and other strange shapes appear in the undergrowth from time to time. We had been warmly greeted at the ticket ofice when we arrived by a lady who said she´d been expecting us. She was Peter´s wife from the previous day on the coastal walk, who had told her to keep an ear out for the accents!

I am now going to dob-in the BBC. Remember the fly-on-the-wall series Castaway, set on a ´deserted island in the Pacific´? Well Great Barrier Island is the largest island in the Hauraki Gulf just off Auckland. It has a population of 1000 and is easily accessible by boat or plane. It has a wide range of accommodation from which to choose, from hostels to luxury apartments, and the film crew were probably in a hotel room so close to the camp that the could hear the arguments over who stole the last blob of ketchup or sheet of toilet paper. Demand a refund on your licence fees I say.

OPOTIKI TO TAURANGA - MOKO, TAPU & MANA

After seeing about six people in the two days we spent driving around the East Cape, the busy and cosy hostel at Opotiki was a welcome change, even though the bed was so hard we could have bounced pennies off it! The town is a model of Maori tradition and the main street is lined with the works of master carvers. The Historic & Agricultural Society museum occupies an old general store on a corner in the middle of town and the vast display of bric-a-brac and kiwiana on display was fascinating and worthy of five minutes (with nose pressed against the window) of anybody´s time.

We hold our hands up to yet another walk on the beach - Ohiwa this time, just two minutes after leaving town on our way to Whakatane. It was as captivating as all the others. Whakatane was a lovely colourful little town that reminded me very much of Nelson - it was probably the abundance of craft shops and art galleries. We just happened (ahem...) to come across a fabulous shop that was like an indoor market of the art and craft work of dozens of local artists under one roof - like the Christmas Fair at the Aberystwyth Arts Centre. We bought so much stuff that our next stop was the Post Office to send it all home!

As we walked down the main street we wondered why the road and pavement were rather inconveniently diverted around a large, fenced-off rock. A bit of research revealed that this site is where Maori warriors would once have come to be tattooed with moko and the rock is tapu and therefore inaccessible. Moko are traditional intricate face and body tattoos and each moko contains ancestral and tribal messages specific to the wearer. These messages tell the story of the wearer's family and tribal connections and their status within these social structures. The notion of tapu - complex rules of sacredness and prohibition is essential to Maori belief as is mana - personal spiritual power or prestige. Tapu applies to sacred and/or forbidden objects such as sacred grounds or the possessions of a chief and also to actions prohibited by a tribe. It can be temporary or permanent - canoe builders would have been made tapu in a ceremony prior to starting work. These beliefs are still very much alive in New Zealand today.

Our last stop before reaching Tauranga was Maketu, landing site of the Te Arawa canoe that brought the first settlers to the area from Hawaiki in the 14th century. I nearly fell off the wharf when I saw the hundreds and thousands of beautiful ostrich-foot shells on the beach. Uncle Alun used to tease Anti Ceri saying that she was like ´buwch mewn cae clover´(a cow in a clover field) when let loose in a shop and that was the perfect description for me as I darted around the beach, bobbing up and down, wishing that I had bigger hands and another pocket!

We stayed at Maketu until the crimson sunset then drove on to Tauranga where we needed to find a bed for the night. Remember what I said about places being quieter at this time of year? Well that doesn´t apply when there are two national events taking place in town on a weekend. We were turned away from four places and telephoned another four with no luck and were beginning to think that it would have to be the back seat of the car when we had the last available wooden cabin at a motorcamp on the outskirts of town. It was a wonderful little place with all mod cons and we got to see a whole new breed of people to the usual in the morning - chirpy happy campers wandering out of the shower block in their stripey dressing-gowns and fluffy slippers. What a pleasant change from bleary-eyed backpackers.

HICKS BAY TO OPOTIKI - HAKA & THE HAIRY CHIEF

There's a lot to be said for travelling at this time of year. The days are still lovely and warm and apart from the obvious advantages of cheaper winter rates for accommodation and car hire you quite often get places that are normally buzzing with tourists all to yourself. It's not that the beaches of the East Cape would have been dotted with parasols and pinacoladas at the height of the summer, as tourists are few and far between here, but our footprints were the only ones on these desolate stretches of sand strewn with driftwood and whatever else the Pacific had cared to toss ashore.

Beaches seem to have their own 'signature' seashell and Lottin Point, our first stop on day two round the Cape shimmered with the blues, greens and pinks of paua shells. The paua, or abalone, is polished and carved into beautiful pieces of jewellery and is traditionally used as an inlay for Maori carvings. It is also incorporated into some particularly nasty souvenirs which I can't believe that people buy and cart home with them. Far better to have a single shell from the beach which holds real memories.

I would have been quite happy to have spent my entire five months in NZ at Lottin Point. We drove on an unsealed road through a forest then scraped the bottom of the hire car down a stony track and across a stream bed to reach this small, but perfectly formed bay. Pohutukawa trees fringed the rocky headlands that bound the crescent shaped beach. In December, these trees burst into exotic, vivid red bloom hence their other name of the NZ Christmas tree. The rocky shallows were perfect for snorkelling, the sheltered waters perfect for swimming, the sandy shore perfect for strolling and the pebbly bank perfect for beach-combing. As predicted, we spent far too much time there.

The school gates at Torere were beautiful. The structure was about four metres high and carved with intricate Maori design and inlay. Apparently it is quite a common sight to see the children here practicing the haka on the front lawn but there were no rolling eyes, lolling tongues or chest slapping whilst we were there. Haka is Maori for any form of dance and the chant that preceded a battle or challenged suspicious visitors is a haka taparahi. Each tribe would have had its own haka taparahi and the famous ´Ka Mate, Ka Mate´ haka that we associate with All Blacks rugby matches is the haka of the Ngati Toa tribe and their great warrior chief, Te Rauparaha. His haka is said to have originated from the time when he was fleeing from some of his numerous enemies and another chief hid him in an underground kumara store, where he waited, in the dark, to be found. When the store was opened and the sun shone in, it was not the enemy but the (hairy) local chief telling him that the enemy had gone. Te Rauparaha climbed the ladder out of the store and performed his victorious haka

Ka mate, ka mate It is death, it is death
Ka ora, ka ora It is life, it is life
Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru Behold the hairy man
Nana hei i tiki mai i whatawhitie te ra Who caused the sun to shine
Upane, aupane Abreast, keep abreast
Upane, ka aupane The rank, hold fast
Whiti te ra Into the sunshine

I´ve witnessed a haka from a distance of ten feet and even though I knew that I wasn´t about to be eaten, it sent a chill down my spine.

As we approached Opotiki, we could see White Island out in the Bay of Plenty. You can visit New Zealand´s most active volcano on a boat trip but be prepared to flee at anytime. This is a small island, formed by three volcanic cones that hisses and spouts with steam and hot water from the crater. Safer and cheaper is to visit the live webcam where someone has placed a small pink teddy near the camera. He looked quite lonely but he won´t get cold at night for sure.

GISBORNE TO HICKS BAY - EAST AS ...

The East Cape has been described as a gorgeous, detached and untouristed slice of North Island. Small Maori communities seem to wash up along the coastline, the pace moves down a gear or two and the landscapes are simply stunning. The Pacific Coast Highway hugs the coastline all the way around the Cape and we set out to complete the drive in three days. Five minutes into the journey and we'd stopped at Wainui Bay and joined dozens of others to admire the skills of the surfers twisting and turning their way in on the huge rolling waves. We tore ourselves away and on to the locality where the film Whalerider had been shot. Try as we might, we simply could not find the sign for the turning down to the village of Whangara. After doubling back twice we gave it up as a bad job and came to the conclusion that the residents were fed up of visitors and had thrown the sign in the hedge.

At Tolaga Bay we took a hike along Cook's Walkway to see yet another bay where he had landed on his great voyage of discovery. The track crossed hilly farmland then arrived at a lookout high above the coastline before descending into dense bush, eventually emerging into the light to cross a last few fields before reaching the cove. After an hour and a half we got to the cove which was quite forgettable, but the same cannot be said of the track which was the muddiest I've ever walked and we do dirt pretty well at home. A bit of consideration by Captain Cook for those that would have to squelch to the spot for years to come would not have gone amiss when he was deciding where to drop anchor!

Beaches just seem to draw us and we spent more time than we should have at Waipiro Bay walking and collecting (more) shells. It was mid afternoon when we left and we were literally miles behind schedule and had no accommodation booked so we decided to put off a visit to the East Cape Lighthouse until the next day and went on to find a hostel at Hicks Bay. It was pitch black when we arrived with no lights anywhere and we weren't sure if we were at the right place when we ventured in through the gate. Having closed it behind us, we were confronted by two pairs of shining green eyes and had we known that they belonged to a German Shepherd and a Rottweiler we'd have been back over in a flash but as it turned out, the biggest danger we faced from them was being licked to death!

It doesn't get much further east than Hicks Bay and only at the tip of the East Cape will the first rays of the sun reach land before here so we were out of our beds by 6.30am and on a rocky headland above the beach to be among the first in the world to welcome the new day. We watched in silence as the sun appeared over the horizon.

We were back on the road early, backtracking a few miles to the East Cape then climbed hundreds and hundreds of steps to the lighthouse at the top of the cliff and panoramic views of mile after mile of rugged coastline and rolling green hills. We were joined by a retired couple from Hamilton who had visited every lighthouse in New Zealand - this one being the last. We took a photo of them to mark the occasion and they took one of us in return - our heads were chopped off but it was a nice shot of the flax nearby. I counted the steps on the way down - there were 759 of them. I can say this with confidence as I ran back up and counted them again on the way down the second time just to be sure ...