Ok, the fun and games started before we’d even left Canberra. We had agreed to take the fish, and their tank, to the mother-in-laws, so that she could look after them while we were away.  She was also having our two mutts while we were gone, for which we were exceedingly grateful, and financially indebted. So we catch all the (9) fish, put them in a bag and take them over. At the M-i-L’s we set up the tank, filled it with water, checked the .ph value and adjusted it, checked the temperature,  put in the filters, plants and “treasure”, and after a waiting a while for the water to assume room temp, dropped the fish in.  (Don’t look at me, I’d have just filled it straight from the tap and lobbed the fuckers in.)

“Oh, they look lovely there,” says the M-i-L.

That night Lee-Anne gets a phone call, from… Guess?

After listening for a while, she puts her hand over the mouthpiece, and tells me; “It’s mum, she says the fish are looking agitated.”

“Tell her to give them counselling, or do some fucking Feng Shui on them then!”, I replied, praying the hand was still over the mouthpiece.

Anyway, after a while Lee-Anne got off the phone.

The next day she got another call, and informs me; “Mum says the fish are fine now, she lit some candles near the tank for them.”

Funny, that’s exactly the solution which I had been thinking of. After all, if you’re a fish, swimming round the coral reef, and the effects of the global credit crunch start making you feel uneasy, what better thing to do than to light a relaxing candle?

I despair.

Saturday 3/1/09

The bus trip up to Sydney was uneventful, and we eventually checked into our hotel in the Kings Cross. You may remember me telling you that, after booking and paying, we had found out that the hotel had a “less than salubrious” reputation? Well they didn’t give us ear plugs when we checked in, but they did have them behind the counter, (and we did buy some later at a chemists), and the room was neat, spacious, clean, and any bodies had been removed form the cupboard, and there wasn’t any rat droppings on the floor.

What there was, however, was a chav wedding going on somewhere outside. The guests were getting themselves photographed just down the street. This provided us with wholesome amusement, and the chav couple, and their slapper bridesmaids, did parade under our window so I could take photos of them. Which was nice of them.

We strolled into the Cross. We grabbed a coupe of pies from a pie stall, and spent a great deal of time looking at the whores, the disturbed, the trannies, and the oddballs who inhabit the area. One person, we were unsure whether it was male or female, looked like a badly damaged, 6 foot 2 inch tall, barbie doll. Scared the shit out of me, I hope I never get so drunk as to wake up next to her/him/it. The next amazing person was a man, definitely a man. He bore a striking resemblance to Warren Clarke the actor. Except I don't imagine Warren Clarke would be inclined to be walking through the town in a see-through, pink, very brief, negligee, with make up on which had been put on in the dark. What a sweetheart.

Ok, I decided that as I would turn 50 the next day, I’d celebrate it by doing something stupid, as I all to frequently do. I decided to get a Mohican.

So despite all Lee-Anne’s protests (”You do know you’ll look a complete twat, don’t you?”) we searched out a decent barbers. The best looking place we found was a “quick cut” place staffed by Asian totty. Very cute Asian totty, wearing very little. I took an available seat, and told the girl I wanted a Mohican, she looked stupid at me. This wasn’t due to my request, more to do with the fact that she didn’t speak any English. She called the supervisor (yet another stunning example of Asian totty, again partially dressed,) and she at least had some grasp of English. So after a brief conflab, the girl went to work on me. Unfortunately her idea of a Mohican and mine were not the same. What she actually gave me was the sort of “trendy” Mohawk that twats like David Beckham have. Thus fulfilling Lee-Anne’s prophecy.

We spent the evening at our favourite King’s X pub. Having fortunately grabbed a window seat we spent the evening, sometimes watching Aus get thumped in a test match on the TV,  but mainly watching the Kings Cross resident aliens and sexual deviants parade themselves.

We got back to the hotel, not too pissed, or too wired, in order to get a good nights kip before our flight. At midnight the disco next door kicked off.

Sunday 4/1/09 (My birthday!)

We got out of bed, rough and ragged having not slept a jot, at 4.00 am. We went and watched Kings Cross again, it was now in full flow.

After a while we collected our bags and caught a taxi to the airport. Check in wasn’t a problem, we were first in the line, which meant we were also to have the longest wait before boarding.

One of our friends had recently shown us a handbag he had brought his wife back from an overseas trip, a “label” handbag (D&G? M&S? A&E?). Ok, that’s a nice thing to do, so I had a scout about. The subsequent conversation went thus;

“I’ve been looking for a “label” hand bag for you girl.”
“I’m not a label person?”
“I know, but I’ve seen one that’s just right for you!”
“What label is it?”
“Reduced!!!!”

To be fair she didn’t hit me.

The flight was uneventful, and mercifully brief (3 ½ hours). Emirates grub is still the best airline grub I have had, first rate chow. The odd thing was that, even though we were first in the queue for check in, they’d given us separate seats. Flying over NZ we got our first view of the mountains, peaking though the tops of some glorious, white, fluffy, clouds. WOW!!!

We had already been warned about the stiff eco-quarantine restrictions on hiking boots etc, just like Aus has. We had ours ready for presentation, they got inspected and sprayed. It was very heartening to see the pilot of our flight get his bag checked, and get admonished for trying to sneak a pair of posh, unused, hiking boots past the scanners. Boy did he looked ticked off as the tiny customs girl gave him a good wrist slapping, specially as all the hostess totty were watching him.

On arrival we phoned the campervan people, and the geezer said he’d come and pick us up. His name was David, probably still is, David is definitely the most laid back person on earth. A Jamaican chap, about mid 20’s in age, he looked like he had been over-indulging in the home country herb. He showed us the van, gave us the keys, and shuffled back to the office. I followed him; “Do you want us to sign anything David?” “Oh yeah man, forms n stuff, hang about.”

There then followed a Q&A session;

“We booked a GPS David?”

“Oh yeah, got one here, hang about…”

“David, where is the TV and DVD player we requested?”

“Oh TV man, yup, just wait.”

(The TV gave up the ghost on the first day, and we just used it as an ornament from there in.)

“David, how do we put the beds out?”

“Oh beds, no trauma, like this…”

Repeat for a day or two.

We set off eventually. We drove to Springfield where the map indicated there was a campervan site. We’d got a map and a GPS, as we knew we could read a map, and it had more information in it than we thought we’d be able to prize out of the GPS. Lee-Anne’s “belt and braces” approach to life coming into play there.

The GPS we named “Ken” after the first voice we used on it. It was invaluable, coming out with gems of directions like; “In 189 kilometres, turn left.” We also tried the various other voices on it. The Greek one was dead sexy, but in Greek, which meant we got instructions like; “Αποτελέσματα αναζήτησης για ‘Δεν βρέθηκαν λέΜπορείτε να δοκιμάσετε πξεις.” Which was cute, but fuck all use to us.

On the way to Springfield we passed though the charming little town of Oxford. On reaching the campervan site we called out the lovely little old lady who ran the place, she lives a few blocks away. We got ourselves simple site, basically just an electric hook up, for the night. We strolled into Springfield. There’s not a great deal at Springfield, apart from a giant donut celebrating the release of the “Simpsons” movie. Odd buggers the Kiwis. There’s in fact bugger all at Springfield, which is why we went back to the van , unhooked it, and drove the 80 K back to Oxford, as they did actually have things like shops there, and seeing as we had no food with us this was a help. I was pleased to find they sold vege sausages there.

We also bought a sim card for the mobile phone we’d (eventually) got off David. This was to prove invaluable, the only fault being was that it would not allow us to talk with Bethy, only text her. I’m as good at texting as I am at writing Sanskrit. Oh, and I also got my first Kiwi beer “Montieth’s Summer Ale, limited edition,” first rate stuff, highly recommended.

At the checkout I was asked; “You wint a big for your shipping?” My first encounter with Kiwi speak. (Lit translated: “Do you require a plastic carrier bag for your shopping?”)

Monday 5/1/09

 

The next day dawned bright and sunny. It was now my second birthday of the year.  I’d had my Aus and NZ birthday yesterday, and seeing as by it was now the 4th Jan in the UK, I got a double celebration. Being Lord Muck for a second day I was given sausages for brekky, with scrambled eggs and toast. I decided to have a shower, just to celebrate my birthday, it’s only once a year after all. The old duck that run the place had told us that a single coin would give us more than enough hot water. I’d dispute that, I was still under the shower when the coin run out, the hot water stopped dead, and the remaining icy jet damn near froze my cobblers off.

We drove off, eventually reaching “Castle Hill Crag”. This was the first of the many times I was to be dumbstruck by the awesomeness of NZ.

Castle hill crag is a couple of hundred boulders, stuck on a sheep farm in the middle of nowhere much. “Big deal” I hear you say. But ok, what you have to realise is that these boulders range from car sized to office block sized, and are the most fantastically weird shapes. It’s a climbers dream. I gambolled off, stopping only to try to climb some of the smaller rocks, and inevitably falling off them. Then I spotted a big pillar-shaped rock on top of a nearby hill; “That’ll make a good snap!”

Hmmm.. the hill was much bigger than I expected, and when we got to the top, knackered, the pillar wasn’t really that impressive. I took a few snaps and we decided to wander down again. And got lost.

I don’t know how we (I) did it, all we had to do was head downhill for god’s sake, but we ended up in the sheep paddock. It was then we noticed a few thousand sheep being driven. Straight at us. Not only were there thousands of bloody sheep, but three farmers, and some very big sheep dogs of mixed breed, who were aiming themselves at us. “Those dogs look a bit ferocious”, I added, helpfully. We stayed still, very still. One of the dogs ran at us, sniffed us and run off again. The farmers gave us a cheery wave, and passed by. I don’t know what all the fuss was about really. Imagination’s a wonderful thing, is it not?

We were almost back at the van when Lee-Anne told me; “Your legs are burned to a crisp.” She was right. I very rarely wear shorts, what with having skinny legs and knock knees, and having people laugh at me all the time I get them out in public, so this rare bit of exposure to sunshine had barbequed them. Great.

We drove on to a place where our walks book informed us we could follow an underground steam through a cave passage for a few hundred meters. Well we could if we had head torches, and swimming costumes (we did have them, but don’t tell anyone,) and if you fancied spending a half hour up to your bollocks (or tits in Lee-Anne’s case) in ice cold glacier melt, with no rescue services for miles. For some reason it didn’t appeal, so we drove on.

I had got into the habit, since Springfield, of waving at passing campervan drivers, in a spirit of jolly campervan driving comradeship. But seeing as every third vehicle in NZ is a campervan, and no bugger ever waved back, I stopped.

We arrived at Arthurs pass, the hamlet at one of the highest crossing point of the Southern Alps. We had big plans for Arthurs pass. The weather had other plans. The light fluffy clouds of the day had vanished, and were replaced by 100% flat grey cloud cover.

We were heading for a campervan park some 60 k the other side of Arthurs pass, which our map stated was the nearest to the pass. But whilst driving through the hamlet I noticed a sign which read “Campervan conference garden.”

 

“I wonder what a “Campervan conference garden” is?” I said, perplexed. “Probably somewhere we can park for the night which will save us a 120 k round trip, you twat!” replied Lee-Anne. It was so too. It was only a cark park with a power point, but hell, we’re people who are used to roughing it! Ok, it did have a hotel, with bars, a restaurant, showers, washing facilities and a shop attached, but still, life on the edge or what eh?

The girl at reception was on her first day there. She was clueless; “It’s my brother’s place I’m just covering!” But she eventually managed to get us booked in, while, kindly but unknowingly, undercharging us.

We took a stroll to the information centre down the road. There was an enthusiastic looking bloke behind the counter, all ginger hair and bulging eyes. He looked like the sort of bloke for whom telling people where to go for walks in the mountains was as near to sexual intercourse as he’d ever come; “Hi, we’re thinking of knocking off Avalanche Peak tomorrow!” “Forget it, heavy rain coming in.” Ok, that’s that plan up the Khyber. What do you recommend instead? He gave us a leaflet of shorter walks, ones not involving the mountaineering we (I) had been looking forward too immensely for some months.

Oh well, we retired to the bar at our “Campervan conference garden”. I got stuck into some jolly nice pints of “Speight’s Dark”, and Lee-Anne had a few merlots. We were watching the TV as Aus were being anally reamed by South Africa in another test. The Kiwi’s must have been loving this series, it was on TV the whole time we were there. I wonder if it would have been on TV so frequently if Aus had been winning a match or two?

One of the Aussies players, by the name of Bollinger, had Lee-Anne fascinated, as he is only in his twenties but he has had a weave, a perma-rug, a syrup. She wanted to see this, desperately. Unfortunately, she had had more than her regulation three glasses of merlot, so every five minutes it was; “Is this Bollinger?” To which the reply was often, “No dear it’s Ronald McDonald, it’s the adverts on again.”

 

We were joined at our table by a strange looking man, who introduced himself, and joined us, not exactly having been invited. So we chatted, he was a South American who now lived in Sydney, who was on holiday on his own. Like I give a fuck. Anyway, we chewed the fat, and Lee-Anne was polite to him, but every five minutes interjected with “Is this Bollinger?” “No dear.”

 

Then he asked “Who is Bollinger, you seem keen to see him?” Oh god.

See, the problem was that this guy had an immaculate, three-way, comb-over. His hair from both sides, and the back, was combed over the crown, and nailed down with superglue. I didn’t dare look at Lee-Anne or we’d both have lost it. “Oh he’s just a new player in the Aus side, and I haven’t seen him bowl yet, and he’s supposed to be good,” she eventually came up with. Not bad for someone on her fifth merlot.

Anyway, he pissed off after a while, and was replaced by a couple of German lads, who were fun and funny. We were just talking about different places for holidays, when one of them said; “You are Welsh, yes?” I don’t know how he guessed. I confirmed his assertion, begrudgingly. “Do you know Llanelli? I have been there four times, it is a nice place.” After I picked my jaw up off the deck, I affirmed that I did know it, having spent the first twenty odd years of my life there, though obviously it must have changed since (because?) I left.

Nice place? Fuck me pink.

The next fatal question was; “What are the rules of cricket? How does one win?” Kindly, Lee-Anne launched into an explanation, her way of trying to bring a little culture to the Krauts. It got a bit complex however, included stumping, run outs, silly mid on, slips, googlies, etc, so even I had difficulty following her explanation, (blame merlot number six,) and I know the bloody game well. In the end she admitted defeat.

Tuesday 6/1/09

The next morning, it was, as forecast, pissing down. We put our waterproofs on and squelched up the few miles to a couple of waterfalls. They had plenty of water in them. In fact it wasn’t a bad couple of walks; they meandered through thick beech forest, with small birds and beautiful fern trees in abundance, and were both relatively easy strolls.

Back at the van we had peanut butter, marmite and cheese sandwiches, (yes all those ingredients in the one sandwich, I love ‘em,) and reviewed our plans.

We decided to drive to Greymouth, which is near Pancake Rocks, a geological oddity that had been recommended to us as worth seeing. On the way out of Arthurs pass we stoped at a scenic look out. This overlooked a huge deep gorge and an amazing road cut into the mountainside, as well as a curving road viaduct. The car park was full of Keas, which are the only sub-alpine parrot (You learn lots of interesting stuff off me, don’t you?). Cute little buggers who are very unafraid of humans, and will happily take your finger off if you offer them food. Their other big trick is ripping the trim of campervans, but a few well aimed bricks soon sorted out the pecking order.

After driving through the rain and cloud we eventually got to Greymouth. This place is very aptly named, as the town, the sky, the sea, the beach and indeed the people there are a uniform grey colour, a bit like Swansea really. Here it’s something to do with the mineralisation of the water supply from the glaciated water and volcanic rocks of the area, I believe. In Swansea it’s just because they deserve it.

One thing we noticed as we were driving to Greymouth was the swathes of multicoloured lupins that lined the roads, huge areas the size of football pitches or bigger, were filled with red, blue, purple, yellow, flowers. Beautiful! Staggering! Of course we found out later that they are an introduced noxious species, and are treated as weeds.

When we located Greymouth we found our way to a Kiwi equivalent of a supermarket, or a big corner shop as we would call it. One thing me and her always gripe about when travelling is the size of tea mugs hotels, guesthouses, and other places give you. I mean, do they honestly think that, just because you’re on holiday, you want to drink out of an egg cup?

The ones in the van were laughably small, holding only a snotful of tea, not enough to drown a mouse in. So we looked about for mugs and found some alright, cheap, ones. Then Lee-Anne pulled out from a shelf what I first thought was a black bucket. To my immense joy it turned out to be a tea mug, a tea mug which held a litre of tea, a four teabag job. I was wrapped! I still have it, it’s great for washing our terrier in.

We found a campsite and pitched up. We took a walk to the tourist info place and the girl there told us; “High tide is at seven, there’s a good swell running, the blow hole at the Pancake rocks will be full bore! Don’t miss it!” (Actually it was more like; “Hoy toyed is it sivin…”)

 

We strolled back down the road to where we’d seen some caves, and wandered in. Then we wandered back to the van, got our head torches, strolled back down the road to where we’d seen some caves, and wandered in. Again. The caves were surprisingly deep and long for caves with unsupervised access, but they were fun to explore. I refrained from shooting off down the many bore holes we found, under threat of having my nuts removed if I even thought about doing it. The walls of the cave had some eerie phosphorescence on them. Quite spooky.

Ok, we got to pancake rocks by ten to seven, and had a look around. The pancake rocks are strange …oh go see my photos of them save me trying to describe them. They are well worth a look see, but there’s only so much mileage in strange rocks, so we waited for the exploding bore hole to kick off. And nothing happened. Sod all, not a sausage. They must have forgotten to switch the fuckers on or something.

The sky was clearing at this point, having been grey and overcast all day. We retired to the campsite bar. I had some “Montieth’s Celtic Ale,” which was very good, despite the name. Lee-Anne had also done our washing, but the bloody campsite driers didn’t work. So we hung them on the bit of string that passed for the van’s washing line. So one has to wonder why I was up at 4.00 am, getting the washing in. Just after it had pissed down in fact.

Wednesday 7/1/09

Got up early, and decided to PUPO (pack up / piss off.) We knocked off a short, but very worthwhile walk, called the Truman Track, before departing. This took us through more rainforest, one where the trees were strangled by Rata vines, and down to a pebbly beach with a staggering cliff overhanging it. It would have been glorious, if it wasn’t for the bloody awful weather.

We drove on toward our next “must do” location. The drive was incredibly scenic, with huge mountains on either side, their tops wreathed in grey cloud, and huge lakes reflecting back the grey. Going out of Greymouth the road is shared, at all the bridges, of which there are many, with the railway line and trains. Seeing as it was a single track for the trains and cars it made for some interesting crossings.

We arrived at Franz Joseph and found an empty campsite, everyone probably having left due to the foul bloody weather. The kind lady at the reception told us she was able to book us a place on a Heli-hike for the following day. So, after paying an arm and a leg, each, to book we were content.

We strolled around the shops, which took about five minutes total, but were please to find an Indian restaurant with a great vege selection. We also found an indoor ice climbing wall, which looked silly, if not rather fun.

We decided to walk up to the glacier, which is the focus for the area. On the way we passed a small, wooden built, Catholic Church, which had a window dedicated to St Thomas in it. Obviously not a relation of mine at all.

After crossing the bridge over the glacier stream we found the path and a sign saying “4 kilometres to the glacier.” Nice, a quick stroll before tea.

A little way down the road we came across a young Indian couple, who were paddling. We exchanged pleasantries, and he said; “You are going to the glacier, we will walk with you.” We did our best to dissuade them, he was wearing trendy patent leather shoes, they were both wearing very smart but impractical clothes, and they didn’t have a stitch of wet weather gear between them. But they insisted, and to be fair to them they went the whole way without complaint.

We admired the glacier, took photos of a huge NZ pigeon which alighted in a tree and posed for us, and then strolled back (Yes, we abandoned the Indian couple, they were back in the glacier water, either paddling, or trying to cool their blistered feet off.)

We got back into town, and, after a shower, hit the Indian restaurant. The meal was superb, as I said to the proprietor; “That’s the best Indian meal I’ve had since I left the UK!” A particularly useless bit of information, he wasn’t to know when I’d left the UK (yesterday?), nor if I’d eaten in one, or a thousand, Indian restaurants since leaving. But still.

This stupidity may have been due to the fine Kiwi wine we’d knocked off, something called “King’s Gate”, which was delightful, but obviously bloody potent.

Friday 8/1/09

Ok, god has a sense of humour.

NZ is without doubt the most beautiful place on earth. So just to make it less pleasant, he gave it sandflies. Sandflies are worse than mosquitoes, much worse. After all, mosquitoes only give you bloody malaria. Sandflies bite you, which I don’t mind, I mean you’d have to be bitten by ten thousand of the little bastards to lose enough blood to be concerned about, but they bite you. And where they bite you, they inject a little poison. Again, they would have to bite you several trillion times for this poison to be a concern normally. But the poison causes an itch, an itch which would be ok if it was resistible, but it isn’t. At all. In any way. And if you so much touch the bite, the itch intensifies, and once you start scratching you cannot stop. Only when you have bored through the affected area, and your finger emerges on the far side of the limb, then it may stop. May.

That morning Lee-Anne’s legs looked like she’d contracted leprosy overnight, and we used up a whole tube of “stop itch” cream on them. The cream does help. A bit, but not much.

We’d set our hearts on a long walk for the day along a track called “The Roberts Point Track”, which was described as “Challenging.” I’ll bloody says it was. We took a bus to the head of the walk, told the girl driving it we were doing the Roberts’ Point, and she said we’d be very lucky to be back in time to catch the 5.00 pm bus back to the village. It was then 11.00 am, nothing like setting us up for a contest.

We found the head of the trail and set off. The first section was easy going and we stomped it up. Wire bridges across ravines, with torrents of icy grey melt water cascading underneath added a sense of excitement. Then we reached a sign which read; “Experienced, or guided parties only beyond this point.” That’s us, we’re experienced!

The track got more and more desperate after that, more wire bridges, a scramble down a steep shale rock face for a couple of hundred feet, walking on slippery rocks through waterfalls above sheer drops, a board walk nailed into a cliff face, all these gave a certain arse-twitching excitement to the trip. Oh and by now it was drizzling heavily, and the cloud was descending. We passed a couple of parties heading the other way, none had made it to Roberts point. Young people today, no stamina. We slogged on.

Just when I was thinking of saying that we’d be mad to go further, and shall we join the young people of today and fuck off on the trek back, when we scrambled up a short rock step, splashed through a stream, and found we’d made it. Roberts point at last. Basically it was bald spot on the hillside with views, so much for all that fucking effort.

The views down over the glacier were brilliant though, and I’m sure whatever was above us, the mountain peaks and snows, would have been brilliant if they weren’t behind the clouds. We could see small figures like ants on the glacier. Heli-hikers! That’ll be us tomorrow!

We were soon joined by a young Brazilian chap, and an American youth. We chatted, mainly about the daft sods who had turned back and missed all this, and compared injuries and sandfly bites. I gave them some of the liquorish I’d brought along for fuel. They took it eagerly. But for some reason they politely declined any further bits I offered, weirdoes. On the trek back Lee-Anne took a fall which slashed her hand open, and I fell, three times, flat on my arse, bruising my coccyx.

We were back at the bus stop at five to five. I gave the driver a smug grin when informing her we’d made it there and back in time. But seeing as it was a different driver the point was a bit lost on her.

Back at the campervan I got chatting to an elderly couple, who had just parked up next to us. “Oh, you must know Swansea, what with your accent. I worked at the DVLC there for many years. I lived in Llanelli at that time.” At least he didn’t try to convince me it was a nice place.

We packed our swimming gear and strolled across the road to the thermal baths, our reward to ourselves for the days exertions. The outdoor thermal pool had temperatures ranging from 36 to 42 degrees. After acclimatising in the cooler ones, we worked our way up to the hottest. My god it was relaxing. While we were lazing about in the pools, a family walked through, just having a look at the place. Pointing at us the father said to his kids, “Hey look, people soup!”, which tickled me no end.

That evening, but only after quaffing a coupe of pints of orange juice to replace the days lost fluids, we headed into town. Lee-Anne had the banana cocktail she’d promised herself, and I had a pint of local cider. We picked half heartedly at our meals of fish and chips / deep fried camembert, and then were back in bed for 9.00 pm. Utterly fuckered.

Saturday: 10/1/09

I told Lee-Anne I wanted to buy a pair of “Jaspers”. This puzzled her as to what the fuck I was on about now, so she quizzed me as to what I wanted.

“You know, Jaspers “Japanese slippers” as the local call them!”

“Do you mean Jandals? Japanese sandals?”

“Oh, aye, them…”

 

So from then on they, (flip flops, thongs, whatever,) were known as Jaspers, or Joes (pronounced “joos”), or Jispers…

Rather excited, we got to the helipad on time, and the lads there took us through the reams of information we were required to know. This mainly related to their refund policy, and how if we spent more than an hour on the glacier we weren’t getting one. One guy, a big fat fucker in his late fifties, was so inappropriately dressed, I thought they’d not let him go. When the dress policy calls for waterproof gear, four layers of upper body clothing, hats, gloves, etc, to turn up in a cotton jacket, an unbuttoned shirt, and a pair of shorts, seems the height of madness. Then he started arguing with the guides about stuff, and we caught his accent. Boer, nuff said.

We were told to be aware that we may have to be shifted off the glacier in a hurry, as the weather was forecast to close in rapidly. Way to up the ante guys.

Just to add more to the excitement, we found out that on the previous day two Aussie trekkers had been killed on the glacier by an ice fall. (Bethy and the mother in law also heard that news, which as you can imagine was quite startling, as we haven’t told Bethy were our wills are hidden. Fortunately later editions of the news stated that it was “two Australian brothers” who had been killed.)

On the flight up, Lee-Anne was in the front, and I was in the back of the little five-seater helicopter. It wasn’t half a rough flight, with us swooping up and down the glacier, and the pilot either throwing it about for fun, or as that was the only way onto the glacier. My money’s on the latter. I loved it. What I didn’t know at this point though was that Lee-Anne wasn’t enjoying it at all, nearly staining her underwear with the thrills of it.

We got onto the ice, and the guides walked us around a bit, always staying close to the helicopter landing area. They took us through a couple of serac squeezes. I was enormously pleased by the thought of the Boer getting frostbite on his beergut during this. It was very spectacular out there on the sea of ice, but not as spectacular as the thick black rainclouds heading our way.

After one hour and five minutes the guides called in the copter. The flight out was  less bumpy, but unfortunately for Lee-Anne this was due to the pilot throwing it down the length of the glacier at low altitude in the rain which gave near zero visibility. The pilot added to the sense of “we’re all going to die”, by chattering on his radio about; “Borderline flight parameters,” with the other pilots, and telling them that “When I get down, we’ll pack it all in for the day.”

 

That evening we had a rare feast of cibatta bread, mushrooms, and eggs with hash browns.

Sunday 11/1/09

We drove out of Franz Joseph in rain of biblical proportions. Every ten meters or so huge waterfalls poured down the side of the mountains which lined each side of the road. In Aus any one of these would be a major tourist attraction; here they were ten a penny. Each of them contained more water than the whole of the Murray Darling River. We were to learn about the Kiwi rain later in the trip.

Eventually the sun came out, I had forgotten what it looked like, and NZ turned into a different country, my god it’s so beautiful. Azure lakes, raging rivers, waterfalls, rainbows everywhere, snow capped peaks, mountains of all shapes, and no bloody people. What more could you ask for?

We got towards Queenstown, our next destination, which was the base for the filming of the “Lord of the Rings” movies. The countryside hereabouts was astounding. Little did I know there was countryside more astounding by miles, to come.

Everyone had recommended we stay in Queenstown So here’s a tip; if everyone recommends a place, it’s because everyone goes there. Get it? Queenstown was too busy, far too busy, very “in your face”. There were too many people by far, and everywhere someone was trying to sell you an expensive thrill or adventure. Icky.

We found our campsite, this was a glorified car park in the centre of town, with about a thousand campervans in it. We parked up, paid a fortune for the privilege of being there, and wandered into town. Seeing as this was going to be the biggest town we were to stay in, we decided to ask in the information place for a vege restaurant recommendation. Lee-Anne said to the pretty but dim info girl; “Is there a restaurant with a god vege selection in town, preferably not Italian?” She sucked her pencil for a while, and then said; “There’s a pizza place down the road that does some vege stuff.” (”Thiz a peesa plaice …”) Didn't we say “preferably not Italian”?

We strolled about. Calling into a bottle shop I found they sold; “New Zealand Whisky”, now there was a challenge. I tried some later on. Imagine, if you will, petrol flavoured Listerine with added dirt, and you’re close.

We found a chap doing some street performance down the road. He had drawn a fair crowd, and these guys are usually entertaining, so we stopped to watch. Of course, as is inevitable, muggings here was roped in as part of the performance. I ended up being one of the guy rope holders for his “juggling fire sticks, on a bed of nails, 10 foot up in the air” routine.

To be fair though he did, kindly, tell the crowd, after asking where I was from; “Shhh…. It’s not his fault he’s Welsh.” Which was decent of him.

He was a hoot, and got a foldable contribution to his beer fund off us.

We found a faux-Irish pub “The Pogue Mahon”, and settled in for a beer. The beer of offer was Tui’s, the best pint I’d had so far. I thought, for a chuckle, I’d ask the barmaid if she knew what “Pogue Mahon,” actually meant. “Course I fecking do,” she replied, in an accent not unlike Ardal O’Hanlon’s.

There was a very pretty girl, early 20’s perhaps, hanging about near the stage where a fiddle combo was setting up. We thought she may be with the fiddler, who looked to be in his mid forties or older. We speculated on whether she was his daughter, or a family friend being supportive, or maybe she sung with the band, or perhaps she was just lost or fuckwitted or something. He approached us; “Would you mind if my WIFE sat with you, my WIFE, doesn’t know anyone here.” Heavy emphasis on the “wife“ bit there old chum, you trying to tell us something?

Anyway she sat with us, she was very pleasant kid. Though she didn’t have much to say as she didn’t have much command of English, her being Slavic of some description. (She must have cost him a fair bit.)

We ate at the pub, not Italian grub thankfully, a “vege parcel” of some description, and had a few more Tui’s, and fucked off before the fiddler started.

Monday 12/1/09.

Leaving Queenstown was no great hardship, though we did stop to buy more sandfly repellent and “stop itch”. We got the most powerful they had on offer actually, which wasn’t really that strong.

We drove through the mountains, stopped on occasion by the huge lakes, just due to our breath being constantly taken away by the heart stopping beauty of it all. Ok, and for me to take a few thousand more snaps.

We arrived in Te Anau, a lovely small town by the biggest lake I’ve ever seen in my life, more an inland sea than a lake. The lake covers an area of 344 km² or 132 miles², and it’s not even the largest lake in NZ!. (For comparison; Windermere, England’s biggest lake covers an area of 14.7  km²  or 5.7 miles²)

For some strange reason we never did find the proper way to pronounce Te Anau.

We spotted a pie shop; “Cor, I could murder a pie,” said a fat bastard. “You’ll be lucky, a vege pie in NZ?!” Risking ridicule we went in and asked if they sold such a thing. “Ooo yes,” said the weird looking bird behind the counter, a sort of aging goth hippy, “best vege pies in NZ, I love them.” We bought a couple of them, god she was right they were lovely! Although as I was suffering from pie deprivation at this point, they could have been filled with cow shit for all I cared.

We also had a coupe of their cheese scones, which were great too. On reflection it’s quite possible that they were actually the best vege pies in NZ, I don’t suppose there’s much, if any, competition.

We decided there and then to make Te Anau the venue for our wedding anniversary night, as it had a coupe of decent looking hotels there.

We drove out of town. Some 30 k outside of town we saw a sign;

“128 kilometers to Milford Sound. No petrol at Milford sound.”

So we drove back to Te Anau and filled up the tank. Why didn’t the dozy buggers put the sign closer to, or preferably in, town?

The drive to Milford Sound from Te Anau is the most glorious bit of driving I have ever done. The mountains hemmed us in on either side, there were lakes to see, powerful rivers, waterfalls, there were mirror pools, there were wild birds, and the road was, as ever, carpeted in possum fur.

Possums, were introduced to NZ for their fur, they quickly became a pest species. As NZ did not have any native mammals, some bright bugger had the idea of introducing stoats and weasels to eradicate the possums, which didn’t work either and just added two more pest species. So some clever Zealander had a great idea, lets just run over any furry bloody thing crossing the roads. In one place we spotted a sign, with a picture of a Kiwi bird on it, the caption read; “Beware, that may not be a possum you are about to run over!”

 

Getting to Milford Sound we found that the campsite was full, but the girl behind the information counter, which was in the pub, told us we should just park in the pub car park, so we did.

We strolled down to the ferry terminal. They had a 2 ½ hour cruise departing soon, with spaces still available, and seeing as the sun was out and glorious, we booked on to it.

I’m not going to begin to describe how absolutely beautiful Milford Sound is, neither my words nor my pictures do it justice. I want to move there, today, no, yesterday.

The cruise took us into and under some of the huge waterfalls, we saw seals and albatross, we cruised alongside the faces of the snow capped peaks which fall straight down in sheer cliffs into the sea.

We learned that this area of NZ has seven meters of rain a year. I kid you not, seven meters!! We also learned that Milford Sound was named after Milford Haven in South Wales, which is a shame, as Milford Haven’s a complete shithole.

I’m sure I developed RSI from shooting so many snaps.

We spent the evening at the pub, yet again watching cricket on TV, with Aus yet again getting bitch-slapped all over the place. The pub sold their beer in strange ¾ sized pint pots, which they had the audacity to call pints. I asked the barman why this was so; “Fucked if I know mate.” he said candidly.

We left the pub in time to see the sunset over Milford Sound, which was nearly enough to make me cry. Or maybe it was just the beer.

We slept in the pub car park, well in the van really, but in the pub car park. It was as good as anything we’d paid to sleep in so far.

Tuesday 13/1/09

Waking nice and early, I strolled down to the bay and took a few more shots. Sunrise was just as awesome as the sunset, with the sun rising behind the peaks then flooding the sound with light.

We found that the local back packers lodge had a campervan site free, so we booked in for the night. (Note to “Lonely Planet guide to NZ writers; Milford Lodge is 2 k, not 12 k, out of the sound. Twats.)

We were going to do a hike up to “Key Summit,” which our book of hikes promised us, and the hike delivered, some of the best views in NZ. The hike itself wandered first up through beech forest, then stony trails, up to a minor summit surrounded by major peaks. After the Roberts Point hike, this was, although long, a piece of piss. The views from the top were, yet again, too good to describe. I was fascinated by the scrub trees there, and the crystal clear ponds and lakes, the whole place looked like a Roger Dean painting. (If you know who Roger Dean is, you’re old!)

We ambled about the top, every turn bringing a new vista of perfection to the eye. After a while, and gorged on a surfeit of beauty, we decided to go back. As we were strolling down a lad asked us; “How much further to the top?” “About 15 minutes”, I replied. “Cor, where are you from mate, I’m from Carmarthen,” said James from Carmarthen. No getting away from the bastards, did my mother send them to keep an eye on me?

On the way back we took a short stroll to “The Chasm” a fearsome whirlpool caused by a fierce stream carving a convoluted “C” in the soft rock. I wish I’d brought me washing and some powder.

That night, back in the pub, I discovered that, even though they sold their “pints” in poxy “not a pint” pint glasses, you could also buy large jugs full of your chosen ale. So I did. Lots of them.

Wednesday 14/1/09

In the morning we took a final look at Milford Sound. There were piles of lobster pots on the quay, the crayfish of the sound are much valued, and sell for $55 a kilo, so it’s a lucrative trade. It really was hard to drag myself away from there. I wanted to, and still want to, spend the rest of my life there just hiking the trails, photographing the season changes, sit on the pier to watch the tide come in, and drink jugs of beer in the pub. I have simple needs.

We drove back up the road, as we approached the magnificent Homer Tunnel, a bus in front of us died, just gave up the ghost. Fortunately the driver wrestled it off the road before it stopped for good. I almost felt sorry for the people on board, they were stuck, admittedly in a very scenic place, but with sod all to do but look at the mountains. The nearest bus depot was Queenstown, and to get another bus to them would involve a 180 k trip. That was supposing the driver could raise a signal on a mobile, something which had eluded us there. And the sun was scorching. Tough titty folks.

We drove back, and stopped at some mirror pools which were signposted off the road. With no winds there at that point, they made absolutely perfect mirrors, reflecting the peaks across the valley. Sublime.

We got back to Te Anau, and our priorities kicked in. We hit the pie shop, and got more vege pies. Just as good as the first batch they were too.

Then we did something we’d promised ourselves we’d do for our wedding anniversary. (7^th, itch)

We went to the tourist information place and asked; “Which is the best hotel in town?” Getting reply; we walked to the hotel and asked; “What’s the best room you have? We’ll take it!” Very fortunately it wasn’t ruinously expensive, though we could have parked the van at a site for a month for what we paid for a night there. Even more fortunately the girl behind the counter didn’t throw me out for being a scruffy Herbert from Llanelli who should know his place better, which being a Llanelli boy I had been imagining would happen. “You’re a dozy twat from Bryn Road; you don’t belong in places like this, back to your campervan for the night, scum!!”

We got a two room suite overlooking the lake. Just to make it more picturesque, some one had parked a seaplane opposite our double balcony. Bliss. We also had a spa bath, which we took full advantage of. And huge two flat screen TV’s , one in the living room, and one in the bedroom. No porn channel though. And I couldn’t unscrew the bastard things off the wall.

Lee-Anne phoned her mother; “Hi mum, it’s our wedding anniversary.” “I’m sorry,” was the reply. She then said exactly the same thing to me. Is she trying to tell us something?

We went out and booked onto a trip to the “Glow-worm caves”. This involved a ferry trip to the other side of the lake, then a stroll through some caves, finally a boat trip down an underground river to a huge cavern. There the guide turned out all the lights, and the glow worms did their thing. It was like being on the sea at dead of night, but with a galaxy of coloured stars within touching distance, another “gulp” moment.

That night we searched Te Anau for a decent vege meal, but without much joy. Eventually we found a nice café, with two vege dishes on the menu, so we went in. Lee-Anne ordered the vege pasta, and I ordered the vege curry. These turned out to be the exactly same dish, but with two different sauces on. Not bad grub, but not exactly the meal we had in mind. We went back to the hotel nice and early, and that’s all I’m telling you.

Thursday 15/1/09

In the morning we had breakfast delivered to our door, the full whack, we’d stupidly ordered it the night before. Neither of us were hungry, and it was all a very expensive waste. Bugger, I’m no good at this grandiose stuff at all.

We had decided to have the day as a driving day, to get back up to the Franz Joseph area while the sun was still out. So there’s not much to tell you about today you’ll be glad to know. Except that it’s a fucking long way between Te Anau and Haast, which was where we ended up.

Finding Haast was a problem. It’s comes in three bits, none of which are properly signposted, or as I was convinced, even exist. Eventually we found the campsite and fortunately it was in the only bit of Haast with a pub in it. “Ok, we’ll park up go for a beer and a bite to eat, and have an early night,” was the sum total of my big plan. I was still knackered after the previous night, and the long drive.

So we did that. Almost. We walked into the only pub, and therefore the only eating place in Haast. It was a huge barn like place, and it was called “The Hard Antler,” guess why?

Every inch of wall, every inch of ceiling and every inch of the beams were covered in deer heads and antlers. Believe it or not, even the pump pulls on the beer taps had been replaced by antler horn. Haast, apparently, is the deer hunting centre of NZ, oh deep fucking joy. The locals, who all had their photos up behind the bar, each with a dead deer, well lets just say “dueling banjos,” and have done with it, shall we?

So, as you may imagine, the vege selection on the menu was small, non-existent in fact. So we had a couple of beers and walked to the local shop. This had a (closed) café attached. The place had about 20 types of condensed milk, 50 different flavour crisps, a mutant onion, and not much else. Luckily the café “The Grumpy Cow,” (which was the name of the café and the owner apparently,) had some home made scones on sale. They were yummy, well done that grumpy cow. We crashed early.

Friday 16/1/09

The next morning we drove back to Franz Joseph, watching the cloud descend the closer we got to the place. The cloud was thick and heavy, by the time we got there. We hit a bookshop and stocked up on books. I’d already run though my stock of five holiday books, plus a couple of the ones Lee-Anne had brought, and  as a consequence I was suffering from severe book deprivation, I needed more. I bought four.

Lee-Anne decided to have a bliss out back at the van, so I went off and did a couple of hours hiking at something called “Canyon Gallery walk”. This was nice, but not astounding. What were astounding were the bloody huge dragonflies that dive bombed me, each had a six inch wingspan, and their wings hummed and buzzed ominously.

The bush giant dragonfly is New Zealand’s largest dragonfly, with a body length of 80-85 mm and a wingspan reaching 140 mm or more.  It is found throughout both main islands, and is often seen and its loud clattering flight is heard when hovering around forest clearings during the summer. They are voracious predators that can consume 20 flies in an hour, and sometimes catch large cicadas.

To scary even for me to get a photo of them. (That’s my excuse.)

Later on we went and booked ourselves places on a glacier hike for the next day. We had decided that we hadn’t really seen the best of the glacier on the heli-hike, so we wanted to go again. Lee-Anne didn’t want another helicopter ride though, and neither did my credit card.

Then we found a nice little bar in the town called “Annie May’s” and settled in. I had a very unusual pint there (a real pint!) of something called “Montieth’s Raddler”. This was just like lager and lime, but with the lime brewed in. It took me back to the long lost days of adolescence, when lager and lime was my drink of choice, days I can hardly remember at all for some reason.

The food was great there, though the waitress found my having a coupe of bowls of mixed olives for desert a bit odd.

Saturday 17/1/09

We got up late, and realised we had nothing in the van for breakfast. We also had no cash to buy breakfast. So we strolled to the only available cash point in the town. It was empty. Ok, no breakfast, no money to buy breakfast, and no money to pay for the guided hike.

We found a packet of abandoned muffins in the van, we ate them. I said to Lee-Anne; “We’ll pay for the hike and guide on my credit card."
“How many times has your card worked since we’ve been here?”
“It worked once!”
“That’s only because the woman entered it manually onto the machine.”
“Oh, yup, Oh dear.”

We strolled back to the cash point which, fortunately, had been refilled. So we emptied it again.

The glacier hike was good value, the guides very informative and funny, but best of all the weather was great. We strolled in and out of seracs, we kicked ice steps and front pointed up things. One lad in our group had a “Llandovery Cricket Club” sweater on, so we exchanged views on Welsh cricket, (as in; “it’s fucking hopeless isn’t it?”)

Another bloody Welshman!? Here I am, as far away from the place as you can get, and it’s crawling with the buggers.

As our muscles were sore we returned to the thermal baths in the evening, and returned to Annie May’s following that. This is the life!! Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my days here rather than Milford Sound?

Sunday 18/1/09

The next morning, after packing up, we took a stroll along a short walk called “Sentinel Rock Walk”. This gave us final glorious views of the Glacier (Fact; the glacier will be gone in under ten years due to global warming, go see it quick) Helicopters flew people overhead; “Done that!”

We drove back to Arthurs Pass and parked up at the place we had used before. We went to check the forecast for the next day, as we were going to try another attempt at Avalanche Peak. The same bug eyed fellow told us; “Big wet front coming in, either go now, or forget it.” It was two thirty by then, so we kitted up and headed off. The going was hard, we got above the tree line, and onto the mountain proper. The views down to the valley were superb, imagine the Llanberis pass in North Wales but on steroids and you’ll have some idea. We were passed by a few people, all heading downhill. We got three quarters the way up, but it was too risky to go any further as the weather was coming in hard, and the wind had picked up to the point where Lee-Anne could have opened her coat and hang-glided down, or more likely up. It was just too dangerous to go further.

We headed down, ah well; it’s something to save for next time.

As we were getting towards the bottom quarter of the track at about 5.30 pm, couple of people, all ill-equipped, passed us going up. I should by rights have tried to dissuade them, but fuck’em, I was too pissed off to bother.

That night I consoled myself with several very nice pints of “Mac’s gold all malt lager”. On the TV another South Africa vs. Aus test was underway, this one was looking a bit more close, with Aus potentially able win for a change, but we were to knackered to stay up and watch.

Monday 19/1/09

 

It was hammering down the next morning, just as predicted. We treated ourselves to breakfast in the hotel. “You should have stayed up for the test,” said the fat bastard running the place, “it was really gripping towards the end. South Africa won with three balls left.” Cheers twat.

Lee-Anne and I both had the same idea and plans. The fat boy was running the place all wrong. For a start he’d employed about a dozen tasty young things for Eastern Europe to work there, they were all treating him with distain and doing sod all. (There may have been some perks for him in this though.) The place wasn’t presented properly, the signage was wrong, the menu was wrong,  the layout was all wrong and he hadn’t aimed it at the best market. We’d buy the pace and run it properly, and make our fortune whilst living in the mountains. Ok, scrap Milford sound and Franz Joseph, we’ll retire to Arthur’s pass and run a hotel. It’s a plan, we could do it, we ‘d be great at it! Lend us a few hundred thousand will you?

We then drove out of the mountains, being hounded by torrential rains. We had decided to finish the trip at Methven, which was a small town on the plains. After driving through the mountains the plains were a bit of a shock. As this area is as flat as witches tit, and you can se for miles in every direction, it was something of a novelty. The land had been divided up into square blocks for convenience, you could drive on dead flat, dead straight, road for 20 or 30 k without ever seeing a bend or a dip or a side road. Weird but very charming.

When we got to Methven it was shut though. This was due to it being  the lowland base for all the skiing which can be done in the mountain ranges which bound the Methven plain. What with the skiing season being long gone, sod all was happening. Luckily we found a tidy campsite and booked in.

We were told by the girl running the campsite that, if we drove a short way out of town, we’d come to Rakaia Gorge. There a jet boat would give us a thrilling trip up a river, and deposit us at a place where we could take a scenic two hour walk back. Sounds right up our street.

Just our luck there was no boat at the gorge of any description. There were two vintage Mini’s being photographed there for some reason, but they were sod all use to us. So we just hiked along the path alongside the amazing cyan coloured river for as far as we fancied, walking sometimes along the top of, and sometimes at the foot of the yellow stripped sandstone cliffs, and then drove back.

Looking for somewhere to eat that night we found the town was still shut. We did however find two pubs, named, believe it or not, “The Brown Pub,” and “The Blue Pub.”

The Blue Pub had the best vege selection, so they got our cash. In fact the food there was superb, (Goats cheese pie for me, salmon in a chervil sauce for Lee-Anne.) The beer, “Canterbury Red Lion ale,” was first class too. I highly recommend the Blue Pub if you’re passing that way.

That night Lee-Anne was serenaded by some drunks in the campsite, who sang well into the night. Sometimes being deaf has an advantage to it.

Tuesday 20/1/09

The next day we cleaned out the van, and drove back to Christchurch. David was still as laid back as ever. We gave him the keys, he didn’t even inspect the van, didn’t ask for his TV or GPS back, nor his phone, we virtually had to force them on him. His only contribution to the proceedings was; “Sweet, I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”

Back at the airport we watched a twat, a real twat and a half, proving his twatishness. He was dressed from his Cuban heeled  boots to his naff white Stetson in cowboy regalia. There really is no hope for some people. He was arguing, loudly, with the check-in girl, that his guitar had to travel as hand luggage. The check-in girl's face had a smile on it which read; “Not a chance sunshine. Oh by the way, seeing as you’re such an arsehole, I’m  going to put  a sticker which reads “suspected drug smuggler, please inspect thoroughly” on both your suitcase and on your ticket, just to guarantee you get a deep anal cavity search on your arrival in Thailand. You wanker.”

 

The flight back was uneventful, apart from not getting much to eat as we’d (I’d) forgot to ring them and order vegetarian grub. I watched a UK sitcom on the way back; “Gavin and Stacey”. It would have been funny, but there were  Welsh people in it who were far too alike to my family for comfort. Oh and a big fat bird called Nessa, who I’m sure I used to date when I lived in Wales. All a bit “Truman Show”, if you know what I mean?

Back in Sydney we got a freebee coach to the hotel we’d booked into. This was another hotel which didn’t have good reviews at the “Trip advisor” site we use, but fortunately turned out to be just fine. We got straight into the bar, and after the day’s hectic travelling a few beers relaxed us a bit. The bar staff were all Chinese or Asian and so nothing was too much trouble for them, they looked after us a treat. We dined on yet another pizza, and got stuck into the ale to celebrate fully the last proper night of our trip.

Entertainment that night was provided in the form of three very fat and very loud young ladies (early 20’s or so)  who were flying to Bali the next morning, and didn’t want to wait until they left before starting the knees up. I would have put good money on them not making their flight out. One of them was so drunk that walking had become a problem, though falling over hadn’t.

They were funny as hell, loud as hell, and very pissed.

We left the bar people a good tip, and I knicked a book on Aussie culture off them.

Weds 21/1/09

We were the first people up for breakfast. The only people in fact. This may have something to do with our bodies being set to NZ time, which is two hours ahead of Aus. The bar manager, the same guy from the previous night was back on duty again as a waiter. He kindly brought his newly born baby, who was on top of the bar in a carry cot, over to us to inspect. How much of a tip did we leave last night?

We had a long wait at the coach station as the coach driver was at the wrong bay. This was despite me asking him, twice, if he was the Canberra coach, and should he be in Bay 23, and his denying that he was. One and a half hours after we were due to have left, he somewhat shamefaced came over, and asked all the people in bay 23 to come to bay 2 for the Canberra coach.

The M-I-L picked us up from Canberra coach station, and drove us home. She also, very kindly, gave us a weeks worth of shopping, and a superb curry she had made for us. Thanks Mary!

We’re going back again the same time next year.