Always take the weather with you

As you can probably tell from Lou's last two entries, we were pretty taken with New Zealand – the coffee, the camp-sites, the people, the coastline, the forests. And did I already mention the coffee? Sadly, time is running out on our time away and we are rushing like mad to get all up to date, so our last NZ entry is something of a 'greatest hits', all killer and no filler. But possibly a Flat White or two...

Napier and Hastings

Having decided to base ourselves at a truly bonkers camp-site in Cape Kidnappers, quite literally crumbling into the sea but with tremendous views and charm to boot, most our of time in Hawke Bay was spent visiting wineries and admiring architecture. How grown up were we?

Nestled only a few miles apart on the North Island's East Coast, these two small towns are any Art Deco fans living fantasy. Both  were rebuilt after a savage earthquake at a time when when architectural trends were very much Deco, giving each a jaw-dropping number and calibre of impeccable period pieces. Walking through Napier in particular is like stepping into an episode of Poirot, a feeling enhanced further by the many passers-by in period get up for the annual Art Deco weekend. But though regarded by locals and guidebooks alike as Napier's ugly little brother, Hastings edged it for me. More industrial, a bit grubbier and less preserved in aspic than Napier, it nonetheless has some grander, more imposing buildings. That some of the development around them has been less than sympathetic may spoil the view to some eyes, but to me just endowed them with a slightly bruised majesty.

Getting rat-arsed with Ross

New Zealand's bijou capital, Wellington, is something of a pocket rocket. Small in size and compacted by geographical constraints, it nonetheless buzzes with the rippling confidence of a country at ease with itself and a political class that do things slightly differently. And our time in the city started well thanks to our good friend from Wales and  then-Wellington resident, Ross Evans. He treated us to a whistle-stop tour of a few highlights (viewing point, War Memorial, Wettah workshop), and also knocked us up a full itinerary for our next – and last – day in town. We were determined to not waste what little time we had in town.

All of which made the  pain in my head as I woke up in the van, fully clothed, at 6.30am the next day even more acute. The memories came back in dribs and drabs – four bottles of wine with dinner, pints of Macs Gold in several boozers then bottles of Brains SA in the Welsh Bar Ross managed – the only one in the Southern Hemisphere, no less. The strange taste of sick and dog – or was it dog sick? - in my mouth must have been the pie I'd inhaled at 2.30 that morning, shortly before we decided to sleep on the main road through town. Classy.

And so we spent exactly half our time in Wellington eating a fry up and several boxes of Tim Tams chez Ross, all the while watching re-runs of The Bill and trying not to cry. The perfect Wellington experience? Possibly not. But a right laugh? Most certainly.

What really was classy was the ferry from the South Island to the North the next morning. Leaving at sunrise in a shimmering petrol-infused haze, mass car transportation has never seemed so glamorous. The cherry on the cake was the indefatigable cheeriness of the queuing Kiwis, even at the time of the morning in a queue of cars waiting to board a boat. Happy days.

Abel Tasman National Park

Time constraints (honestly!) meant that we were unable to do the four day Abel Tasman trek, but the full day we spent hiking this beautiful stretch of coastline was truly spectacular. Eschewing the option of sea-kayaking to our start point, we boated from our camp-site on the edge of the Abel Tasman National Park to our walk start point, finishing eight hours later with a pick up from a bobbing speed boat moored fifty yards out at sea next to a deserted beach at sunset. In between, we encountered nature at its most casually wonderful, rope bridges that I would have run away from if they hadn't been unavoidable, coastal vistas to die for – and the most insanely vicious, hungry and evil hordes of sand flies imaginable. Words don't do it justice – some of these picture almost do.

Arthur's Pass

Arthur's Pass is New Zealand's highest passing road, traversing the route near Mount Murchison and connecting the East Coast to the Wet Coast. Built during the Gold Rush to ferry gold from the local mines to Christchurch, the road today is still dizzying in its height, scale, surroundings – and often hair raising hairpin bends.

Though the gold is long gone, the area still mines the seams of its rich history with a brisk if small scale tourist trade and some of the finest hiking on the South Island. The whole area also retains an other-worldly feel, cut off from the rest of the Island – and in many ways, the world – thanks to the time-warp surroundings and a blessed absence of phone, radio and TV reception. All of which is why neither we nor the friendly French Canadian couple we were sat around an open fire in a former miners shelter with while camping that night had any idea of the horrors unfolding less than 100 miles away in Christchurch.

While spending a lovely morning the next day walking the historical trail in Arthur's Pass town, the penny finally dropped that something appalling had happened in the Christchurch. Of our many friends back home, only Penny Bull seemed vaguely au fait with Kiwi geography and was therefore pretty certain we had survived the earthquake unscathed. Of course, tragically many were not so lucky – which was why we spent a good few hours on the only PC terminal in a small hick town nearby replying to tens of emails and Facebook messages reassuring family and friends that were okay. The savage natural beauty of Arthur's Pass was, for then at least, put in the shade by the simple savagery of nature in Christchurch.

Glaciers Galore

One of the magical geographic highlights of the South Island are the famous glaciers, Fox and Franz Josef. It is quite staggering how these huge blocks of ice remain intact without melting despite being in between the coast and some forest on a lovely summers day, but due to some complex meteorological madness, they do. We were able to walk right up to the fascinating Franz Josef, all azure blues and luscious white curves. It is far more impressive in the... er... ice

Getting rat-arsed in Ross

No fears, pop-pickers – there was no drunken defiling of the aforementioned Mr Evans or anything odd like that. But, after being happily reunited with our good friend Jen for the last leg of our trip, we did spend our first night together in the  wonderfully bogan town of Ross getting pretty stiffed in the even more bogan Ross Inn. With it's stuffed animals on the walls, country music open mic, roaring open fire and unabashed racism and confused homophobia (see the sign from behind the bar below), it was certainly a night to remember.

With our very own Kiwi guide now travelling with us, we were treated to a New Zealand finale filled with insider knowledge and memories of Jen's road-trips past. As is so often the case travelling in New Zealand, half the fun is the journey itself – the stops were often fab bonuses.  A night wolfing down homemade spag bol on the banks of Lake Wanaka was magic, even after the sand flies attached with such ferocity that were forced to cram into the back of the Spaceship. But one of my happiest memories of New Zealand involves – shock, horror! - the meal we shared in Queenstown on our last night together. Queenstown itself is a charming quay-side town fit to burst with great food and drink as well as being an adrenaline junkies wank fantasy. Obviously, the idea of bungee jumping appealed to me about as much as a sleepover at Colonel Gadaffi's – but the notion of gorging on some of the finest food in the country was another matter entirely.

And boy oh boy, did the Botswana Butchery deliver on every level. Décor, service and setting were all impeccable, but it was the actual plates that delivered. Highlights? A toss up between my trio of lamb and my trio of chocolate, both crotch botheringly fine examples of good things coming in threes. But the real top marks were in the little things, such as the red cabbage and apple side dish that tinged on the tongue, or the mashed potato that was as fine an example of the specimen that I've ever tasted. And that's one hell of a lot of mash.

And as parting shots go, that's how I remember New Zealand, as our drive towards Christchurch – from where we dropped off the van and flew to Australia – was like a weird movie, people still too stunned to know quite how to react to what had happened. But in typical Kiwi style – and this is a true measure of the nation – they were carrying on with not only a quiet determination, but a smile.

Stay warm,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)