As with the
North Island, my plan was - provided Frank was up for it - to try and see as much of the South Island as
possible and to give you an idea of my task, the South Island is over 500 miles
long, (about the same as Cardiff to Inverness), and has over 3,500 miles of
coastline, whereas Wales has less than 750 miles, there are no motorways and
about 15 miles of dual carriageway!! It is also a bit hilly, the Southern Alps
dominate most of the middle of the island and these peak at Mt Cook, over 3,500
metres, Snowdon is just under 3,500 feet !!
The 3 ½ hour ferry trip from Wellington to Picton
across the Cook Straits is renowned for being quite rough from time to time,
but on the day that I sailed it was a beautiful day and the sea was like a millpond,
it was great to travel somewhere without
driving. Arriving in the Marlborough Sounds, the entrance to the South Island,
is really dramatic. It starts with pretty, gentle mounds that rise from the
waves but these are quickly replaced by huge forested hills that flank both
sides of the narrow twisting waterways, punctuated by islands, inlets and
beached coves. Even before reaching the port you realise that the South Island
is going to live up to the hype ...... and how!!
The ferry
docked in Picton, a picturesque town, incidentally named after a Welsh
associate of the Duke of Wellington, killed at the battle of Waterloo, where
the inhabitants feel a little upset that people arriving there fail to spend
time to appreciate it, being too keen to press on with their travels. The fact
is that, although undoubtedly pretty, it is also very small and the best
feature is the surrounding waterways that of course you have experienced for
the last 90 mins before arriving there.
I had the courtesy to spend an evening in the
local hostelry and was rewarded by my first New Zealand earthquake!! To be honest, had I not been told I would not
have realised, but some of the bar staff were a bit excited but it was an
excuse to start conversation and I took the opportunity to ask for advice to
get the most out of South Island.
I was advised that there was a terrific scenic
route to the west of Picton called Queen Charlotte Drive, although very few of
them had been too far west, and none of them had ever been to, but all talked
fondly of, Golden Bay in the far corner of the island which seemed quite an
interesting area, and where I decided to go. Having not actually got to the
absolute top of the North Island, I also thought I might try to get to Farewell
Spit, the most northerly point of South Island.
The next
morning I set off, mindful that I was ignoring the more popular and easier
drive through the Marlborough wine routes of the east coast, but, with my love
of Sauvignon Blanc, I was really worried that I would not get further than
Cloudy Bay if I went that way.
I have found a link to a short video about the
first part of the road that may be interesting
Another
100kms on you reach Takaka Hill, listed as the 3rd greatest drive in
New Zealand, which you need to cross to access Golden Bay. It is an enormous
climb to over 2,600 feet with breath taking views from the top. The local
council, aware that this presents a big challenge to getting people into Golden
Bay have commissioned all manner of products branded with the catch phrase, ‘It
s only a hill, get over it’ but still up to 90% of New Zealanders have never
been there.
Activities
in South Island are far more centred around the countryside and walking, or
tramping as it is known here, is hugely popular, but their ideas of this
pastime are a little more intense than ours. Decent tramps are usually at least
a day, with some taking a week!! Little overnight huts are available to stay in,
administered by the Dept of Conservation, but are very Ray Mears like and expertise
in bushcraft is required as an essential skill before even attempting the more
serious ‘walks’. Needless to say I have not attempted these, but have tackled a
few 5/6 hour circular routes that have been very rewarding.
Roads to the
more remote places are very dusty, bumpy, gravel tracks, many are unfenced,
single lane, cliff hugging, adrenalin pumping affairs, but usually the
destination takes your breath away. Frank has done me proud – what a machine!
Not always the most comfortable ride, as I think that the rear suspension is
shot on the off side, and the door vibrates a bit too much for my liking when
you are close to a cliff edge, but once you learn to select gears rather than
rely on the automatic box the jobs a good ‘un. Betty however, continues to
cause me grief (more on this next blog!!) and has little clue off road.
The whole
size and extent of the lakes, mountains, forests, coastline is hard to express
and the colours, smells and sounds that you encounter permanently evolve as you
travel. I cannot begin to capture it all here and even the pictures I take don’t
truly represent what I’ve seen, but they do remind me and the memories will
stay with me for a very long time. It really is awesome!
Now I hope I
am not turning into a fuddy duddy but I found myself momentarily frustrated the
other day at the antics of youth.
I was stood
with a few others on MacDonalds Peak mountain lookout, gazing in awe at the
majesty of the Southern Alps as the sun burned off the last remnants of the
hanging, morning mist, the cries of the eagles, circling above us was all that
disturbed the tranquillity as we absorbed the picture postcard beauty before
us.
Meerkat-like,
we all turned to see a yellow open topped jeep scream into the car park, radio
blaring, As the dust settled, we could see that the scantily clad visitors were
both sporting what looked like matching leopard print outfits, that barely
covered their essentials, their perfect tans, hair and dentition complimented
by their matching gaudy sunglasses.
The instant that they came to a stop, she
flicked down the sun visor, he adjusted the driving mirror, they preened
themselves, glanced at the view, checked their iphones, giggled and within
seconds sprayed gravel over a couple of campervans as they accelerated out of
the car park, perhaps content that this cursory nod to nature had satisfied
their quota for culture for another year, or, more likely, miffed that there
were no burgers, despite the name of the venue.
Much shaking
of heads and tut tutting ensued from us meerkats as we, turned our attention
back to the terrific vista, but the mood lifted and we instantly forgot the
intrusion, and several of us even laughed out loud, when an elderly Australian
woman, whilst adjusting her binoculars, broke the silence when she quite loudly
and acerbically muttered .... ’Wenkers’ ...... !!!!!
Later that
day I was unfortunate enough to suffer an up close and personal experience with
probably New Zealands’ most voracious carnivores.
On the
advice of an old farmer, I visited a lake, that, he claimed, was a little known
treasure and one of the only places in South Island where it was still possible
to see original, indigenous forest. It was only a couple of miles off my route
so I turned onto a gravel road and made my way there.
The lake was,
like so much of this place .... stunning! Dark green conifers rose steeply from
the waters edge and the mirror like surface of the crystal clear water
reflected the blue sky and white clouds so photogenically, it had to be captured.
As I got out
of the car, I noticed a young couple and their daughter appear from a forest
path. Mum and dad were dressed in heavyweight wet gear and boots, hoods up and
gloves on, whereas their daughter was, in my opinion, more appropriately dressed,
as it was a lovely warm day, in a lightweight dress and sandals, but was acting,
or probably more accurately I should say appeared to be dancing, rather
strangely and I can only describe it as resembling a demented morris dancer,
slapping her legs and arms wildly.
As I walked
toward the lake edge, the young family came into earshot, and I could hear mum,
unsympathetically tell the young girl that she was to blame for her plight,
‘You wouldn’t listen....we told you......it’s your own fault’ the moaning
youngster was far to pre-occupied to argue and continued with her jerky,
slapping routine.
I had by now
walked the 10 metres to the lake shore and was framing my shot, I lifted the
camera up and instantly everything fitted into place ......... the jerky, slappy movements ........ mum and dads clothing ........ the girls’ unhappy and agitated demeanour
......... mum’s comments .......... why?? Because to my horror, both of my
forearms were covered, and I mean they looked as if I had spread honey over
them and plunged them into a vat of chocolate sprinkles .......... covered with
SANDFLIES!!!!!
Now for
those of you that don t know, and I had no idea myself, a New Zealand sandfly
is a small, black, bloodsucking fly that feeds on birds and mammals and whose
bite causes extreme itching. It can live in sand but tends to be around
bushland, but always by water, and there are millions of them.
A moments
research will reveal that they have been a source of major aggravation since
Captain Cook arrived here and before that the Maori recorded their incredible
propensity to irritate. The most effective solutions seem to be, weapons grade
insect repellent, wear a nuclear protective suit or move out of New Zealand,
because if they are about, they ARE going to get you!
I hadn‘t
felt a thing, hadn’t seen a single one, but hell they had spotted me and were
going to work and these chaps just keep on giving. I immediately abandoned, the
photo shoot, brushed off as many as I could, and headed back to the car with a
cloud of them in pursuit. I caught sight of the young family, and noticed that
the youngster was now grizzling I had immense
sympathy for her, as my arms were already beginning to itch quite noticeably
and if this is what they had done to me in a 10 metre walk across a grassy
bank, what must it be like to have been out in the bush .... poor kid
Cursing the
old farmer I headed off back down the gravel road to resume my journey, the
itching increasing in intensity and then, suddenly, I was totally distracted
from the fire that ate into my flesh as I was engulfed in a cloud of dust from
a passing vehicle, I heard a quick blast
of cheesy disco music and then, I started smiling and then laughing to myself,
because as the dust settled, I noticed in the mirror the decreasing outline of
the yellow open top jeep as ‘Tarzan and Jane’ headed for their come uppance
...... all that bare flesh ......... they were going to be eaten alive!!!!!
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