Dunedin, New Zealand

My last long intercity journey; nearly five hours back to Dunedin. A distinct feeling of déjà vu, but a stronger one that the season was corresponding exactly with the dates that mark it – today was supposed to be the last day of summer (which fact had entirely passed me by until I read it in the paper, not being used to the idea that December, January, February are summer months) and the weather turned and bit. It was cool and drizzly in Queenstown, no red dawn here, and the rain picked up along the way. We just had one stop, in Lawrence, which is tiny, has free local wifi and several closed shops. That is made extra mournful by the plaques giving the shops’ history; after reading how each building had changed usage I was left with nothing so much as the feeling that ‘this place used to support 10 shops, now it has 5’. I watched Red Dog, an Australian classic. Brilliant film, about the life of a dog in a frontier town.

It was cold enough that everyone was back on the bus and raring to go before time, despite a lovely coffee shop with homemade cakes. Pulling into Dunedin it was just spitting, and just as well for us all to get to our destinations. After a short walk to the hostel, cursing only mildly that I hadn’t had the inside knowledge that stopping at the hospital is more central than the bus depot, I was checked in and considering my next move when I heard a racket outside. Not students this week, but rain – bucketing rain.

With an icy southerly – that means it has come from the Antarctic – it was cold, too, though the sun broke through occasionally. The next day’s paper had an article on Otago’s rotten summer (“fact or fiction?”, but it seemed to err on the side of fact) which bemoaned the lack of sun, so my short excursion south wasn’t badly timed in that sense. And places had their heating on, mercifully without me overhearing any “gosh, heating! In summer!” conversations.

I made it to the NZ sporting heroes gallery, situated in the huge old railway station. It’s a great museum, not huge but with plenty to read, and lots of memorabilia for the heroes in there. It isn’t particularly rugby focused, either, though that sport is first as you might expect, and I enjoyed the athletics section particularly – Snell, Lydiard, Hallberg, Walker, Audain, Lovelock, Williams, a name roll to rival most. The captions stood out for me by being extremely well written, though I did spot one towards the end that had a missing word, spoiling the ‘perfect’ rating I was going to give it. But still, informative, pithy and devoid of hyperbole, it’s an object lesson in how to write about achievements. They may be awesome, but describing them rather than adding adjectives should be enough to convey that sense.

In the evening I went to the Fortune Theatre, to see Roger Hall’s new play, Bookends. It’s a small theatre, but a professional one – I could have seen Journey’s End, which is on my ‘must see’ list, but didn’t chance the amateur production, despite it being half the price. Bookends showcases 4 weekly meetings of a group of writers, one meeting per year for 2010-2013, with the title ambiguous. Partly it is talking about the changes in technology which may spell the end of books as we know them, but equally the men themselves are bookends. Essentially character comedy, it was well enough done, just a few slips between script and mouth, and a few odd intonations of lines, but a few genuinely funny lines, and the script uses the fact that you get to know the characters better nicely in the final act, as the comedy flows more easily. “The thing about Peter Jackson is, he always leaves you wanting less.” There were some NZ-specific lines that I missed, but I enjoyed it. Despite the characters’ general impecuniosity and the sense of an end of an era, it even ends with a message that is partly hope and partly homage.

The rain poured late at night, but I was warm and comfortable in the hostel, feeling first like a late nighter for being up past 10, though that impression was spoiled by the young crowd making a commotion outside. Even they stopped at 11, though. So civilised for someone who is, as the two girls from my room put it when talking about an acquaintance the next day, is “quite old – 40 or so,” (laughing) “oh, not *so* old”.

Milford Sound, New Zealand

An early start, to be in town for a 7.30 coach. Walking down the hill into town presented me with the most beautiful red dawn over the mountains on the far side of Wakitipu lake. A great start, if a warning to shepherds.

I didn’t meet Shep, but waiting outside subway was Chip, from Atlanta, Georgia; a fine accent by which to be greeted. Wife Margie joined us, full of apologies for not bringing me a coffee, but I was able to assure her she’d brought exactly what I would have ordered, not being a coffee drinker. Fourth to join our queue was Paul. Not his real name, I never found that out, but he looked exactly like a gym-enhanced version of Paul from work, and he looked just as happy. I have got used to not asking my colleague how he is – the answer is never good – and didn’t try here, either.

The tour heads to Milford Sound slowly and comes back quickly. It’s a long way – four hours drive or so. It is called a sound, but because it was created by glacial movement it is in fact a fjord. The place was named wrongly by European settlers and somehow the name has stuck. I suppose telling the story of how it is really a fjord is the same as it would be to tell that of how it used to be called a sound but the name was changed. Our driver did a good job of seeming grumpy at the start of the day, chivvying people into seats at the back of the bus to allow space for later pickups, but his grumpiness actually masked a dry caustic wit and droll delivery style, and listening to stories of sheep farming turning to dairy – $1 million just for the milking shed – and deer farming – they were, like all introduced species, a pest in the wild, but valuable, so farmers tried tranquillising and riding/roping them from helicopters before they finally caught enough to breed – all passed the time quickly. We stopped at a few spots for pictures, the mountain spring for water and the Chasm (not the Screaming Orc Chasm) to see where water is forced through a narrow gap before cascading down.

Finally we were at the Sound for a 2.00 cruise. All the tours offer similar setups, a ride from Queenstown or Te Ana in glass-topped bus and a cruise, with some claiming more picture stops, others a longer cruise. On a clear tending to rainy day, 90 minutes on the water was plenty, time enough to see the waterfalls and get close to Stirling falls, 150m plus high – a lot higher than Niagara. We were shuffled on to the sales – food, drink and welcome picture-deck but soon most people made it up to the top deck for a clearer view, though the commentary was swept away by the wind at times, and the same drove some people downstairs. The cliff sides are dramatic, and it seems incredible that at times the glacier moved through at 7m per day.

Sloping off the boat, I passed the comments book, expecting to see banalities. My prejudices were satisfied with “the views are beautiful!” from Malaysia, but I was worried by “Ten years passed by and here again, same view, same person”. I think they need stronger medication. The journey back was quiet, without the commentary or stops of the way out. It was just a little overlong, but that’s the price of seeing the sights – if you’ve time to stay in Te Ana, you can cut two hours off the journey time at either end, or even stay in Milford itself, though the climate there is changeable, to say the least. There are plenty of long walks to be had from there – the longest is a four day epic, $2000 if you want your kit moved for you, $300 for the DIY version. The rain that set in on the cruise back to base accompanied us most of the way back, and it was wet in Queenstown, too, not the bright evening I’d arrived in. I made it out for a run, turning away from town along the lake and finding an undulating trail in the twilight. The fading light stopped me enjoying the downs as much as I might have, though I’d already found a part of the path open onto a cliff edge so slow seemed sensible in any case.

Franz Josef Glacier, New Zealand

Last up, first out. I’m always impressed by the youngsters getting up early in the dorms, then disappointed that if they’re not up for transport, they’re not up to much – just as capable of taking an unaccountable amount of time getting dressed and eating breakfast as older people.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t up till after 8, but had had breakfast and started my first walk before 9. The glacier is left out of town, I headed right, just a few hundred metres along Cron Street to the Taheru tunnels and Gorge walk. The former is 1h20m return, the other 40 minutes one way, which looks odd, but makes the point that they are not on the same route – the path branches after several minutes walk – and is also because the gorge used to be just the starter for the Roberts walk, now closed due to a landslip.

Both walks are along well maintained gravelly tracks, through forest. The morning had a nip in the air – it feels icy around here, even though the glaciers are retreating – but walking made me a little warm. It gets very cold at night, such that I wondered if I had warm enough clothing, but it was warm enough even though it warms up slowly. The walk to the tunnels was up and down but then all of a sudden there was the entry to the tunnel. I realised at that point I hadn’t brought a light; not that my tiny light is the most brilliant object ever, but it did see me through the Abbey Caves. I hadn’t really expected the walk to end quite in quite such a dead end, but lots of the walks here do, though partly because so many used to be longer and have closed as the landscape has shifted. The Terrace walk, just 100m out of town, is now a short 30minute (at most) walk to a barrier, but used to go all the way to the glacier, a good 6, 7, 8km away.

Still, I was at the tunnel, and might as well go in. My iPod’s flashlight was effective enough, and I picked my footing carefully to avoid wet feet. The surface is water covered, avoidable for the first 30m or so, then it is a few inches deep. I stopped there, a bit of a cop out given that I could still see light from the entrance, but I wasn’t sure I was going to find much in any case.

Backtracking I found one fellow early walker out, heading the other way. I got past the fork and swerved onto the wide track, realising it was a road when a truck came barrelling down towards me. Plenty of room to move over, just as well because he wasn’t slowing.

After a few minutes I reached the site from which the truck had come and took a smaller track. The route was climbing now, fairly steep in places, and I was glad I hadn’t saved these routes for a run. After a while the track turned down, twisting through the forests until, finally, it reached a suspension bridge. I stepped happily onto it – the instructions are to NOT cross the bridge, but the barrier is at the far end, so here ‘cross’ means ‘stepping off the bridge at the far end’. Only once I was a few steps on did I realise that this was a wobbly bridge. A little disconcerting in a lonely spot, but of course it was safe enough. The grey river rushes underneath the bridge, meandering away to one side while on the other the landscape opens out onto the hills in the distance.

Quite something. By 10.30 I was back at the hostel, setting off again after 11 once I’d picked up some food for the afternoon. Just out of town is the original church, built 30m from the river and with a view of the glacier. Originally, that is. The glacier has retreated out of sight, though the view from the picture window at the front of the church – unusual in itself in that context – is still beautiful. During floods, the river was only a few metres from the church, which was at risk of tumbling, though the banks have now been shored up. The walk to the glacier takes you back over the bailey bridge and along the side of the road and river for a few kms, till the path veers away from the road and through trees for the last part of the 4km walk to the car park. The options are more limited than they once were, with the 5 hour Roberts walk closed, so I did all but the 8 hour Alex Knobb scramble walk. First the forest walk, an approx 1.5 hour walk through the valley floor to the safe viewing point. I took the optional side path to the scenic hill viewpoint, which is worth a look. Not far, with a sharp climb near the end, and it sets you up nicely for all the out and back routes you’ll be doing. At the end of the longer trail it is still a few hundred metres to the glacier, which is way above you. Just over a hundred years ago, this spot was under piles of ice; more easily grasped, even in 2007/8, the ice would have been right in front of this spot. There are dire warnings about crossing the rope barriers, illustrated with news stories of two 20 somethings who were crushed by an ice fall in 09. I contemplated the glacier for a while then walked back, along the moonscape of the valley floor and past several tall, thin waterfalls.

Back at the car park, I took the Douglas walk, another 1.5 hour trail, passing Peter’s pool, in which the densely wooded hillsides are reflected. This route winds through the trees before ending up crossing the track I had already walked, back on to the path to the car park. There’s a crosspaths there, with the 1.5 hour (now I think about it, these three walks are conveniently similar in time, allegedly – one would be right to be suspicious) Lake Wombat walk on the other side of the crossroads; left goes back to the car park, right to town.

Emboldened by being a little nearer to town, I covered the lake walk too. It’s a small lake, but a nice enough walk. Again it’s undulating and winding, but everything was a pleasure on a sunny day.

After retracing my steps from the original walk, following the path between road and river, and admiring the landscape, my eyes filled with tree lined skyline, blue sky and rushing grey water, I was back at the hostel at 3.30. The place has a spa, so after I’d sat for a while I eased aches in there, before the weather completely turned, raining from 5 right through till after I’d gone to bed. People hunkered down, sitting in the communal spots where the wifi is free, catching up with the rest of the world and listening to rain drumming on the roof. Those who were here just for that night would have had to walk to the glacier in the rain, assuming they’d arrived on the bus after 4; those staying longer were hoping for better weather the next day.

Reading: Gary Gibson, Stealing Light.

Franz Josef, New Zealand

I’d saved two hours of bus journey by staying in Cromwell rather than Queenstown, as journeys north and south all start and finish in Queenstown but pass through Cromwell.

One on the way there and one on the journey to Franz Josef, but it was still a 7 hour-plus journey, starting at 9. I was a little nervous, given previous slight bus sickness and odd-timed breaks, but it couldn’t have been better.

The journey is split into two, with one driver covering the first four hours (from Queenstown) then picking up the southern based coach while the driver of that one takes the northern coach up. With two drivers, we had two lunch breaks, and both see their role as being as much about tour guiding as driving, so were full of information about the landscape, roads and towns we passed through. They even had a couple of stops purely for photos, and one for a short walk to a waterfall, so this was just like being on a tour. It’ll probably be the same on the way back, but that’s my fault for covering the same ground.

The Northern driver stopped for an age at the changeover point to check where everyone was staying. Fabulously, he then dropped everyone right outside their accommodation, which made perfect sense for those who were at the motel on the glacier side of the ‘temporary’ bailey bridge. For everyone else, it meant delays while we backed out of various places. Franz Josef is tiny, nowhere was more than 5 minutes from the bus stop. Still, churlish to be miserable about such great service. The driver also ran through our options for reaching the glaciers, essential for those staying just one night who needed to get on with it seeing as we arrived around 4 and might want to book a shuttle.

I didn’t, I’ve two full days here so chilled out, walking to the supermarket under overcast skies, coming out to pouring rain. “Oh stop raining”, said the weary girls huddling in the doorway, suggesting they’ve had enough of the west coast precipitating on them. Twenty minutes later we were shooting the breeze in glorious if cool sunshine. That was a first for NZ; the temperature is often cool, but the sunshine has always been roasting when it hits. That factor had brought my chat companion here from Queenstown, avoiding mugginess. And spreading his own conspiracy theories. I was with him on the power of the banks, but then we got to the “911 was a bit stagey” moment, which is becoming as much of a red flag as when Hitler is introduced into an online debate, or the line “you know who’s to blame, don’t you?” is uttered by a stranger in a pub.

Dunedin, New Zealand

Perhaps punning is the lowest form of wit.

After a long bus ride, I was in Dunedin by early afternoon. Wandering in town I spotted ads for a festival, coinciding with the start of term for Otago university, which explained why so many backpacker hostels had said no (on the BBH site you can’t see which have rooms available, just submit a request to a group and see which says yes). Those further away from the university were okay, though, and although it’s a bit ramshackle, the Stafford Gables is a charming old building.

Not that I spent long there. I dumped my bags and was up and out, to see the city and find parkrun’s start ready for the morning. The city was all a-bustle. It is known for its Scottish influence – even having its own tartan – and the railway station is a contender for ‘most photographed building in NZ’. It is a lovely Edwardian structure, probably over large for the traffic going through, judging by the scarcity of rail services here, though there are a couple of scenic routes from Dunedin. The octagon, in the centre, is the public transport hub and a place where tourists come to stand. In the way, mostly.

Once through, I was making good progress to the Botanic gardens when it occurred to me that it would be light till after 8, but the museum wouldn’t be open for much longer, so I diverted. Otago museum is a grand building, just to the north of the centre and set on several floors, with exhibitions on nature, maritime, people and a special on Dunedin’s Scottish links. I was pleased that the video at one end had a Scotsman talking in vaguely positive terms about independence – the London based media seems to be so full of the idea that breaking off is an outrage, and anyway why would they, and, and, bah, England would immediately cut them adrift out of spite – the only way to explain the more hysterical/’comic’ reactions to the idea of Scotland having its own EU membership, defence and finance. It’s good to get the other side, in this case along the lines of “it’d be nice for Scotland not to raise the money and have the English spend it”, which idea would surprise the brainwashed English right now, but seems to be broadly true.

Though this was my final stop, not my first. I found myself on the first floor and wandered into the pacific islands’ exhibition. Staggering. A phenomenal collection of artefacts, arranged by island with maps to show just how far apart these places are. I’m not sure why the galleries impressed me so much, but I wandered in a kind of daze; possibly I’m so used to the ‘new world’ having little history to show a European, yet here was an ancient culture – and one revealed without the usual ‘and the spirit fathers said’ cover story, or at least not overplayed. There’s a slide show and explanatory diagram from a recent archaeological dig; a few of the slides show the team’s tiredness from working in 30 degree heat, which makes the photo of a local holding up a find whilst wearing a woolly hat a standout. I go to a lot of museums, and they’re always interesting, but can’t remember the last time I was so impressed.

I found the botanic gardens, and the start for the next day. The course seems as clear as mud from the diagram, so I couldn’t check that, but I climbed the hills in the park and confirmed to myself that yes, Mark hadn’t been kidding when he said there was a short sharp hill to climb, even though I wasn’t sure which route we’d be taking.

Walking back I took a back road, which seemed populated entirely by students. Probably not so, but anyone else was keeping their head down. And installing triple glazing. At every tenth house or so, a group of youngsters was gathered outside, shooting the breeze on whatever chairs they could find and searching for 11 on their stereo’s volume knob. I liked it, the atmosphere was, well, banging. I’d patronise their musical choices, but I’m not well enough informed to know whether they were old school or not. It wasn’t quite Radio 6’s latest, but neither was it the Spice Girls’ original-the latter treat was saved for my evening in Cromwell, played without irony, so far as it is possible to tell, from an open window. Many of the houses were named; this, perhaps, is how you spot the student ones, helpful in digging out a party late at night. The Fridgette was at the end, and I grabbed a cold beer as I swept past.

I didn’t really. Otago University campus was at the end of the street. Along with museums, I’m a sucker for a campus. It seemed a charming one, despite construction work on the main thoroughfare right through the middle, which spoils pictures. It all made Dunedin another candidate for ‘where I’d live in New Zealand’. I cracked out the laptop and used the eduroam network, more because I could than anything else. The hostel has free wifi, and it’s actually effective. Eduroam was quick, too, so Dunedin is perhaps ahead of the game in getting fibre broadband.

Charming city. I’ve saved the sporting experiences exhibition (at the railway station – I knew it was too big just to be for trains and passengers) and steepest residential street for next week’s visit.

Christchurch, New Zealand

A Garmin strap, my wrist for a Garmin strap. First thing today, an errand. I’d found a supplier with Garmin straps in stock, to replace the one that had been torn free in my Perth bike tumble. I checked he was in and ran over. Perfect, just under 6 miles to his house, taking me through Hagley park and out through Riccarton to Russley, motel after motel displaying ‘no vacancy’ signs. Riccarton is a bustling high street, more or less unaffected by the earthquake and so filled with busy shops. Kiwi GPS is run out of a house in an ordinary street, so it wasn’t like calling in to a shop, but once I’d saved him from undercharging me – “oh, I thought it was only $20” he said – I was off, running back in to town, and I soon had a wrist rather than hand-borne Garmin.

Hostel owner Graham had seen me leaving for the run and dropped into the start of a conversation about running, and we picked it up once I returned. He is the master of the non sequitur with his own special linking sentence, used whenever there’s something else to add; ‘the thing about that is’. But “the thing about that is” always the thing about something else and we darted between topics with dizzying speed.

I started the rest of the day with ‘Quake City’, which tells the stories of the earthquakes of 2010 and 11. The former was large but away from the city and caused less damage-at the time they felt they’d dodged a bullet, only for the next earthquake, Feb 22nd 2011, to be nearer the surface and to the city. I am not sure why, having no connection to either city or earthquake, but I found the exhibits extremely moving, pictures of railway lines bent adding to the collapsed pavements and ruined buildings I’d already seen in town. Shortly into the exhibit is a ‘feature length’ film with residents giving their quake experience and that is very effective and a varied view of what people went through, from the lady rescued from the cathedral to the policeman who had to take prisoners from basement cells, find a judge and conduct an impromptu court session by the river in order to process them. It’s not a huge museum but doesn’t need to be-just make sure you watch plenty of the video, or you’ll be through it very quickly. There’s plenty of information about earthquakes in general and this one in particular. Even the toilets are themed, decorated with pictures of residents’ long drops, dug in gardens either because they had no water or because using existing loos was overloading the system.

After a dim start, the day had warmed right up and I walked the streets in the sunshine. With so much of the CBD taken down or out of use, you have to work a bit to find shops-there’s a paucity of convenience stores. Not exactly a post disaster search for supplies experience but still worth bearing in mind.

There’s a great sense of energy in the centre, the gap filling project leading to popup shops, cafés, art exhibits and murals. I found my spirits went from sad at the sight of broken buildings and rubbly plots to optimistic at what people had created. The pallet city, cafés and take aways round a space marked by painted wooden pallets was underpopulated but charming, with live music in the centre. I liked the art exhibit of wooden shelters, with a box for feedback in which someone had dropped the note, “lovely smelling wood”. I’m not sure whether it was lovely smelling or just smelling wood that was particularly fine. Quick! Fetch the smelling wood!

Christchurch, New Zealand

Just over 3 hours on the coach. Ideally I’d have gone in the morning, but the bus was due to leave just after midday, giving me time to sleep in, wander to the supermarket and library and use the free internet at the hostel. So many different prices, 10 cents per megabyte is common, but at Sunrise lodge you can just take 100mb codes for free. It can’t be the case everywhere in Kaikoura because New World supermarket always had a few stragglers hanging around outside, using the free wifi there. Carefully, because it only gives you 45mb.

The train route between Picton and Christchurch is known for being scenic, but the road and tracks intertwine, so the bus ride was pretty lovely, particularly along the Kaikoura coast. I didn’t feel 100%, not sure whether that was due to bus manoeuvrings or a cold, but we got to Christchurch bang on time, which hasn’t happened for a week or more.

Three years after the earthquake – not quite to the day, I leave on Friday, the day before the anniversary – the clean up operation is in full flow. Around 70% of the CBD has been, or is due to be, demolished, so there are vacant plots all around. Equally, some buildings have been fenced off and left, giving them a ‘just derelict’ look, signs advertising deals still sadly giving out their message. The first building I walked past was the YHA, disused. It is essential to book accommodation; there are fewer beds than there used to be, and an influx of construction workers puts extra pressure on those that are left.

I checked in with chatty Graham, again sharing a room with two German girls, and went to explore. My last roommates had found the city ‘just sad’ and on balance I agreed. There’s plenty to be optimistic about, a chance to rebuild the city, create lots of public spaces and so on, but the near-completed projects and fenced off buildings give a wistful air of disaster. Walking through the cool Re: Start mall-shops made from shipping containers, I couldn’t find the bridge of remembrance before realising that it, too, was behind fences.

Much as it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be part of rebuilding a city if you live there, this place seems like a good one to be a repeated tourist – it is going to change appearance every few months, fascinating to see as a time lapse photo.

Reading: James Kelman, How late it was, how late.