'Hiatus', or, how I haven't applied myself and finished the blog yet.

If anyone's still reading this thing, here's the scoop.

A lot has happened since I've been back in the UK, some of it great, some of it not so great. It's all fairly irrelevant to the blog's narrative, but it does mean that I've got off of my not so proverbial lazy arse and started this up again.

So hold on to your hats, as we haven't even got to Asia yet.

Laz

The Road More or Less Travelled: Australia's East Coast. Part One: Cairns

I'm writing this from Xi'an, China, and it's the first day of the annual Chinese labour holiday.

I have gathered that the Chinese are a hardworking bunch; although they get 11 festival days (like our bank holidays) they can get as little as 5 days paid annual leave. This means that everyone travels across the country at the same time. Being, as I am, in a popular location (Xi'an is the destination of choice for those wanting to see the famous Terracotta Army of the Qin Dynasty) every Chinese tourist and their dog is out looking at the sights. It's also raining. This makes for an unpleasant situation that has resulted in me losing my last shred of patience and returning to the hostel, where at least it is dry, and there's a thermos of tea in my room. So, on with the blog catchup...

Travelling the East Coast of Australia is something on pretty much any traveller's list. At least, it is if you are European. I think I can safely say that I met many more European passport holders than actual bonafide Australians on my way South from the tropical Queensland city of Cairns down to metropolitan, urban-chic Melbourne, Victoria. You might argue this is because I kept myself safely inside the backpacker enclave, only meeting other travellers and not really mixing with the locals. Well, this is true to some extent; sometimes you do get lulled into a routine. Travelling to your destination, dropping off your luggage and striking up conversations with fellow travellers in the hostel, hanging out with them and their friends and forming a little group soon becomes a comfortable way of getting about. However, thanks to the Australian propensity for travelling the world, I was lucky enough to meet a lot of kind and generous Australians during the first half of my tour. A large proportion of our American tour group were Australian, and Dimi and Laura Papettas, the first friends I made in New York, had lived in Melbourne all their lives. Not to mention Kerry Witt, the girl who kept me vaguely sane during those first wobbly days adjusting to New Zealand life AND introduced me to the wonder of Milo. All of the above and more had invited me to stay with them when I reached their parts of the country, so I was lucky enough to do the local thing as well as meet other backpackers.

Australia has got to be one of the most convenient setups for backpackers ever. If you're just touring, you hop into the country, often on a visa-waiver, which is done online and is free (at least for us Brits). Most backpackers, however, are there looking for work. The Working Holiday Visa (WHV) allows 18-30 year olds to try their hand at working in Australia for a year. You cannot work for more than six months in one job. If you want to stay on for one more year, that's fine, but you've got to be prepared to do some hard graft, in the form of government approved work on farms or in rural areas for a period of about three months. During my trip, I heard many horror stories about the hours and the tough physical nature of the work, plus the cramped living conditions in multiple room dorms located in the arse end of nowhere. It seems like if you have the willingness to do the work, you sure as hell better hope you have bucketloads of patience and tolerance for your fellow workers, as well as a never ending supply of high factor sunblock.

On the other hand, I heard from a fair few people that it was all jolly good fun, a sort of 'we're all in the same sinking boat' camaraderie that is rarely experienced anywhere else. Firm friends and lifelong lovers are made and sometimes even kept. I have a sneaking suspicion I'm too old for all that caper now, but I bet when I was 18 and fresh out of high school that kind of boarding house mentality would have actually been quite good fun.

Anyway, I massively digress. Australia is easy to get around, despite its vastness. There are two coach companies that ply the route between Cairns and Melbourne: Premier Travel and Greyhound. Premier, being the slightly cheaper of the two, is more popular with backpackers and their buses were always chock-full. I was quite lucky with Greyhound, and seemed to get two seats to myself most of the time.

I arrived full of excitement. For one thing, it would actually be HOT! I could swim in the sea (providing the stingers didn't get me), lie on the beach (for five minutes before I had to seek shade) and try my hand at diving the world famous Great Barrier Reef, the vast section of gorgeous coral reef that is unfortunately dying out fairly quickly (see previous note re: stingers). Not to mention exploring the big cities dotted down the coast; Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne. Now all I had to do was work out how not to bankrupt myself and I was away. I should explain here to the uninitiated that Australia is terribly expensive, even if you're earning Australian dollars. It's not really their fault as such, they have been lucky enough to avoid the global recession by maintaining a strong economy that is, in part, down to extensive mining. But it really stings when you walk into a supermarket looking for a cheap meal and you end up spending about half an hour plying the reduced shelves for the cheapest loaf of bread or bag of pasta. Speaking of which, formerly adored student staples such as pasta and pesto, cheap white bread, processed cheese sandwiches and the ubiquitous instant noodle made an unwelcome return into my already terrible diet.

I touched down in Cairns at some point in the mid afternoon after a very long layover at Sydney Kingsford Smith airport. I'd been up since 2am NZ time, so was slightly disorientated when I checked in and crawled onto my bunk at the Northern Greenhouse in Cairns, a hostel recommended to me by a very old friend who had travelled there some years previously. It seemed to be full of people silently working away on their laptops, but I didn't really care at the time and I hauled myself onto my top bunk (I am always, without fail, allocated the shittiest top bunk. See previous post about the hideous room in the Coromandel), which was located right next to the air conditioning unit. Well, at least I wouldn't sweat to death. The temperature didn't seem too bad, actually, and I wondered what everyone was on about when they'd mentioned how I was going to melt into a puddle of my own goo, like the Wicked Witch of the West.

I woke up at about 7pm, cotton-mouthed and completely unaware of where I was. I decided that if I didn't get up, I would probably dehydrate to the point of losing consciousness and swung myself down the bunk ladder to grab some money and my room key. Everyone was still on their laptops. A few banging sounds came from the kitchen. I decided I couldn't be arsed with fighting people for pots and pans and washing up, so I walked down the road to the Woolworths to see what food I could eat without cooking. I located a reduced salad, still overpriced at something like $5, but tasty and vaguely nourishing. I sat and ate outside when a giant thing swooped down from a nearby tree and nearly gave me a heart attack. What the hell was that? It didn't look like a bird...

Closer inspection revealed that it was a bat. A bloody enormous, giant fruit bat. They were everywhere, congregating in the trees, rustling and squeaking at each other. Nobody else seemed to notice or care about them, but I was absorbed. I'd never been anywhere that bats had lived in such a built up area, and we don't tend to get the giant variety in the UK. Thumping crappy music from a nearby bar soon burst my bubble of thought, and I suddenly felt exhausted, so took myself back to the hostel and resolved to wake up early and see what Cairns had going on.

The next morning, I popped out of the room to realise why everyone had looked so sympathetic when I'd told them I was heading to Cairns in January. I can't describe the sheer oppressiveness of the heat, and this was at about 6.30am. It smothered everything it touched, and I could feel little trickles of sweat form on my brow and under my arms within about two minutes of being outside. Heat hazes rose from the tarmac outside the hostel, and the sun beamed down with a brightness I have never seen. Luckily I had prepared for this by spending about half an hour rubbing every conceivable surface of myself with a liberal application of factor 30, a routine which was to become second nature for the next few months.

I had something to eat and ended up talking to a slightly odd and possibly drunk fellow named Shaun, who said he was in charge of the horse trekking school up in Cape Tribulation. We had a long chat about New Zealand, as he was originally from a Maori family that lived inland from the coast near Raglan. He was in Cairns 'to pardy' and take a break from the trekking business, and invited me to take a trek which he said he would pay for. I politely declined as I felt he might not be so friendly if I didn't 'pardy' with him in return.

Trying not to sweat too much with the effort, I took a walk around the city to see what I could find. I wanted to find the dive shop I had been in touch with about doing an introductory dive up near Port Douglas, and had heard that Rusty's, the produce market along the road from where I was based, was meant to be reasonably priced and full of delicious tropical fruits. One of the chefs from Heritage had told me about this particular mango variety that was guaranteed to be unlike any other I'd tasted. Since I love mangoes and food in general, this was exciting for me, and I made a stop at the market to purchase a mango the size of my head.

I was once again propositioned by a man who was definitely drunk, and staggered towards me as I had a quick sit down at a bus stop. It was really entertaining, and would have been much funnier if anyone I'd known had been around to witness it. He walked past me, did a theatrical stop in his tracks, and then turned to talk to me. I should mention here that I looked pretty rough thanks to lack of sleep and air con, with Ken Dodd-esque flyaway hair, a thrown-on dress and dirty flip flops with a garnish of chipped nail varnish. I was a regular Lauren Bacall.

“COR blimey love.......... you look like a movie star!” Imagine this said in the broadest outback accent, ever.

“Erm... well, thanks.” I mumbled, not sure how to handle this awkward exchange. He came to sit next to me. I groaned inwardly and tried not to look like I was desperately trying to find an escape route.

“Let me see yer eyes,” he slurred. I consented, removing my sunglasses and fixing him with a death stare, otherwise known as The Face. The Face has got me into a lot of trouble before. I have problems with masking my true feelings, and any hint of grouchiness or annoyance has a habit of manifesting itself in a curled lip and furrowed brows. He didn't seem to notice and pressed on with his compliments, explaining that he was based in some remote-arse part of Australia and was here on a stag do or something... the details are a bit hazy because I wasn't listening.

“We're here to pAr-dy and meet some girls, drink a lot of beers, you know, schtag schtuff.” Seems like Cairns is the place to be if you want to get blind drunk with drunk Aussies. It did remind me a bit of Agia Napa in Cyprus, the only difference being that garage wasn't a music scene but was what most of the buildings resembled.

This guy needed to sober up. He didn't smell great, either. I found my escape route, and hammily pretended to answer my blatantly not-ringing phone. “Oh REALLY?!” I squawked “I'd better come right away!”

Unfortunately, he followed, but must have got bored with that because after a couple of minutes, he sharply veered off elsewhere and I was left alone. I decided to head back to the hostel and cool off in the pool, and heard a baconesque sizzle as my legs hit the cold water.

It must have been a day for weirdos as I met a girl called Tina (name changed in case she tracks me down and kills me) who happened to attend the same uni I did, albeit more recently, and grew up in a town not too far from High Wycombe. We started chatting and got on well. It turned out she had been travelling in group tours for a few months, first in NZ and then in Australia, and had covered a vast section of the East coast as well as the outback by bus. She was a qualified medical professional and was looking for work in Australia, leaving her ex-fiancee back in Britain after a messy split. Her bottom lip seemed a bit wobbly when she covered that bit so we moved on quickly to her pet cats who were living under the care of her parents back in Britain. So far, so normal. But boy, did she love those cats. One of them was ill (she mentioned, getting a slightly more pronounced wobbly bottom lip) and probably about to snuff it. Now, don't get me wrong, I love animals, but a sick cat is a sick cat. She was seriously considering flying back to Britain to see this cat to the grave, and then flying back to Australia once the approved grieving period was over to continue her grand plan. She was torn between staying or leaving for the cat. Which should she do? She agonised, and looked to me for my opinion. I can only say I hope I was sensitive when I suggested that spending a fortune flying for the best part of 24 hours to see a cat off and then coming back might be a tad overdoing it. It's not as if there'd be many sandwiches at the wake. But this was just my opinion, and I'm sure there's thousands of pet lovers out there who would disagree. I guess she was having a tough time with the ex-fiancee issue, and the cat getting ill wasn't helping. We spent an evening in each other's company, then I went off to Port Douglas to dive and didn't hear from her again, despite her suggestion that we ought to travel down the coast together. I hope the cat survived.

Well, that brings me nicely onto diving. I booked a day trip with Silversonic in Port Douglas, about an hour up the coast from Cairns, thanks to a generous donation from the Gordon MacLachlan Foundation for Fun and Frolics. The reef is meant to be a bit nicer and more intact there, so I thought it was well worth a visit and change of scene, seeing as Cairns didn't particularly grab me (possibly as I am now a crochety old woman). I was herded professionally and with minimum fuss onto a large boat which looked like it ought to have been a cruise liner. We were given the requisite endless safety chat and a very long list of awful things that might happen to us diving, which would be all our fault and not the company's problem etc. etc. please sign here and admit any minor medical issues, even a cut on the foot, or else.

The dive itself was pleasant, and I saw a lot of interesting marine life. It was a like being in a tropical fish tank, playing the part of the plastic diver figurine. That's a terrible simile but, well, that was what it was like. As it was just an intro dive, I didn't have to learn much or think for myself, and was just being lead along by the efficient instructor, Mac, along with two other women who had never dived before.

After the dive, we got lunch and pulled up to two more sites to snorkel, or dive more if we were prepared to part with more cash. I chose the former option, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. Before, this, however, I was overtaken with a blinding rage; my Olympus 'Tough' camera, marketed as pretty much indestructable, wasn't switching on. At the Great Barrier Reef. The only underwater thing I REALLY wanted to immortalise for future generations (alright, myself) to enjoy. Back on the boat I tried, in vain, to get it to work, and then opened the battery compartment to see if there was anything wrong; it was flooded with salt water. Great. So the one photo I have of the Great Barrier Reef is of me making an 'OK' sign in a diver's suit, that I paid $16 for. There aren't even any bloody fish in the photo. What a world! But in the interest of getting my money's worth, here's the pic:

Never mind. It was fun, and that's all that mattered. I can understand the worldwide obsession with the Reef; it's beautiful, and a real shame that thanks to changing ocean temperatures, the life-sustaining coral is dying off at a rate of knots.

While I was diving I met a couple from Barcelona, Cristina and Santiago, who were on an extended honeymoon round the world trip. They didn't seem to mind the third wheel, and invited me to go and see Cape Tribulation with him after the dive. We only managed to get as far as the edge of Daintree National Park, in some hick town where we went for a quick walk along the edge of the jungle. It was getting dark, and I suspected that flip flops were probably a fairly useless defence against poisonous snakes. Turned out the only dangerous snakes about were carpet pythons, the only real danger being if a big one fell out of a tree and onto my head. They're quite shy apparently, and generally slither off rather than hang about and argue. Anyway, it was getting dark and dinner beckoned, so we had that and parted ways.

I stayed in Port Douglas for the night at Dougie's Backpackers (why do they always have to give backpackers' hostels twee names?), and had an entire dorm to myself, something that I don't think has ever happened since. It was wonderful, aside from the heat searing through the nigh-on useless efforts of the fan, and the usual round of bloodthirsty mosquitos leaving delightful raised lumps over my legs.

Port Douglas itself is a play area for rich Australians on holiday and this was made clear by the abundance of large houses with pools and luxury hotels. Well, if you can afford to charter a yacht or dive boat, you have probably got a few bob in the bank. I had a quick walk into town with a bunch of people I'd met at Dougie's the night before and wandered the Sunday market, where I tried sugar cane juice for the first time (and not the last). A slightly deaf and crazed old man took hold of a bunch of light green and white sugar canes and pressed them through a machine like a electronic mangle that took the stalks, crushed and squeezed them and produced a delicious dark greeny-yellow juice, the colour of one of those wheatgrass shots that people buy from juice bars when they have more money and vanity than taste buds left. I'm pleased to inform you that it didn't taste anything like wheatgrass; it was sweet (unsurprisingly, as it's sugar in its rawest form) and natural tasting. I can't really describe it any more accurately than that, so it's a good job I am not a food critic. It tasted like a different kind of sweet to the processed, crappy carbonated drinks we're used to consuming on a daily basis. Apparently, it's not so bad for you – as the sugars are unrefined, even diabetics can drink it (though perhaps it's best to check first). Anyway, you can see why it's so popular in tropical areas – it beats a thirst.

Sugar cane juice aside, I had to head back to Cairns to make a bus connection to Mission Beach, a destination selected at random from the available options on my bus ticket. I met a girl, Leah, at the bus station who happened to be going to the same hostel I was, and ended up being picked up in a busted up mini van which contained a few other friendly girls and a whole lot of beers. I approved of this entirely. We drove about 15 minutes through the dark and ended up pulling into a tiny lane that housed the Jackaroo Hostel. The owner had just bought the hostel off of an old bloke who couldn't cope with it anymore, and was doing work on it when I was staying there, namely building a bar area off to the side. It was tropical Queensland's low season, just before the 'Wet', so there were only a few people staying there who weren't staff. I'd only booked one night, but ended up staying for three – it was the kind of place you get sucked into.

Anyway, that's probably enough for now... I am trying to think of a snappy ending to this entry but am miserably failing. That'll do.

Beaches, Seagull Turds, Potatoes and a Broken Bike: The Coromandel

Before I left NZ for good, I spent some time in an area I had missed so far but was desperate to see – the Coromandel Peninsula. A long, narrow strip of land about an hour east of Auckland, the Coromandel is incredibly popular amongst Kiwis and tourists alike, and it's easy to see why (without trying to sound too much like Judith Chalmers). The weather in summer is breezy and warm on the coasts, and the beaches are nothing short of spectacular. Unfortunately, this meant that it was pretty packed around the time I was headed there, but I didn't find it too horrendous.

I mapped my journey out over about seven days: Auckland - Coromandel Town – Whitianga – Thames – Auckland. This as mainly dicatated by availability of public transport being a bit few & far between in NZ.

I stayed at a great hostel in Coromandel Town, 'The Lion's Den', and happened to be there on the day of the Keltic Fair, which was a stroke of luck. I checked into the 'Zebra Room', was greeted by the effervescent, barefoot and markedly hippy Edy and slapped on some suncream to spend the remainder of the afternoon at the Fair. It was a bit like being at a giant version of a primary school summer fete; I had a marvellous time, sampling various foods (of course), inspecting crafts stalls, listening to pipe and rock bands, and watching a very stoned lady dance by herself in the middle of the audience area for a Pink Floyd tribute band. I have found that in NZ, more than anywhere else, it feels comfortable and natural to spend time alone, and I noticed a fair few people sitting by themselves on the grass, shoes off, listening to the bands with a swaying and content appreciation.

The town itself is tiny, but gorgeous, with tiny little shops and cafes lining diminutive streets. I spent the following day visiting the famous Driving Creek railway (built by another Kiwi eccentric, a potter who originally constructed the mini railway to excavate clay for his pots and eventually ended up building one of the Coromandel's busiest tourist attractions. Fortunately for him, this enterprise paid the enormous bills he owed the bank for the land in the first place). I had a bite to eat in the cafe, chased down by a dandelion latte, which is probably not going to take off in Britain any time soon.

I walked the food off doing the Harray loop track around the town, and managed to get lost halfway down due to lack of signage and generally retarded sense of direction. I got out once it started to rain, so I suppose I must be thankful for small mercies.

That night, I met a Dutch/Australian, also called Laura, who was planning on heading the same way as me and kindly offered to give me a lift to Whitianga and my next hostel. She popped out for dinner while I made myself a traditional fortifying meal of tuna, pasta and sweetcorn, and a yoghurt from the bargain bin in the local 4 Square. The glamorous eating habits of the impoverished backpacker.

I also had a fairly personal task to attend to that night, in the form of writing a piece for my Grandfather's funeral, in lieu of my appearance. Fortunately, The Lion's Den wasn't at full occupancy, and those who were staying seemed to have gone out for the night, so I settled myself at a covered, outdoor table under a tangled construction of fairy lights, cloth and ivy, and began to write.

Maybe it was something about the quiet, gentle atmosphere of the place, or just the way I was feeling, but either way, I managed to start typing and just keep going.

The next morning, Laura and I grabbed some coffee and got into her rental car for the beautiful hour-long drive to Whitianga. We wound around cliffs, alongside beaches, all the while talking about our travels so far and Laura's upcoming citizenship application to Australia. Whitianga was windy, and not too much to write home about, tempted as we were by the banana boats. We decided to take a walk to Cathedral Cove, which was around the corner, off Haihei Beach. This involved a small uphill struggle towards the entrance to the footpath, and a pleasant, mostly flat wander along a sandy path with some meanderings towards little inlets along the cove, following the slovenly pace of the many other tourists who had decided to descend that day. The 'cathedral' archway at cove was beautiful, and will probably collapse sooner rather than later, due to structural instability and natural erosion. With this in mind, I quickened my pace through the middle of the archway and didn't hang about for too many photos. We watched a man standing in the freezing waves dive into each big wave that came along, without actually going anywhere, then decided after a few photos that we'd had enough entertainment and headed back. From here, things took a downturn. Which is good, because it makes the blog so much more entertaining.

Cathedral Cove

After a quick supermarket trip to replenish my meagre food supplies, Laura kindly dropped me off at my hostel in Whenuakite. It was the only place available when I was looking, and accommodation in the Whitianga area appeared to be either cheap and scarce, or horrendously expensive and available. Whenuakite is about 25k out of Whitianga, but it's near Hot Water Beach and is on the way to Thames, which was my next destination, so it would have to do.

We pulled into a slightly grim family campground setting off of the main road, and walked to the reception to check me in. Laura needed the toilet, so I asked the receptionist if she could quickly nip inside and use it. She regarded me with nothing less than the snootiest disdain.

'Is she paying for a room here tonight too?'

I was taken slightly aback. Here I was, a customer, checking in for two nights at a not altogether reasonable price, and my companion was being refused the use of the bathroom, a request no other receptionist would bat an eyelid at.

'Well... she can have my use of the bathroom if it's that much of a problem.' I replied. 'I don't need to go right now.'

With much huffing, the receptionist allowed Laura to relieve herself in the appropriate receptacle and I continued to check in. She gave me a hot water token for the showers for five minutes of hot water. If I wanted more, I had to pay. Then I saw the room........

It's difficult to describe, and I'm not altogether sure I have a photo of it. It was smaller than the size of my box room at home, with four bunks and a small window. On the left side, the bottom bunk's bottom half was wedged underneath the top bunk, with about a six inch gap between top and bottom bunk, if you can imagine. There was a small space at the end which could house one or two bags. On the right hand side, there was a normal bunk bed, the only problem being the top bunk, again, had about a six inch gap between it and the ceiling, which meant the occupant could not sit up, and continually banged their head on the ceiling whenever they got into the bed. Guess who had been assigned the top bunk?

The others were all full, so there was no option to move. In retrospect, I should have asked to move rooms, but I was so miserable from the prospect of spending two nights in this, for lack of a better description, dump, that I just lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for a while.

After an hour of this, I switched on my laptop and paid the appropriate extortionate fee to see if I could get hold of Jo, as I didn't have her phone number. I got a message saying they were staying at Hot Water Beach and could I meet them there for the low tide? I should explain here that Hot Water Beach is located east of Haihei, and is a tourist attraction insomuch as if you dig a hole in the sand, you are curiously rewarded with hot (sometimes scalding) water. For this reason, it's a whole heap of fun to dig yourself a space and sit there, luxuriating in the warmth before getting out and freezing your tits off trying to find your towel in amongst the hundreds of other people's. I wasted no time in getting a bag packed and strolling up to the receptionist to ask for a bike, free to hire as advertised on their website. I was met with the same lack of enthusiasm as before. In fact, she seemed downright pissed off that I was in her breathing space. I asked if I could borrow a bike. She huffed about a $20 deposit and said she had to get me a reflective jacket and helmet. 'No problem', I said, 'could I also borrow a spade for Hot Water Beach?'

I was told they didn't have any left, and was genuinely offered a fairly impractical solution in the shape of a giant shovel. Now I had to be straightforward – 'Erm, I'm not sure how that's going to fit on the bike...'

She put the shovel angrily aside, as if not quite sure whether to batter me senseless with it. I hurriedly volunteered that I could get one from someone at the beach. She nodded, told me I MUST return the bike that evening and let me on my way, but not without an oddly caring remark. 'Please do wear the reflective jacket, it's a dangerous road for speeding cars.' I told her I would take the utmost care, and sped away to grab the bike. What a machine it was! Rusted gears, cobwebs around the brakes and a seat so hard that it would only comfortably accommodate a eunuch. Fabulous.

I managed to get the beast into fairly swift action as I cruised down HWB road, wearing my jacket as instructed and keeping left so the 100kph crowd could pass me safely. After a small incline that felt like Kilamanjaro, I dumped the bike in the mostly empty car park and ran onto the beach. The sun had started to wane slightly, but I left my concerns with the bike and managed to find the hot spot by seeing about 200 tourists gathered tightly on an otherwise empty beach. Jo was nowhere to be seen, so I decided to sit it out and see if I could dig my own hole without looking too weird. Borrowing a spade from a nearby family, I pathetically started to dig myself a hole. It was more difficult than I had anticipated. Who would have thought that a child's plastic spade, patently designed for digging sand at the beach, would be an ineffectual tool for – well – digging sand? After a few minutes of shaving sand and flinging it into the faces of a nearby family, I sat in my shallow well in some cold water and wondered why I was there. The sunset inevitably continued and I decided to head home, so I towelled off and headed back to the 'bike', which I hoped hadn't been stolen. It hadn't, so I started to cycle home. Jo called me as I was a few kilometres away, having only just seen my message. Never mind. I eyed the darkening sky warily, and stuck my head torch on backwards, in the hope that passing cars would see the faint light and realise there was an idiot cyclist on the road when she shouldn't be.

I was almost home when a car pulled up to my side and a man stuck his head out from the passenger window. I was wary – it was dark, I was alone, and here's some randomer slowing down to talk to me. I tried to recall some self defence moves just in case. It turned out he had just popped his head out to tell me off for cycling in the dark. I looked sheepish, assured him I was about two minutes from home and sped off, hoping he would find this answer satisfactory. He didn't mow me down, so he must have been alright with it.

All that cycling made me hungry, so once I got back and returned the bike to its holder to avoid any aggro from reception, I had a look in my food bag to see what I had. A jacket potato and tin of beans seemed to be about all that was going for me, so I fished them out and attempted to make a meal. This is somewhat difficult when the hostel you're staying in doesn't provide essential utensils or seem to maintain a basic level of hygiene.

The kitchen was packed, as is usual for a campground in the middle of nowhere, as it is the central hub for socialising as well as mealtime activity. The sink was full of used plates, fat and cutlery. I extracted a plate and a knife and fork, washed them as best I could in the lukewarm water and avoided touching any of them with the teatowel that was hanging from a nearby nail. I could almost see the bacteria swarming all over it (for those of you who have had the unfortunate luck to live with me, you know how much I hate dirty teatowels). I viciously stabbed the potato a couple of times, then stuck it in the microwave, a device so unfathomable it would have taken Stephen Hawking to work out how to use it. Eventually, after a few random punches into the keypad, it seemed to do something that resembled cooking, and I turned my attentions to the beans.

I scoured the kitchen for a tin opener, even getting nearby people involved in the search. Eventually, a heavily rusted one appeared from a filthy drawer, and I stuck it onto the rim of the can, where it pierced the tin with a satisfying ooze of bean juice. However, after turning the key a couple of times, it became apparent that it had not been used in a while, and broke apart in my hands, rendering it utterly useless. Well, now I had a very slightly open tin of beans and nothing to fully open it with. The situation was looking bleak. As is traditional in crappy hostels, the kitchen knives had been through years of abuse and trying to use one to open the tin would have bean futile (sorry, I couldn't resist). Nobody seemed to have a gadget that would help, and my own Swiss Army knife is a girls' one, featuring a short but weak blade, (presumably for whittling sticks and fending off potential rapists) and a pair of nail scissors, neither of which I wanted to ruin opening a tin of Budget beans.

So I took my microwaved potato out, stuck it on the damp plate and scoured the free food shelves for a suitable accompaniment. There were some abandoned packets of McDonald's margarine which I wasn't sure I could brave due to lack of information on their age, so I settled for some McDonald's pepper sachets that were sat next to them. It was probably the most depressing dinner I have eaten in a long while, since the days of university 'experimentation' with egg and tinned tomato that was less Heston Blumenthal, more Stig of the Dump.

I got chatting to a friendly German girl and a super-healthy looking Kiwi bloke while I was burning my mouth with lava-hot, semi-cooked potato. I learned that this girl had experienced the wrath of the receptionist earlier as well and it made me feel slightly relieved that her vendetta wasn't personal. We all sat together after our meals (theirs definitely better than mine) and discussed the usual holy trinity of questions that all backpackers ask each other: Where are you from? / Where have you been? / What did you do back home? Amen. It turned out the German girl was hitchhiking her way around – I thought she was either brave, foolhardy or both, and we talked long into the evening about the Kiwi bloke's slightly unconventional job (he seemed to be part of a pyramid scheme, but was trying to convince us he wasn't and it was all legit. He also seemed to have some unconventional ideas on food, and was adhering to a ketogenic diet – see here if interested: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ketogenic_diet ). All in all it was an interesting and thought provoking way to spend an evening in a filthy kitchen. The German girl announced she was off to bed. I naturally assumed she was staying in a dorm like I was, but she'd had to pay the same amount ($30, not cheap) to borrow the 'emergency tent' from the hostel and pitch up at a designated spot. This would have been a horrendous rip off even if the tent and pitch were adequate, but the central pole for the tent was broken, and the groundsheet had a few holes in it that periodically let ants in. I was silently relieved for my room. That is, until I got, or rather, folded myself, into bed.

I have never experienced the sheer volume and quantity of snoring that I did that night. I think it must atone for all the snoring I have done at other people, and that's a fair amount I can assure you. I can't describe it accurately, only to say that when the girl breathed in, it reminded me of that scene in Pinocchio where the blue whale inhales Pinocchio, his father Geppetto, Jiminy Cricket and all their possessions. (I would find a link on YouTube for you but am currently behind The Great Firewall of China and apparently looking at videos might stir some latent revolutionary behaviour.) When she breathed out, it was like the sound of a shire horse snorting, all reverberating gummy nostrils, for an extended period well beyond the limits of reason.

This, obviously, continued all night. I had earplugs so effective that they blocked out the sound of my phone alarm ringing, but against this might, they were useless.

The next morning, I gathered my clothes, towel and washbag, and pottered off to the shower. It was only when I was stark bollock naked that I realised I'd left my crappy little hot water token in the room. Urgh. I wrapped myself in my towel and went back to retrieve it, only to not be able to find it, and noticed that there was a token in the snoring girl's shoe, which was by the bunk underneath me. Now, logic and reason dictated that the token had probably fallen off my bed and into her shoe, but her vast, unstirring bulk told me that if that was not the case, soon I would probably find myself and my possessions in a similar predicament to Pinocchio and Geppetto. So I had a cold shower. Yep, I totally wimped out.

I managed to get hold of Jo and she came to my rescue in the form of herself, her boyfriend Dave and her friends Laura and Scott, and I spent a lovely day with them exploring a freezing cold waterfall and eating a delicious picnic of french bread and Coromandel smoked mussels on Whitianga Beach. It certainly beat potato and McDonald's pepper, and even when a seagull dumped a huge turd on my head (fortunately covered with bandana) I was happy and grateful to be in their company. We spent the afternoon on Haihei Beach and I prepared to get a 'ginger tan':

Working on my tan

We even managed a visit to Hot Water Beach, where I got my second chance at experiencing the fun. Needless to say it was a lot more jolly with others in tow, especially when it came to digging the hole in the first place!

I spent my last night in the company of the sleeping giants, and the next morning happily checked out at the earliest opportunity.

'Was everything ok with your stay?' the now-saccharine receptionist asked me. I wondered if she'd had a lobotomy in the last 24 hours, her attitude was so utterly different.

'Sure...' I muttered, copping out of actually explaining how I felt about the place. I still regret not giving her a piece of my mind, but actually felt it achieved more to write about my experiences on that staple of travel reviewing, TripAdvisor. OK, so it's not really fair to bitch about somewhere when you've told them face to face that your stay was ok, but I am like that wimpy dinosaur Rex from Toy Story when it comes to confrontations, and the tin opener really was the last straw.

Jo and the gang kindly picked me up, we all went for breakfast and then they dropped me off in Thames, which felt like, and was, the arse end of nowhere.

My plan was to do the Pinnacles walk, but of course, this didn't happen. It took me over an hour to get there by hitching, although I did enjoy the interactions with the drivers. One man was a horticulturalist / massive hippy who was teaching children at the local school about biodiversity, and the other was a policeman originally from Essex, and his two adorable ginger girls. He was kind enough to go out of his way to drop me off at the beginning of the walk and said if I got into any trouble I could pop down to their house, which was about 20 mins walk from the visitor's centre. I thanked him for his kindness and stuck my head into the visitor's centre, where I was informed it would take about 8 hours to do the round trip. It was already about 2pm so this was unfeasible. I got myself armed with a map and found a couple of smaller routes I could string together to entertain myself for the afternoon.

So it was that I strolled through various pretty gladed walks, some with information about the hallowed Kauri and the logging industry, one with a clean section of river at the end known as Hoffman's Pool, where I could swim if I desired to immerse myself in very cold water. I didn't, so I sat around and observed some daring teenagers jumping off bits of cliff into the pool, and continued on my way.

I didn't have to wait too long for a lift home. A van full of kindly pensioners on a day trip picked me up and being the secret OAP that I am, I enjoyed their company on the way home as they told me about the area and what they had been up to that day. It turned out they knew the owner of the hostel I was staying at (of course, who doesn't know everyone in New Zealand?) and told me to say hello.

I showered and ate some unremarkable pasta dish, said hello to my roommates and the hostel owner, as promised, and set out into Thames with the aim of watching The Hobbit. The cinema was so tiny and old-school, it can't have been renovated since the 1930s, by the look of the décor in the theatre. I was alone until just before the opening credits started rolling, when an elderly couple came in. This really was Sunday night in Thames! The Hobbit was made more enjoyable by familiar scenes of the mountainous South Island and a bag of sweet popcorn.

I walked home down the absolutely silent, dark high street. I have never been anywhere so quiet in all my life. It was almost post-apocalyptic, and pretty creepy. I quickened my pace and ran the last five minutes, my imagination working overtime to convince myself I was in some sort of horror movie. And I'd only watched The Hobbit – imagine if it had been Saw III...

The next morning I wandered about 5k up the road to the butterfly centre, took a walk up a steep track and got back in time for a coffee and snack before the bus back to Auckland showed up. It was a pleasant, sunny day, and I enjoyed not really rushing for anything and took photos of houses and gardens I fantasised I would buy when I was rich and famous (not really doing a great job of achieving that goal so far, but oh well).

My last few days in the country were spent at the Ross' house, generally enjoying their company and being lucky enough to make use of their swimming pool which was now warm enough for general consumption. Jamie taught me how to do those underwater rolls at the end of lengths (amongst other things, I'm a crap swimmer) and I just about managed, albeit very awkwardly. I have probably forgotten by now. Rebecca Adlington does not need to worry.

The night before I was due to leave, I got that feeling that I always get before I embark on the unknown – that kind of uncomfortable, nervous, what-am-I-doing feeling that usually creeps in around 3am when I am wide awake worrying about whether I switched the oven off before I came to bed. Only this time, it was the feeling that I'd just got used to living and working in New Zealand when it was time for me to be off again. Australia, not being a million miles away from New Zealand culturally and physically, seemed like an easy switch, but once I read the weather report for Cairns, which is where I was heading, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. The not-always-accurate weather app thing on my phone said it would be 33 degrees when I landed, helpfully illustrated by a little lightening symbol next to the figure in numbers.

I made a mental note to check I had plenty of suncream. And a raincoat.

See You, South Island

So I recruited Haley, a new-ish Bumbles gal, to join me in my quest do the Kepler. Weather was not on our side, so about six hours before we were booked to set off, we got bus tickets on Naked Bus to Wanaka instead, as there seemed to be plenty of walking-related stuff to do there too.

We headed to a local cafe to get the skinny on the walk in Mt Aspiring National Park that we were planning to do from Raspberry Creek, as the locals usually have a good idea about where to go and the weather was looking a little more than iffy. Still, we were positive, and we greeted the girl in the cafe with hopeful faces and backpacks in tow. She really had a knack of delivering really quite bad news in a cheerful way. I thought she would make an excellent doctor.

'Well, you could go up to Liverpool Bivvy and spend the night there. Mind you, some people have died falling off the edge up there.'

Erm?

We bid our goodbyes just as brightly and wandered off to the DOC office to get some official information.

A cheery ranger manning the desk told us to forget our plans, and to illustrate the point, showed us a live webcam stream of the really quite unfantastic weather at the top of the mountain. We looked at each other blankly. What now? We were here with our packs, our geeky walking trousers, our dignity dangling by a single thread; we wanted to walk. To give this guy his due, he had some good alternatives prepared for our long faces – we could get ourselves over to Roy's Peak, a largeish hill-almost-mountain just outside of central Wanaka, which was on the way to another track we could tackle. This track was reachable by a 9k stretch of dirt road, where we could walk until we came to an 8k section of official track, that would lead us to a hut belonging to none other than Shania Twain. Yes, that's right, THE Shania Twain. Apparently she owns tracts of land in New Zealand with her husband. Who've thunk?

With this advice ringing in our ears, and our lack of proper organisation and forward planning proving slightly cumbersome, we decided to try and hitchhike to the base of Roy's Peak, walk to the summit and then tackle the path to Shania's, where we could bed down for the night, and maybe sing 'Man I Feel Like A Woman' until sunrise.

Time passed. Our thumbs remained stuck out, with less enthusiasm for every passing minute.

It began to rain.

We got a taxi to the base of Roy's Peak.

It looked like a fairly gentle climb up to the top, so with newly renewed gusto, we grabbed our packs and started the climb. About ten minutes in, the incline increased quite forcibly, so we decided to transfer our water, cameras and money to the stylish detachable bumbags we happened to have on both our packs, and abandoned the main frames to a discreet location on the side of the track. The scenery was pretty beautiful, and we got some nice photos of rocky outcrops, views down to the town, and the ridges meandering off of the Peak. But boy, was it hard. I huffed and puffed my way up as Hayley slim-ly and nimbly scampered ahead of me. 'Don't... hhhh.... feel like you....hhhhh.... have to wait for me...' I wheezed as my calf muscles complained with the effort. Hayley was of course kind and polite throughout, and kept pace as we talked about the treks we'd both done previously. Being from Montana, she was pretty used to running up hills and was generally a fair bit fitter (and younger!) than me. But after much effort, we both made it, and got a few snaps at the top of us against the backdrop of the town, and the reward of a 360 degree view from the peak. The walk down, as always, was torturous, and we stopped a few times to 'take in the view', ie: save our knees from spontaneous combustion.

At the summit

From this point onwards things went even less according to recently-hashed-together-plan. We managed to hitch a lift from the base of the peak to the beginning of the road leading to our next track. It was all dust and dirt and although we tried to hitch with every passing vehicle (as the road ended with the walking track and therefore pretty much everyone driving down it must have been going that way), but to no avail. A couple of kilometres down the road, laden with the heavy pack and choking on dust, I cursed Shania's heathen name and turned to Hayley with a new idea.

'So... would it be bad if we sacked off this plan and went into town for the night? Would you be really upset if we didn't spend the night in Shania Twain's hut?'

Hayley wasn't averse to this new plan, in fact she greeted the idea with something approaching enthusiasm, so we hitched a ride with a friendly older British couple back to Wanaka, where accommodation was sought and beers were consumed. This was much better than stale water and half a bar of Cadbury Energy for tea. We actually ended up in pretty plush hostel accommodation, with a shower, and a lovely kitchen where they grew (legal I might add) herbs you could help yourselves to.

The next morning, we were to tackle the Rob Roy Glacier walk, which was meant to be 'moderate' but I suspected definitely less challenging than his Peak. Once again our organisation failed us and we had to catch a minibus to the carpark, which was about 40 min – 1 hour out of Wanaka. Hitching probably could have happened but the weather was once again closing in and I don't think we were up early enough to secure the chance of a ride up there. We headed to one of the local mountain sports shops where we'd heard we could pick up a shuttle bus ride to the carpark we needed to get to. After a small, embarrassing incident where the shop lady had to call back the shuttle bus so it could pick us up (it was already on its way to the park), we all stood together and chatted about the dangers of hitchhiking while we waited for the shuttle.

The pleasant older lady's expression clouded over when she recounted a tale about a friend of hers who was threatened by a crazy hitchhiker. Apparently this hitcher wouldn't get out of the cab of her friend's lorry until he was taken to the destination he wanted to get to. Somewhat taken aback by this hitcher's lack of awareness surrounding the principles of hitching (you get a lift as far as you can towards your destination but only within the intended route of the driver who picks you up), her friend politely insisted that he wasn't going where the hitcher wanted to go, in fact, he was headed in pretty much the opposite direction, so perhaps the hitcher ought to get out of the cab and wait for another lift? This hitcher got upset and petulant and refused to get out, so the driver had to physically remove him from the lorry and report him to the police. With this story ringing in our ears, along with the advice from the friendly yet morbid shop assistant of the day before ('people have died...'), we were picked up by a nice safe bus and taken towards Mt Aspiring National Park.

Anyway, the walk itself was beautiful, not a lot different from the Routeburn, with scenic cascading waterfalls and beautiful silver ferns lining the paths. We eventually hit the top of the walk without really realising it. A majestic glacier stood, gravely staring down anyone who hung around at the top of the path. We had it to ourselves for about five minutes before the hoards descended, and decided to celebrate by opening Hayley's tin of lemon pepper tuna and eating it on crackers.

On our way out of the park we had an 'only in New Zealand' moment when we met the older couple who had given us the lift to Wanaka after our abortive attempt to get to Shania's hut. We took a couple of photos with them and congratulated them on their stamina – I'm only 27 and felt pretty old when I'd finished our previous day's walking, never mind this one. We said our goodbyes and left them our email addresses on their car so that they could send us their photos.

Our final epic adventure moment was our lift home to Queenstown. We grabbed our packs with heavy hearts and stood at what looked like a prime location to nab a lift straight there; at the entrance to the Crown Range Highway. After waiting about twenty minutes with our thumbs stuck out and walking trouser legs rolled up in a coquettish but really rather unsexy attempt to try and speed up the process, two American guys pulled over. I can't recall their names (Hayley?) but they were biblical, and from Durango, Colorado, which happened to be somewhere we had camped on the America portion of the trip. The only way I can describe them is 'Wayne's World', which ended up being their new name as I couldn't remember their real ones. Fortunately, Hayley, being young, cool and American to boot, managed to keep the chat going as I sat in the corner making the odd remark which sounded out of context and quite middle-aged in comparison. Smooth.

We made it home safely despite some Wayne's World-Worthy driving along mountain passes with small fences and long drops on one side, and even got dropped off at our door. Oddly enough, I bumped into both of them again about a week later (only in New Zealand), suited and booted, as they walked into the Christmas dinner service at Heritage. It was only slightly embarrassing approaching them with a tray of cheap fizzy plonk and a Santa hat balanced precariously on my head.

This brings me nicely onto Christmas Day, and my first Christmas out of England, let alone away from family. However, being as most of us were in that situation, we became each other's surrogate family for the festive period, exchanging gifts (Daisy even went to the trouble of wrapping all hers up individually and putting them in stockings...), eating a roast we all cooked together with others in the hostel and even having a dip in freezing Lake Wakatipu, where the temperature stays the same pretty much year-round; horrendously cold. It was definitely a bracing dip, fortunately we had freak weather somewhere in the '40s so it was a good preparation for working the night in aforementioned Santa hat. I managed to psyche myself up for the cold by repeatedly shouting 'This is SPARTAAAA!', thus giving other lakegoers the impression that we were either a group of Roman-era battle re-enactment geeks in bikinis or an outing from the local psychiatric ward on their Christmas 'treat'.

As for work, dinner service went by without ever really getting horribly busy, I got tipped handsomely and we all got to pick at the buffet afterwards which meant I had two enormous Christmas dinners in one day – pretty much just like home then. Post-work, fellow colleagues Max, Nicole, Kirsten and Connor joined me for a night of drunken revelry at Tardis, which was packed and about the only place open, even though most people in Queenstown work in hospitality and it might have made sense to open a few more bars.... I'll never fathom that one out.

The rest of that week was spent getting ready to, well, leave Queenstown. The unthinkable, after such a comparatively long time there. However, I felt ready to leave, and I don't really enjoy drawn-out goodbyes so I won't go into all that. Suffice to say, I packed my belongings, spent New Year's Eve wandering about town finding people, saying quick goodbyes (except for the hour or so spent at the bar in Heritage, sipping on cocktail leftovers and trying not to cry), eating fish and chips as comfort food and watching Queenstown's 'spectacular' firework display through the window of a Jucy van while it rained cats and dogs outside. The next morning, it rained heavily (pathetic fallacy be damned!) and Daisy swung by in the Jucy van on her airport pickup stint to give me a lift to my flight. Sophie, badly hungover and having to work at her cleaning job on New Year's Day, got a lift with us too and it was all a bit depressing saying goodbye to my roommates and fellow cleaners at once. We had, after all, pretty much shared the ins and outs of each other's lives for the past few months and got to know each other well.

I was sniffling in the corner of the airport waiting for my flight to Auckland to be called when I heard a familiar voice, and a mug of swirling, hot tea was thrust in my face.

'Cup of tea, mate?'. It was Daisy, and a touching final farewell for my last hour in Queenstown.

Hope to see you again someday, South Island.

Adventures Within Adventures: New Zealand Oct-Jan

It wasn't all serving food and cleaning hostels in New Zealand. After I'd had a taste of what both islands had to offer, I was keen to see more of my surrounds. Between November and January I managed to do a few trips away to add to my experience of NZ.

In early October, I went to the cinema to see 'Two Little Boys', a slightly creepy black comedy with a very Kiwi feel by South Island based director Robert Sarkies. The action was all set in and around the Catlins coast, a small strip along the southernmost edge of the South Island with Invercargill to the West and Dunedin to the East,. It's an area known for being a bit 'Deliverance', with no phone signal, scary local yokels and more 'character' than you can shake a stick at, and it pretty much lived up to expectations. I wanted to see several locations from the film including the comically named 'Jack's Blowhole', and managed to stumble upon a surfing and accommodation package down on Curio Bay that seemed pretty reasonable. I hired a car for the weekend and drove the three or so hours down the highway to check it out. The journey down was pretty uneventful, especially as there was no stereo jack in my 'Super Saver' hire car from 1974, so I tried hard not to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of the Kiwi version of 'Gardener's Question Time' on my way down there.

I took a few snaps of the coastal drive as I winded my way down roads of utter emptiness. Desolate, beautiful and undulating hills presented themselves, mixed with a queasy grey sky. It really was magnificent in its quietness, and lack of other people.

I managed to find the hostel, 'Penguin Paradise' in a tiny village just outside Curio Bay. A friendly French girl and a German girl who looked tired of meeting and greeting were sitting in the kitchen by an open fire, and told me to grab any spare bed in the outside dorm. The hostel was warm, cosy, and by all accounts only had about five other guests. Perfect! I got chatting to a Canadian girl called Zoe who had popped down for a bit from Queenstown. We drove down to a nearby lookout point to try and spot some rare yellow eyed penguins, which was a success after about fifteen minutes standing in the rain waiting for something to happen. A pair waddled slowly onto the beach towards their nests, calling to each other as they went. It was a lovely sight, but one paired with getting unreasonably wet, so we called it a day to go back and eat biscuits by the fire. After all, we'd be burning off the excess calories the next day.

The next day we were up early and keen to surf. Kitted up in a full on warm and cosy suit, boots, hood and gloves, I felt ready to take a dip in the freezing cold Pacific.

Predictably I was really bad at getting the hang of surfing's most basic principles, but our teacher Nick was kind and patient, and I decided that progressing to standing on the board for ten whole seconds was a minor victory. The others who had come with us were, of course, able to stand and almost hang ten within about three attempts. This did not deter my optimism, and when we spotted dolphins in the water with us, it made my year.

That afternoon I decided to go for a drive up to Papatowai to check out a museum of curios that had been recommended by Nick when we were putting our civvies back on, in full view of the whole beach. I would have been a bit embarrassed, only there was nobody on said beach, although it was difficult to hold a towel, try to remove a wetsuit and put a pair of jeans back on all with two hands. Picture the scene from Mr Bean where he is changing for a day on the beach. More on Mr Bean in later posts, by the way.

The drive was fairly long, but eventually I got to Papatowai to be greeted by The Lost Gypsy Gallery, an old bus that has been converted by an eccentric man with a love for inventing things out of rubbish. For $5, I was entertained for an hour by an exercise bike that converted kinetic energy into a television picture, several dioramas of varying weirdness, and a whole lot of shells connected to crank handles that made funny watery gloopy noises when turned. In all, it was very much worth it. I wished someone were with me to enjoy the weirdness, but I feel a series of photographs will illustrate it nicely enough for you:

A further drive led me to the DOC maintained Purakanui Falls walk, a ten minute stroll to some rather lovely waterfalls, and a bunch of people taking pictures of them. Somewhere in the Catlins, almost busy? What the hell was going on? I left, winding my way around various bays, taking pictures and enjoying the end of the earth feeling. Eventually I reached the one that took me to Jack's Blowhole, which was a good 30 mins or so along an undulating (read: mostly uphill) track that led to the natural phenomenon. Allegedly, every so often, the tide is just right and the sea spurts out from the top, like a whale's blowhole. This didn't happen this time, but it was impressive all the same, and a good walk on which to build up an appetite for fish and chips, which I bought from Owaka, a very odd town to the east of the Catlins coast. I did get a 'you're not local' speech from the bartender I ordered my food from, along with an invite from an incredibly drunk man to go and 'party', followed by the bartender joking that I would probably get myself killed here. Jolly good. I took my fish and chips and enjoyed them alone, by a roadside, about as far away from Owaka as I could get. I will say this for Owaka though, they do lay claim to 'Teapotland', a creepy-as-hell collection of teapots and dolls in someone's front garden.

I returned to my paradisical home to find the fire lit, a space for me on the comfier sofa, and the remainder of a bar of Whittaker's Macadamia Milk chocolate in the fridge. Bliss.

The next day I found surfing a real struggle. I hadn't really appreciated the amount of physical effort it takes to get on the board, get up and get chucked off, then have to drag the board back into the sea before. Well, I do now. I think I managed to stand once, with no real progress to report. Oh well. I saw some dolphins close by, and a sealion walked down the beach without so much as a by your leave.

Pretty soon after my Catlins trip, I found that one of my work buddies, Daniela, wanted to go 'tramping' on one of the Great Walks. I think I've explained before, but if I haven't, tramping is hiking. I'll call it tramping on this post in deference to the Kiwi lingo, but I will try not to use it too much in real life...

We decided to tackle the famous Routeburn track, as we'd heard great things about it and it seemed do-able in the time off that we had. From the topographical map, it appeared to have less of a steep ascent than the Kepler or the Milford tracks, and we both agreed this was a good thing. We managed to organise ourselves pretty well before the off, which is unusual for me. We had packets of noodles, woolly hats, water bottles, Cadbury 'Energy' chocolate (can't get it outside of NZ as far as I know, which is a sad thing indeed), a map and even a couple of beds for the night, in huts along the route. New Zealand's outdoor activities are so well-organised and maintained that you could turn up with a wheely suitcase and still make it from one end of the walk to the other, safely. I've used this example because according to the hut ranger on our second night, this actually happened.

We even managed to score ourselves a free lift, by relocating a car for a local man who was going tramping with his wife and wanted a car at either end of the route. He didn't seem to want any payment for it, and wasn't worried at all when I drove off with his vehicle, him knowing nothing about me except for my name and phone number. I laughed when I thought about trying to do that in England – there would definitely be a deposit involved, some sort of identity check and probably a contract drawn up between both parties ensuring the vehicle didn't end up on bricks somewhere on a motorway hard shoulder. Anyway, we filled it up with petrol for him and bought him some beers to say thanks, which was probably entirely unnecessary, but I felt guilty nonetheless.

We arrived at the Glenorchy end of the route safely, left the car behind and strapped on our backpacks. For some reason, they were feeling heavier than when we tested them out at home. I made sure all the straps were tightened. They were. I lifted the pack onto my back and groaned. There were 32 kilometres left to go, and it felt like forever after about five minutes. However, I was distracted by the delightful appearance of several waterfalls and fast-flowing rivers, even at the beginning of the walk. It certainly was pretty, and I could see why people came from thousands of miles away to do it.

Our first river crossing was hilarious, with Daniela, prepared to the max, using her walking pole to nimbly skip across. She offered it to me, and I decided I would probably be ok without it, which of course was a massive balls-up, as I slipped from a rock into the water and entirely soaked my left foot. This was about fifteen minutes from the start of the walk. I decided to take the offer of the walking pole from that point onward.

Having plotted our course with regard to our lack of physical fitness, we had given ourselves about six hours to reach the first hut. Of course, we reached it within about three hours, and found ourselves at the hut just after lunchtime. We took in the views, checked out the 'beds', luxuriously laid out, barracks-style, in bunk beds, and had a quick look at the falls that gave the hut its Routeburn Falls name. Suitably impressed, and with lots of time to spare, I decided to go for a nap. This turned out to be a few hours' kip, and I woke up in time for dinner, a spectacular three course affair involving packet soup, packet noodles and a packet of chocolate drink. A kindly soul cooking next to us had too much instant mashed potato, so we got a bit of that too. I decided to combine it with the soup as I only had one bowl and it was going cold. All goes down the same hole, doesn't it?

We got chatting to a British guy who was there on his own, and busted out the time honoured entertainment for any place lacking in electricity and proper lighting, a pack of cards. Head torches on, we played variants of 'Shithead' into the evening, and then called it a night at around 9 as we were going to get up early and be on our way to the next hut. We had been assured that this would be much further and more challenging than our previous walk, so we decided we ought to be prepared, Boy Scout style. It also seemed like everyone else had gone to bed, and it was probably going to be awkward waking them up at 3am, giddy and high from too many games of Chase the Ace.

Waking early, at our pre-arranged time of 8am, we ate a breakfast of tramping bread and honey, and set off to hike the Everest that awaited. The walk on this day was quite terrific. It took us up past large waterfalls and a beautiful lake that was so still it resembled a mirror and was surrounded by huge peaks. Most impressive. What was also impressive was my lack of falling over; only once did I slide gracefully onto my arse, alarming and amusing a German couple walking ahead of us.

Daniela and I took copious pictures, the like of which you can see on Facebook, but here's one to keep the blog interesting:

We ate delicious Scroggin Mix, a nut, Smartie and raisin combination that ought to have an award for being the best combination snack, as we reached the apex of our walk at Harris Saddle. There was an emergency storm shelter next to the Ultimate Hikes hut that contained small plastic cups of OJ and biscuits. I ought to explain here – Ultimate Hikes is a company that will take you on the Routeburn for a horrendous fee if you are the kind of person who wants to experience outdoor beauty but are a bit afraid of falling off of a cliff edge by accident. A nice guide pins badges on you all to keep tabs of you, reassures you that no cliff edge tumbling will occur if you're not a total numpty, and leads you to the Ultimate Hikes rest stops and huts which are separate to and far more luxurious than the DOC huts. These hiking companies do very well out of people who aren't used to walking, such as overweight Americans (and other nations of course), and although I could bang on about the ridiculousness of carpeted huts and needing a down pillow to rest your precious head on at night, I have to say the guided hiking companies have their place, and they make good walks accessible to people who might have been too afraid to tackle them otherwise.

Anyway, semi-rant over. We took our lunch on a ledge overlooking our next stop – Lake Mackenzie and Mackenzie Hut. Lake Mackenzie really is wonderful. Here's a picture of it being wonderful:

After our rations of plasticy Pam's Cheese Slices and crackers, along with the life-giving honey and bread, we stumbled downhill (always so much more difficult than uphill) towards the part of the walk known as the Fairy Forest, which looks like an enchanted forest as it's all below the bushline and the tree trunks are covered in a very dark green moss. This was pretty tough going after all the uphill climbing and our knees were complaining quite horribly. It was a treat as we suddenly reached our destination, quite surprisingly soon after spotting it.

The Brit, James, had beaten us to it, along with a family we kept bumping into along the way. We selected the remaining bunks (all the other beds were lined up along one wall, so you'd literally be sleeping nose to nose with strangers) and went for a wander down the Split Rock track which curved towards the campground an on to a massive, well, split rock. It was mildly entertaining but we were happy to head back to the hut after a quick nose and photo op at Lake Mackenzie. A cuppa later and we were soon to have our hut lecture from our comic hut warden, who told us many a tale (and he did go on for quite some time) about others who had visited the hut, and what it was like to live so far away from civilisation. It was all very jolly and entertaining, but we were thankful to be excused so we could cook up some more fortifying packet noodles (nutritional value questionable) and instant mash.

That night, I stuffed earplugs in as I had noticed a couple with a very young baby arrive. To their credit, the baby didn't make a sound, and I had to be shaken awake by Daniela as my phone alarm was going off and I couldn't hear it. Woops.

The walk on our last day was great, and mostly downhill! Firstly, though, we encountered a film crew on the path right outside our hut. The hut warden had mentioned that Bear Grylls was filming around here, and we might bump into him. We didn't, but we did have the experience of having the path blocked by a helicopter, and seeing a harrassed looking runner carrying a lifesize and like emu costume. We tramped through some more fairy glen-like scenery and got some great shots of distant waterfalls, and more close-up waterfalls. We laughed, we cried, we conquered. We didn't actually cry, by the way, I totally lied about that.

We ate a lot more Scroggin Mix, and marvelled at people with bigger backpacks than our own. Mine was barely carrying anything, me having eaten most of the provisions and thus lessening the weight on my shoulders (but not the weight on my arse). We passed a couple of American girls who looked as though they were carrying a fully sized refrigerator on each of their backs. When pressed for the reason, it turned out they were camping, and had tents, rollmats, billy cans and other essential accessories such as refrigerators to cart about. I was secretly pleased we had paid through the nose for hut tickets, as the thought of carrying much more was quickly deadening my pace.

Daniela soon caught a glimpse of civilsation: a main road! We hurried down the path, and, although we wanted to reach our final destination and get a snap of the sign at the end with us entwined around it in victorious ecstasy, we also wanted to savour the last few steps of the Great Walk. Sooner than we thought, however, we were lolling towards the end of the track, where James, and, shortly after us, the American girls stood taking a few pictures and generally savouring the moment of achieving a goal.

The adventure didn't stop there though. We still had to get home, and we were hitchhiking, as the bus wasn't coming for another three or so hours.

A nice but vaguely dim girl picked us up about five minutes after we started hitching. She had come about 120km the wrong way after attempting to drive back to Invercargill from a friend's in Te Anau, so she kindly picked us up on her way back and dropped us off in the Middle of Nowhere ie: Mossburn. A short, but slightly longer while later, a school bus picked us up. We were shocked when it actually stopped for us, but the driver let us on and warned us to keep our heads down in case the police came past. They didn't like strange hitchhikers mixing with the kids, for some bizarre reason. Conversely, the children absolutely loved it, and looked with interest and fascination at a pair of women so clearly ill suited to high intensity physical activity, wearing hiking gear and carrying backpacks. The kind driver only took us a little way up the road because she had to turn off, but we were only waiting five minutes before a man pulled over to give us a lift all the way back to Queenstown. It turned out he was relocating cars for walkers on the Routeburn. This is a prime example of the friendliness and it's-a-small-world-ness of New Zealand, particularly the South Island. We chatted away to our new pal, and although he had some slightly eccentric ideas about the Green policies of the current government and the 'conspiracy' that CFCs caused the hole in the ozone layer about NZ, he was a pretty nice chap, and he dropped us off practically at the door of our destination.

Well, what else could I do but immediately plan my next tramp? I decided I wanted to try and attack the Kepler track next, an undulating and fairly challenging Great Walk accessible via some more creative hitchhiking....... to be continued (when I am next not half-asleep).