Ask pretty much any New Zealander what they know about Oamaru and the answer will probably be … not much. They might be able to tell you that this South Island town has a type of local white limestone named after it, and if they’ve been there they’d know that the main streets are full of grand old buildings made from that stone. If they’re a literary type they’d possibly point out that famous New Zealand author Janet Frame grew up in Oamaru, although it’s more likely they’d know that Richie McCaw, the All Black captain, was born there.

Chances are, though, that much of the population couldn’t even point it out on a map. It’s just a quiet North Otago town that visitors pass through on their way to somewhere else. I grew up only a couple of hours away, and yet I don’t remember ever spending more than an afternoon there in the last thirty years.

Sleepy. Rural. Conservative. It’s certainly not the kind of place that you’d expect to find a steampunk museum, and yet that was the entire reason we’d gone there at all.

For those not in the know, ‘steampunk‘ is a term used to describe a particular science-fiction genre that typically takes the clothing and steam-powered world of Victorian England and propels it into a fantasy or post-apocalyptic world. Bizarre machinery is the norm – all hissing steam and giant turning cogs – in a dark, gothic setting. Airships and analogue computers, strange weapons and skeletons … you get the gist.

After a quick chat with some of the people behind this rather unusual venture, we headed through the heavy entrance door and into the darkness beyond. It closed with an ominous clang behind us, leaving us alone with only erratically-flickering bulbs to guide us.

A skeleton sat behind the wheel of a large, tractor-like vehicle. Copper pipes ran into large tanks, occasional jets of steam hinting at an unknown purpose. A metal motorbike with spoked wheels sat beside the door, illuminated in a blinding shard of light whenever it opened, while a small boat hung suspended from the ceiling beside an old dentist’s chair.

As someone with only a passing acquaintance with steampunk, I probably missed most of the subtleties – but as a guy, it was hard not to love the place anyway. What’s not to like about being surrounded by human skulls, jets of steam and huge unidentifiable metal contraptions, I ask?

And then, eyes squinting against the harsh summer sunlight, we left the gloom of the museum and headed outside to the yard. This sprawling area was full of all kinds of junk in various stages of being turned into one sort of sculpture or another. One man’s treasure, and all that.

The sculptors have definitely got a thing for skulls and tractors at this place. The enormous cannon behind it was rather cool as well, mind you…

Although most of the sculptures definitely fell into the large category, there were several pieces that were at least a little smaller. A crank handle that will never crank again, for instance, or a weathered bell on an equally weathered column.

By this stage Lauren had despaired of ever leaving Steampunk HQ, sitting in the corner with her head in her hands as Dustin and I extolled the virtues of yet another unidentifiable, yet oddly beautiful, welded metal object. I mean, seriously … we hadn’t even gone and played on top of the train yet!

The centrepiece of the yard was a full-length train carriage that functioned as a workshop, office, sculpture and playground. When there was such an inviting ladder hanging off the side … well, there was just no way that we couldn’t scale it, even if just to get a better view of the giant fly hanging out near the top of the building.

Let’s just say we weren’t disappointed once we got up there.

There was so much more to see and do than what we had time for – sadly we had an appointment to keep in Dunedin that afternoon and had to keep moving after an hour or so. Two of the three of us could happily have spent the entire day there……

Steampunk HQ is an ambitious and unique project to undertake, especially in a place like Oamaru, but I think that the small team behind it have got the right idea. It’s accessible enough to the general public that people will just pop in for a look, while staying true enough to the genre that hard-core fans shouldn’t be put off. At ten bucks it’s pretty cheap entertainment, especially by New Zealand standards, and there’s enough in there to leave you easily feeling that you’ve got your money’s worth.

In short, if you’re passing through Oamaru as I had done so many times in the past, give yourself an extra hour or two and follow the signs for Steampunk HQ instead. There’s really just nothing else like it in the country.

Thanks to the lovely people at Steampunk HQ for waiving the entrance fee for us, and taking time out of their day to show us round and chat about the museum (and life in general!)

Oamaru, home of … steampunk? is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

A couple of years ago I came across a rather talented blogger by the name of Torre DeRoche, who had a very interesting back story. She’d sailed across the god-damned Pacific Ocean.

Rather than being a female version of Thor Heyerdahl, however, all daring and adventure, Torre was … well … a little different. Her story was more barf bags than bravery, more freaking out than fearlessly heading into the blue. There’s a good reason her blog is called Fearful Adventurer, I guess.

In any case, after finding the man of her dreams and sailing across an ocean with him despite overwhelming fear and an abject hatred of deep water, Torre decided to write a book about the experience. Turned down by major publishers, she persevered and published it herself … and I had no idea what to expect when she sent me a copy of "Swept: Love with a Chance of Drowning" to take a look at.

As it turned out, it was easily one of the best books I had ever read, travel or otherwise. As I said in my review at the time:

This is not really a story about sailing.  It is not really a story about travel.  It is a story about love – the love between two people, the love of adventure, the love of confronting your fears and realising that you are capable of doing so much more than you ever believed you could.

All you need to do is cast off the lines that tie you to shore and set yourself free to try.

Shortly after reading her book, I had the pleasure of meeting up with Torre and Ivan (he of handsome-Latin-man-sailing-across-the-ocean-love-interest fame). Over the couple of months that I had remaining in Melbourne, we managed to find several opportunities to eat vast amounts of Vietnamese food, drink too many beers and sing songs about an anatomically-unlikely horse in a shop window. As you do.

Unsurprisingly, I wasn’t the only person who had been blown away by Torre’s captivating writing. Within weeks the social media buzz grew, soon resulting in a bidding war from major players for both the book and film rights. Rather impressive for a debut novel – a novel that, once a deal was struck, was removed from the Amazon store and has been unavailable ever since.

Until last week.

If you can watch that trailer and not want to immediately go pick up the book, you’re a better man than I.

Not long after I moved to Thailand, Torre and Ivan did too. For a year or more she was hard at work rewriting and extending the manuscript, turning something that I already thought was close to perfect into an absolute work of art. While the title has been shortened slightly to Love with a Chance of Drowning, the novel itself has now grown by 10,000 words. The story remains the same, of course, but there’s more detail, more background, more of that dry, self-deprecating wit that so sold me on it the first time round.

I could go on about the book for hours (and if you ever catch me at a bar in a pensive mood, I probably will), but I think there’s an easier way to find out how good it really is.

Just go and pick it up. It’s under ten dollars on Kindle, a buck or two more for the printed version, and once you’ve opened the first page you won’t be even slightly interested in what I’ve got to say about it. Just make sure the fridge is well-stocked and be sure to cancel any appointments you’ve got planned, as you won’t be leaving the house again any time soon.

Oh, and don’t blame Torre if you are suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to buy a yacht and go sailing around the world. It happens to the best of us…

Bonus! In return for me not sharing any more embarrassing stories about her, Torre has offered to give away a copy of her wonderful book to anyone that lives in North America! So, if you do, just leave a comment below that mentions what your favourite disproportionate animal is, and I’ll pick a winner in a week or so…

Love with a Chance of Drowning, redux is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

We hadn’t been short of incredible weather or views during our time in New Zealand, but the drive from Wanaka over to the West Coast was in a class of its own.

We’d only been on the road fifteen minutes when we found ourselves pulling off again, to take photos and just gape at the beauty of Lake Hawea on a day like this.

So many glorious shades of blue and green, laid out for all to see under the hot Central Otago sun.

The Friday Photo #162 – Perfect day, Lake Hawea is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

I have absolutely no idea why I didn’t get there sooner.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t had the opportunity. Countless times in the past I had driven through Tekapo, heading south towards Queenstown or north to Christchurch. Every single time the sign beckoned, pointing the way towards Mount Cook … and every time I ignored it.  I was always too busy, in too much of a hurry to reach my destination. New Zealand’s highest mountain could wait for another day, I thought.

The day had finally come.

The drive from Akaroa to Tekapo seemed to drag on forever, although it was at least broken up by a home-cooked meal at my parent’s place on the way through. We didn’t arrive until mid-afternoon, stopping only long enough to unload our bags (and Dustin) before carrying on out of town.

Maybe the weather had always been terrible when I’d driven through here in the past, but I didn’t remember Lake Pukaki ever looking this good.

Finally rounding the bottom of the late, I hit the indicators and turned onto the Mount Cook Road for the first time. Bright sunshine and blue skies isn’t really the norm around this part of the country, but things were very different today.

If you don’t stop, it’s little over an hour from Tekapo to where the road runs out in the carpark of the Hermitage Hotel. Of course, doing this drive for the first time without stopping would also be rather missing the point, so we spent almost as much time on the side of the road as we did in the middle of it.

Luckily, with so little other traffic around, suddenly pulling over for a photo opportunity wasn’t ever a problem.

The road wound along the southern shore of the turquoise lake, its brilliant colour due to a fine silt washed down from the nearby glaciers. Many of the lakes, valleys and fjords in this part of the South Island were formed by ancient glaciers leaving their dramatic scars on the landscape.

Eventually the lake came to an end in a swampy grassland fed by several small rivers. Hills grew into mountains all around us, New Zealand’s dramatic landscape at its beautiful best.

Quiet alpine meadows were an unexpected find.

Finally reaching Mount Cook Village itself, and knowing we didn’t have too much time, I asked a friendly local where the best short walk was. You could spend weeks hiking in this region – and one day I intend to – but for now, a quick stroll along the first part of the Hooker Valley Track would have to suffice.

Let’s just say it was worth it.

With the windows down, music playing and evening sun streaming into the car, we headed back towards Tekapo. This was pretty much my idea of perfection, and I wondered aloud for the 43rd time that hour why I hadn’t made the trip up there before.

Had I known how stunning the scenery was – and what the weather was going to be like – I would have booked a few days in the hostel at Mount Cook village. With our recent experience on Tongariro and the Queen Charlotte Track, we might have even been able to handle some of the longer hikes in the national park.

Maybe.

Since that day, everybody I’ve mentioned this drive to has told me how it was cloudy / raining / foggy / snowing when they did it. I can only feel blessed that we had such an incredible afternoon. New Zealand seemed determined to put on its best face during our two months in the country, and that day was no exception.

So, I can only say: if you happen to be driving through Tekapo on a sunny day, don’t do what I had done for all those years. Find a few extra hours in your schedule to follow that sign off the highway.

Just be sure to take your camera.

Where we stayed:

Hostelbookers arranged a night at YHA Tekapo for us, one of the nicest YHA’s we encountered during our time in the country. From the minute we arrived and started joking around with the guy on reception, we knew it was going to be a fun stay. Our four-bed dorm was small but tidy and functional, and the large kitchen was kept remarkably clean. It gets cold quickly at night in Tekapo, even in summer, so the hot showers were very much appreciated. The wifi was the standard Global Gossip system that is the best of a bad lot when it comes to Kiwi internet companies.

Best of all, though, was the view. Sitting right on the edge of Lake Tekapo, it’s gorgeous during the day – and even more so at night, when millions of stars appear in the inky darkness above. It’s certainly not hard to see why an observatory has been built on a nearby hill. We went for a walk beside the lake and just stood, transfixed, for what felt like hours.

Simply stunning.

The road to Mount Cook is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

Wandering along the rocky beach beside Lake Waikaremoana on this wet and blustery day, it was surprising how many photo opportunities could be found with just a break in the clouds, a piece of driftwood and a willing participant…

The Friday Photo #161 – Silhouetted on the beach is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

I wasn’t looking forward to returning to Christchurch.

This was the city that I knew best in New Zealand. It’s where I’d escape to as a teenager and where I went to university. It’s where I had my first real job and where I bought my first house. Many of my old friends and co-workers still live there. If anywhere in the country felt like home, surely this had to be it.

Except it didn’t, and it wasn’t.

The massive earthquake on Feb 22, 2011 severely damaged much of the inner city and eastern suburbs. Now, almost two years to the day since the earth roared in Christchurch, I was finally coming back. I’d come up with many excuses during that time as to why I hadn’t already returned. It didn’t fit with my plans, or I didn’t have enough annual leave, or I was on the other side of the world.

All of those things were true, but they weren’t the real reason.

I just didn’t want to see it with my own eyes.

There were too many memories wrapped up in the crumbled masonry and destroyed houses. Too much had happened. Too many broken buildings, too many dead people, too many lives changed forever. I wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with it. I wasn’t sure I would ever be.

I was worried about the divide as well. Those who were there on that day and the long, horrible months of aftershocks and pain afterwards, versus those who were not. I could sympathise, but I could never truly know what it was like. I wondered whether sympathy could be enough.

Hostelbookers had arranged a room at Haka Lodge overnight, a small, highly-rated hostel around ten minutes from the CBD by car. The wi-fi wasn’t working the day we were there but everything else was great – an immaculate private room, clean bathrooms, large common area and friendly staff member was everything I could have hoped for during our short stay. 

My mind wasn’t really on our accommodation, though. The following morning we were due to take a bus tour around the "red zone" – the part of the CBD that’s still cordoned off and protected by the military. If you don’t have a permit or aren’t on an authorised tour, you’re not allowed in. Period.

Warned by the guide and information cards that there was a risk of injury or death on this trip didn’t help much with my mood. On the way to the starting point I had driven along buckled roads, unexpected views glimpsed every few minutes through the gaps where buildings once stood. How much worse could it be, I wondered?

Much.

185 empty white chairs sit on a small patch of lawn just outside the exclusion zone, a memorial sculpture to the people who lost their lives on that day. The baby seat in front was particularly hard to take.

Christchurch’s city centre has always been dominated by its cathedral. Many of my memories include that old church – I used to work in the Press building opposite and, in later years, attend meetings in the nearby Telecom offices.  I was a regular in the bars that overlooked it, and the central location meant that I’d invariably find myself wandering past it most nights I was out in town.

I knew that it had been severely damaged, probably beyond repair, but to see it with its front ripped off and held up by scaffolding bought emotions flooding to the surface. I’m not a religious person, but the cathedral was more than just a place of worship – it was the symbol of the city. It’s not hard to understand why a group of locals is fighting to save it from the final wrecking ball, even if restoration seems impossible.

Trundling slowly past boarded-up shops and restaurants, the memories flooded back. I spent a St Patrick’s Day in that bar, and a drunken birthday in that one. I danced until the small hours in that terrible nightclub, and bought late-night kebabs at that takeaway joint. I had a first date in that steak restaurant, bought a pair of jeans from that little shop and left my car in that slumping mass of concrete that used to be a parking building.

That the icons were gone was gut-wrenching, but it was the derelict remnants of a former life that hit me hardest. I wiped away a tear as the bus carried on.

The tour only took half an hour, but it felt like we’d driven through the destruction for days. Walking slowly away, I wondered how the city could possibly recover from having its heart ripped out like this. The statistics were almost incomprehensible – 40 billion dollars worth of damage. 10,000 buildings destroyed and more than ten times that many damaged. Many people have left, perhaps never to return. Can Christchurch recover from a blow like this? Could any city?

As I explored more, though, I started to notice something surprising. A little sculpture on a street corner. Refrigerators repurposed as community book exchanges. A temporary music and events venue in the central city, made from wooden pallets and salvaged concrete.  A shopping mall constructed from shipping containers.

Amidst the destruction, little seeds of hope had taken root and sprouted. Designers, artists, entrepreneurs were trying out new ideas. It was hard to see the earthquake as anything more than the disaster it was, but people were seizing the opportunity to do something different in ways they could never have before. There’s no shortage of vacant land in the inner city to try out a new idea these days.

Talking to my friends, colleagues, random people in a cafe or bar, I realised something else. People are still dealing with the aftermath of the quake, and will be for years, decades to come – but they’re now starting to look to the future as well. The many thousands of aftershocks have finally become less frequent, and much of the demolition is complete. With the start of the reconstruction has come a dream of normality in a city that hasn’t had one in over two years.

I arrived in town unsure of what I would find, expecting only to leave my old home with a heavy heart. While seeing the destruction first-hand was perhaps even harder than I had imagined, I was surprised at what else I found there.

Christchurch still has an incredibly long way to go in the recovery process, and it will never be the city it once was. There’s at least a chance now, though, that it could one day be something even better.

Hope is a truly wonderful thing.

Returning to Christchurch is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

Now things were starting to look very familiar.

Over the previous month we had slowly headed down from the top of the North Island, which meant that – despite our trip being called "Travel With A Local" – several of the places we went were new to me as well. So much for being a tour guide, really, although with a bit of vowel-flattening I was at least able to speak the local lingo.

"Sux buts of fush and chups" indeed.

Now that we were in the middle of the South Island, though, things were different. This is where I grew up – over twenty years of my life were spent on those dry Canterbury Plains. Long summer days down by the river in Ashburton, freezing winters as a university student in Christchurch, family holidays in Hanmer Springs – they form the backdrop to memories of my younger days.

As, too, does the Banks Peninsula.  This large piece of land that juts out into the Pacific Ocean is one of the more beautiful parts of the country, all volcanic hills and quiet bays. French-influenced Akaroa, the largest town, is becoming busier by the year, but there is a barely a soul to be found anywhere else on the peninsula.

We headed over the hill from Christchurch one afternoon, the driving time of little over an hour extended by several photo stops.

One of my favourite parts of going to Akaroa happens well before you get there – a break at the Hilltop Tavern along the way.  It’s the perfect place to stop for a drink and admire the view on a sunny day, which was exactly what we intended to do. Unfortunately we weren’t the only ones with that idea – a bus full of drunks rolled into the carpark just after we did, the guy take a piss in the bushes in broad daylight paying perfect homage to the name of the transport company.

We decided to raincheck that beer.

Akaroa is a lovely little town, especially once the tour buses have packed up their human contents and taken them somewhere else.  Pubs, cafes and restaurants stretch sporadically along the harbour wall before coming together in a cluster at the southern end of the main road.

We found ourselves in a a garden bar as the evening rolled around, an acoustic two-piece band keeping the punters amused. It took us quite a while to realise that this was Assembly Required, the same guys that we had seen playing rather more loudly at a pub in Christchurch the night before. Small world … especially this part of it.

The unamplified version was perfect for that summer evening, and one drink soon become two, and then three. There was no hurry, after all, and it wasn’t until the sun started to set that we finally drained our beers, finished the last mouthfuls of pizza and wandered slowly back along the waterfront towards home.

The following day we went for a little drive. With no set plan in mind, we wandered aimlessly along one road, and then another, following the ridgeline all the way over to Le Bons Bay.

The low cloud that had sat around all afternoon finally started to clear as we parked, leaving only a strong breeze and the warm glow of the evening sun in its wake.

We spent ages on that little beach, exploring the grassy dunes and avoiding the surging waves around the rocks as the tide came in. We weren’t the only wildlife getting soaked by the pounding seas, mind you.

With the light starting to fade we turned around and headed for home. As we neared Akaroa once more, we emerged from the shadows and out onto the Summit road. Suddenly I pulled over to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes and stopping in a cloud of dust.

The view was just too good to keep going.

The last of the sun lit up the hills beyond, bathing everything in a gloriously warm glow.

Doing a short hike the following day, I turned around at one point to take a photo of a nearby rhino sculpture (as you do), and just … stopped. Even though I’ve seen some version of this vista countless times over the past few decades, it still managed to take my breath away.

Akaroa, and the rest of Banks Peninsula, is simply a gorgeous part of New Zealand. Give yourself an night or two in the South Island to just drive around and explore the area – you’ll be richly rewarded if you do.

Where we stayed:

Hostelbookers covered three nights accommodation at La Rive for us, the only motel we stayed in during our time in New Zealand. The self-contained two-bedroom units were fairly typical by Kiwi standards, clean and tidy if a little dated, and the staff were all friendly and helpful. We made good use of the kitchen, taking the opportunity to burn cook breakfast and dinners where we could.

Located at the very northern end of town near the park, it was conveniently located opposite a pub and bottle store. If, say, anyone wanted to do a little afternoon drinking on the porch, for instance.

Wifi was expensive and mobile reception poor due to the thick stone walls, so we spent a fair amount of time at a cafe attached to the local boutique movie theatre. The food was good, the ambience cozy and the free wifi from the library next door surprisingly fast. Success!

Exploring the beautiful Banks Peninsula is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

The coastline between Oamaru and Dunedin is a rugged, wind-swept sort of a place.  It’s beautiful in the way that many of the South Island’s eastern beaches are, all pounding waves and spray-filled air, but it’s not typically somewhere that many tourists would stop.

Except, of course, for a long strip of sand near the little township of Moeraki.

On that particular strip of sand lies literally dozens of spherical boulders, ranging from fairly small to over two metres across.  They look as if a bunch of giants scooped them up from wherever they found them and threw them down the beach, cracking many of them in the process.

The scientific version is far less interesting – something to do with cemented mudstone being exposed by erosion.

I think I like my version better.

The Friday Photo #160 – Rocking out at Moeraki is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

The easy part was over.

Over the previous two days we had walked around 25km of the Queen Charlotte Track.  There had been a few ups and downs, but nothing too hard.  The track was well-maintained, we’d had plenty of sunshine, our beds had been comfortable – hell, we’d even had a hot tub to relax in.  As far as multi-day hikes go, this was about as good as it gets.

Things, however, were about to change.  The third day was going to be tough.

The briefing we’d been given back in Picton about this part of the track was low-key, in a typically Kiwi sort of way.  "It’s quite long, and there are a few climbs."  24 kilometres (15 miles) in fact, from our starting point at Punga Cove through to Portage with several fairly steep ascents and descents along the way.

And no hot tub at the end.  That was the real kicker.

Unlike the previous day, there would be no lounging around in bed this particular morning.  We were up and out the door by 7:00am, attempting to beat the heat of the relentless New Zealand sun.  Hot weather and blue skies is perfect for almost every outdoor activity in the country … other than, say, walking seven or eight hours in it.  Misty cloud still hung over the valleys and hilltops as we started our first climb, with only a few longing gazes back towards the people in the resort restaurant tucking into breakfast.

There was a noticeable chill in the shadows as we crested our first hill, the dozens of spider webs in the bushes still wearing a coating of overnight dew.  As the sun started to clear the mountains, however, things warmed up in a hurry.

Being such a popular walk, it’s rare to have it to yourself for long in the middle of summer.  Still, at this hour we only passed an occasional other hiker, greeting each other with a smile or a grimace depending on the steepness of that section of track.  Stopping for a snack at a viewpoint with a conveniently-located table, we were soon joined by a couple of young Austrian guys who had been powering up the track behind us.

These two were seriously fit, looking like they probably ran marathons before breakfast each morning.  When they found out I was a local, they had a question for me.

"Are all of the walks in New Zealand like this?" one of them asked, waving his arm in the direction of the wide, flat track stretching off into the trees.  When I enquired as to exactly what he meant, he replied with a smile "Well, you know … like a highway?"

With blue ocean stretching to the horizon and native birds chirping in the background it didn’t feel all that much like a highway to me, but I could see his point.  In Austria, he told me, you just buy a map and start hiking through the mountains until it’s time to stop.  Compared to that, this path was all a bit easy, really.

"There’s lots of places in New Zealand where you can just buy a map and walk through the mountains for a few days as well", I told him, "but not the Great Walks.  We’d lose too many tourists that way."

With a laugh and a wave, they re-packed their bags and strode off down the track again.  In seconds they’d disappeared around a corner and out of sight.  Damn those guys were fit.

Half an hour further down the track was a side path, a steep 20 minute climb up to Eatwell’s Lookout.  Dustin and I were still feeling fresh enough to walk up there, while Lauren decided that continuing her slow plod down the main trail would be a far better option.  Halfway up the side track, I could kinda see her point…

… until we got to the top, at least.  A signpost had been erected pointing to major cities all over the world, but on a day like this, with vistas like that, I didn’t want to be in any of them.

Lauren had made surprisingly good pace, and we didn’t catch up with her until we found her lazing in the sun at the half-way point for the day.  This was one of the most scenic parts of the track, with views around every corner, although with the sun now beating with full force I was loathe to spend too much time taking photos if there wasn’t any shade.  No more side trails, no more standing around … we needed to move.

Fortified by a quick lunch, we powered through the next, exposed section of track until we finally regained the shelter of the forest and I was able to remove my extremely attractive t-shirt-come-headwear.  Although, really, it looked so good that I was tempted to make it a regular part of my fashion wardrobe.

As usual on these sorts of walks, it was the last hour that was the hardest.  Lauren had done incredibly well up to this point, but this was easily the furthest she had ever walked and it was starting to show.  Descending from the ridgeline that we had been hiking along all day, we were on the home stretch towards Portage when she finally hit empty.  We were all exhausted – it had been a long, hot day in the sun, and no amount of food, water or coaxing was going to change that.

Eventually though, under duress, everyone made it to the Portage Resort Hotel alive and mostly well.  This was to be our final stop on the track – a need to catch the train to Christchurch the following afternoon meant that we would have to catch the water taxi out and miss out the last 20km.  To be fair, though, I don’t think that anybody was terribly upset about that – particularly not the person who was by this point lying face down on the living room floor saying that she would never be able to walk again.

Not even a meal of fish and chips, a cold beer or this sunset could convince her otherwise.

I was up early the next day, eager for a final glimpse before we jumped in the minivan for the short trip over to Torea Bay and the water taxi back to Picton.  The bay was perfect, barely a ripple disturbing its glasslike surface in the morning sun.

A lone bird soared overhead searching for food, the flags on boats in the harbour barely twitching in the non-existent breeze.  It was a beautiful morning in a beautiful part of a beautiful country.  The previous day had been a challenge, but the pain in my legs was instantly forgotten as I soaked it all in.  This was exactly how I wanted to remember my homeland, and the three days of hiking that it took us to get to this place just made the memory more worthwhile.

If you make it to the Queen Charlotte Track, I promise it will for you as well.

Thanks again to the Marlborough Sounds Adventure Company for providing our Queen Charlotte transport and accommodation, as part of Tourism New Zealand’s Explore media program.

Hiking the Queen Charlotte Track: the hard bit is a post from What's Dave Doing?.

New Zealand’s South Island.  My home for 26 years on and off, it’s a place full of memories.  From being born far too early in a hospital in Dunedin, through childhood and teenage years in Ashburton, to university and adult life in Christchurch, much of my identity and perspective can be traced back to this large lump of dirt at the bottom of the world.

And now we were there.

We’d arrived in Picton the day before, a last minute ferry cancellation just adding to the fun as we attempted to leave Wellington.  Most people just pass through this little town – the state highway runs right up to the ferry terminal, and the majority of passengers take advantage of that fact.  We, however, had other ideas.

Nestled at the head of the Queen Charlotte Sound, Picton is the starting point for the multi-day walk of the same name.  The Queen Charlotte Track is a 71km hike, one of New Zealand’s famous "Great Walks", and for the next four days we’d be somewhere along that trail.  It was going to be a good challenge – especially for those of us who weren’t exactly experienced hikers……

Unlike most of the Great Walks, the track crosses some private land as it winds its way around the bays of the Marlborough Sounds.  The upside of this for hikers is that there are accommodation options beyond tents and basic Department of Conversation huts.  Everything from dorm beds to luxury lodges is available for a price, making the walk popular with a wider demographic than you might expect.

My experience of hiking in New Zealand has typically involved carrying too much gear in an uncomfortable backpack for several days while surviving on a diet of packet noodles and powdered orange drinks, sleeping on flimsy bedrolls and trying to avoid using stinking long-drop toilets as much as possible.  The friendly folk at the Marlborough Sounds Adventure Company, however, had offered to show us a rather different way of doing things.

Staying in comfortable beds?  Having our gear transported by water taxi?  Being able to order a decent meal and cold beer each night?!  This whole "Freedom Walk" thing sounded kinda appealing…

And so it was that we found ourselves pulling away from the dock one sunny morning, our water taxi bound for the starting point of Ship Cove.  Apparently, though, the highlights were going to begin before we even set foot on the track.

A pod of at least a dozen dolphins surrounded the boat, surfing the bow wave and leaping into the air as we went past.  We sat watching them for a few minutes before reluctantly continuing on our way – I could have sat there looking at them all day.  Getting bored with dolphins really does seem impossible, at least for me.

Just in case we weren’t going to be walking far enough over the next few days, we decided to take a little side trip before we even began.  The Waterfall Track led, astonishingly, to a small waterfall, and was a good way to warm up our legs before hitting the trail proper.  Not a bad idea, since the track climbed steeply for about an hour from the very start.

Hot and sweaty, we crested the top of the saddle and had our first proper view of the Marlborough Sounds.  I’ve seen parts of them before from all sorts of vantage points, but this vista overlooking Resolution Bay was definitely one of the better ones.

From the saddle we descended to the bay, dropping the 200m back to sea level considerably faster than we had gained them.  The general rule about hiking in New Zealand, however, seems to be "what goes down must come back up", and this track was no exception.  Climbing out of Resolution Bay and over the undulating terrain for the next couple of hours, I tried to ignore the quiet whimpering from somewhere behind me.  Lauren was having the time of her life, apparently.

New Zealand has a few native birds beyond the most well-known one, and there was no shortage of them as we walked.  Weka were everywhere – with minimal fear of humans they quickly appeared whenever we stopped moving, scuttling around just out of reach in case we dropped a few crumbs of food.  A ‘vulnerable’ species, I don’t know if I’d ever seen one in the wild before – but I must have seen a couple of dozen on that first day alone.

Birds weren’t the only wildlife on the track, however…

The type of vegetation changed dramatically as we hiked, the forest thinning out in parts only to return to being dense and impenetrable a little further along.

Our accommodation for the night was located at the head of Endeavour Inlet, and it took a deceptively long time to get to it.  The path was fairly flat and the glimpses of water and rocky beaches between the trees rather beautiful, but after close to 15km of walking we were all looking forward to getting our boots off sometime soon.

Finally making it to the manicured luxury of Furneaux Lodge late in the afternoon, we slouched past the other guests sitting on their balconies having an afternoon drink.  They sparkled with cleanliness compared to us, and we raced to see who would get to wash the dirt off first … even if the concept of a hot shower on a hiking trip still seemed rather alien to me.

After walking for several hours, a decent meal and a couple of beers, a late night was never likely.  Collapsing into bed, I only had time to think that it was a damn sight nicer than any sleeping bag I’d ever owned before quietly passing out.

With only a short 11km coastal walk ahead of us we were in no hurry to leave in the morning.  Eventually rousing ourselves and pulling our dusty boots back on approximately four seconds before check-out time, we set off around the rest of Endeavour Inlet.  A more open, grassy section of the track, we set a fast pace no matter how many times we stopped to take a photo of pretty flowers.

Or, you know, a tractor.

Arriving at our next destination, Punga Cove Resort, a scant 3.5 hours later, I had plenty of time to sit on the pier with a plate of fish and chips for lunch and admire the view.  With a cold beer.  Just because I could.  Yeah, this hiking thing is tough.

Relaxing in the hot tub that night (because of course there was a hot tub), we were chatting about how well our first two days had gone.  No injuries beyond the odd blister, no complaints beyond the odd whimper, no bad meals and definitely no long-drop toilets.  All in all, a total success.

Which was rather fortunate, really, since the next day we would be hiking 25km.  That’s a long way on flat pavement.  On a hiking trail that rises and falls several hundred metres over that distance?  Well, let’s just say that it wasn’t going to be easy…….

As mentioned, our transport and accommodation was provided by the Marlborough Sounds Adventure Company, as part of Tourism New Zealand’s Explore media program.

Hiking the Queen Charlotte Track: the easy bit is a post from What's Dave Doing?.