bignoseduglyguy

Picton – Kaikoura – Christchurch

The Interislander Ferry advertising around Wellington asks potential passengers how they would prefer to cross the Cook Strait – ‘zip across or cruise across?’ I had originally intended to ‘cruise’ across in three hours on a traditional ship but I was informed that the crossing I wanted wasn’t sailing (though apparently it did after all). Keen to maximise the time time I had left in Wellington, I decided to book on the last afternoon crossing of The Lynx, a catamaran that provides a high speed service which ‘zips’ between the North and South Islands in two and a quarter hours. As it turned out, this proved to be a good move as my last meeting in Wellington proved to be an interesting one and lasted much longer than I had anticipated, leaving me just enough time to change out of my suit before heading off to hand the car back and board the boat.

The Lynx, with its gun metal grey superstructure and wide bridge, is an unusual looking boat in that it would not be out of place in a science fiction movie. This formidable-looking vessel sits high out of the water on its twin hulls and, once beyond the harbour, the two powerful diesel engines propel it at a impressive rate of knots, leaving two enormous ‘rooster tails’ of spray and foam in it’s three-striped wake. The mostly enclosed design of the boat means that deck areas open to passengers are limited to a rear-facing platform at the back and a small area forward, just behind the panoramic windows of the bridge. The former proved to be fine in harbour but once up to speed in the choppier waters of the Strait, the spray and diesel fumes drove most folks back inside. However, the spray combined with the day’s sun to create rainbows just off the stern of the craft which brought many back out briefly to photograph. Once into the stunning Tory Channel and Queen Charlotte Sound, the Lynx slowed considerably. This, I understand, is in an effort to minimise coastal erosion which many say is worsened by the ferry. The passage between the steep fir-clad slopes was jaw-droppingly beautiful and, as I drank it all in, I wondered just how on Earth I could convey the view without ending up knee deep in meaningless superlatives. After no small amount of thought, I’m not sure I can; suffice to say, the last hour of the crossing was spent passing secluded bays with a house or two at the water’s edge, each having a jetty or boathouse with the vessel moored alongside possibly the only means of visiting some, as the terrain is very steep and there was little evidence of tracks or roads.

Picton itself is a small town with a sheltered bay harbour that looks barely large enough to turn the larger ferries in. It sits at the foot of a valley that winds down between Mt Duncan and Mt McCormick and, driving away from the the town in my second hire car, I found myself (not for the last time) mumbling inanities as each corner in the road produced yet another gorgeous view. With summer almost at an end and autumn moving slowly over the land like the ever-present clouds above, the Alpine meadows, river plain grasslands, gorge scrub and crops have all taken on a variety of brownish or greenish hues. After a while, it occurred to me that I was looking at the sort of haphazard patchwork of colours that must have inspired the invention of camouflage material (or Disruptive Pattern Material in military-speak). Over laying this background were more vivid greens, smoky whites and silvers of the trees whilst the streams and rivers trickling under the road had a milky opalescence, like that of the ‘glacier milk in mountain-fed rivers of the Swiss uplands. Many of the rivers are mere summer shadows of their winter selves, small rivulets meandering through wide expansive gravel beds that show the true width of the river once the rain comes. Each of these is neatly signposted by the roadside with small yellow marked that bear names like Telegraph Gully, Caroline Stream and, most curiously, Jedi Culvert. More often the names are family names, probably of those who settled and cultivated the valleys and coastal plains hereabouts a hundred years ago. I say one hundred years ago for I passed more than one place that proudly proclaimed ‘Settlement Centennial – 2005’ next to it’s name sign with details of planned festivities.

With the bulk of the ‘business’ part of my trip over, I relaxed into a more reflective mood as I drove. The single lane highways here are deceptive and demand respect from local and visitor alike. Although I have seen little of the poor driving some Kiwis warned me of, the new government road safety campaigns on the roadside and the television each evening attest to a death and injury rate far too high for such a small population. With this in mind, lighter traffic than the North Island and with no pressing deadlines, I snaked through steep narrow passes and wafted along arrow straight sections, rarely exceeding the 100kph limit and happy to hold station between the truck up ahead in the distance and whoever was in my mirror. Although cooler than previous days, I kept the window open to allows the smell of the land and the sea, ever present somewhere to my right, to compliment the view. The early afternoon brought me to the towns and suburbs north of Christchurch, which is to be the last city I will visit. Although I had planned to drive further south, my planning from 12,000 miles away didn’t allow for much slippage in my schedule. With it becoming clear early in my journey that I needed to focus my efforts, initially at least, in Auckland and Wellington where the vast majority of opportunities in my field exist, something had to give. Needing at least three more days and a further 750 kilometres’ driving to get there and back to meet folks, it was Dunedin that had to be chopped from the itinerary and I am sad that I shall not be able to complete my trip as planned. Having said that, I deliberately built some flexibility into the trip and it may just be that my ability to stay on longer in Auckland and Wellington when required to do so makes all the difference to the desired outcome. I shall have to wait and see.

Wellington

Like most other things here, Wellington’s views are dependent upon the weather and it’s not for nothing that folks here refer to the city as Windy Wellington. A Kiwi explained to me that, given the predominantly hilly nature of New Zealand, the winds roaring between the Pacific Ocean and Tasman Sea seek the path of least resistance. As far as the North Island is concerned, other than the lowlands around Palmerston North between the Ruahine and Tatarua Ranges, the Cook Strait offers the perfect tunnel for such winds to follow and this means that most days here are at the least breezy. In just four days, I have experience blazing sun, tropical downpours, sultry & humid nights and 100kph plus winds. That said, I find the general climate very conducive and cannot say that the wind is obtrusive, though it is summer and so I have not felt the worst the winters here have to offer.

The wind is channelled by the surrounding hills so inevitably, if you move beyond the tight confines of downtown Wellington, sooner or later you have to go uphill. On the advice of a Kiwi colleague, I drove up to the summit of Mount Victoria, the hill that dominates the city’s eastern suburbs. From here, you can get a truly impressive 360 degree panorama of the city and the surrounding countryside. Using my digital camera to take a 45 second video clip of this panorama proved nigh impossible, for I was trying to do so in what I later read were winds gusting to 104kph. That said, it was well worth the effort, even if it took a good few minutes to wipe the dust from my eyes afterwards. For those who choose to eschew their cars in order to explore on foot but still wish to get into the hills, the venerable cable car makes easy work of the 1:5 gradient ascent from Lambton Quay in the heart of the CBD to the Botanic Gardens and observatory perched above the city. Once there, the various lookouts allow great views across the city and the harbour beyond. Despite buying a return ticket, I chose to walk back downtown via the Botanic Gardens and the Bolton Street Memorial Park. The former are a delight even for those who, like myself, cannot tell a hardy annual from a Hardy Boys Annual and there are sections that are dedicated to protecting indigenous species that are threatened in the wild here in New Zealand. As with Auckland, everywhere you find greenery, you’ll hear the high-pitched chirrup of cicadas. An expert, answering questions on the radio a few day’s back, explained that louder a male cicada is, the more likely he is to secure a female companion. If that is true, all I can say is there must be some out there who haven’t been getting any for a good while now, for they are loud little buggers.

Half way back, I stopped at the Begonia House Cafe for an ice cream, which is one of the delights that New Zealand has to offer foodies. Here in a large gazebo adjacent to the lovely rose gardens, tea and cakes were being served to whitehaired over 60s by dreadlocked under 20s whilst the cafe’s sound system pumped out a thumping garage/metal soundtrack. Incongruous though it sounds, everyone seemed to be more than happy with this arrangement as I settled down with my gin and tonic flavoured ice cream to take in the atmosphere and soak up the sun. Near a peace garden dedicated to the memory of those killed at Hiroshima and the eradication of nuclear weapons, I watched a cluster of small brown birds cheekily bob to and fro at my feet, awaiting the inevitable crumbs that ice cream cones provide. It was with surprise that I realised I was watching what appeared to be sparrows and it occurred to me just how infrequently we now see them in London, a place where their ubiquity once gave rise to the term ‘cockney sparrah’. Walking on, I passed the imposing statue of R.J. Seddon, a popular reforming Prime Minister who took New Zealand forward into the 20th century with the emancipation of women (despite his own reservations that this might ‘unsex’ them), and entered the Bolton Street Memorial Park. This once served as Wellington’s multi-denominational cemetery with sectarian areas set aside for Catholics and Jews alongside the larger Public area. The construction of Wellington’s Urban Motorway in the 1960s cleaved the Park in two and required the disinternment of the remains of 3,700 people, who were reinterned in a mass grave and their headstones distributed elsewhere in the cemetery. According to the register in the nearby chapel’s exhibition, two of these folks were sisters or mother and daughter who died two days apart almost exactly 119 years ago to the day of my visit have my surname, a small and nugget I shall pass to my father who is an avid genealogist.

Whilst these occasional wanderings and my writing might indicate otherwise, ‘downtime’ has been rare and I spent the majority of my time fully focused on chasing down relocation opportunities. The efforts of two and a half week’s worth of meetings, emails, property searches and telephone calls to recruiters and headhunters have culminated in two firm leads and my last two days in Wellington are dedicated to exploiting these, hopefully through to a positive result. Whilst this trip is definitely not a holiday and I had fully anticipated some low moments, the time and effort expended here has taken a certain toll on my usual positive and humourous outlook. Travelling on business is trying enough but at least then there is a solid focus to your day and the security of a certain structure to draw upon for support. Whilst exciting and notwithstanding the potential for the future, striking out into what is unknown territory for me, without the familiarity of family and colleagues, has been a challenge in some respects. Cultural differences, both of the business and societal kinds, mean that one can occasionally be caught off-guard no matter how much preparation you have done. Subtle differences in conventions and customs often leave you keeping one eye open for signals and signs to keep you on the right track. It goes without saying that, as a family man, I miss the ebb and flow of family life: the roast dinner on Sundays, the ‘what did you do at school today?’ conversations, the little daily rituals we all take for granted and, yes, as one man in a house with five women, even the queue for the bathroom. Such things are uppermost in my mind as I write for, should I secure a position and need to return to NZ ahead of the family, it is something I will have to deal with and quite possibly for a good deal longer. As things stand, I still have at least one more meeting to attend but I plan to spend the few remaining days enjoying things at a slightly less hectic pace as I cross to the South Island and head to Christchurch via Kiakoura and the coastal highway. That said, I will admit to counting down the days until I can see my wife and kids in the flesh, rather than having to make do with photos and voices on the other end of a telephone line.

Wellington Harbour

Wellington is a city that hangs between land and water. Whether looking out from a viewpoint on the steep hills surrounding the downtown area or sitting with your legs dangling over the blue water, one is always aware of the sea and the hills. As with many coastal cities around the globe, Wellington’s growth has necessitated expansion and, whilst some homes here are built on precariously steep slopes above the dowtown area, much of the growth has been out into the bay. On the pavement of Lambton Quay, a thriving shopping street a couple of blocks from the water, brass markers set in the ground mark the shoreline of the original quay during the nineteenth century and show just how much the city has grown. Similarly, Wellington has exploited it’s waterfront in order to provide a wonderful buffer zone where folks can escape the traffic and noise to take in the view and soak up the sun. On a walk along the harbour’s edge the day after I arrived, I was able to get a sense of Wellington, how the hills form a natural arena to the stage of the bay, how the sun always seems to find a way through the ever-present cloud cover and how the water is an every day part of the locals’ life.

Take the school children of Wellington for instance. Whilst my eldest are braving the snow and sleet to battle their way home from school, the young uniformed boys alighting from the Dominion Post ferry sped from the gangplank on their silver scooters like a star burst of clockwork toys, little legs propelling them towards the freedom of the afternoon. Some joined their elder schoolmates on a pontoon where they dived from the stanchions and ‘bombed’ each other in a show of bravado that was half for the tourists but more so for the young girls of the local colleges hereabouts. Mind you, these delicate flowers of Kiwi womanhood were not here to gaze idly at these arrogant fellows for they had converged here on the watersports lagoon to practise for this weekend’s dragonboat racing. Marshalled by jovial but competitive coaches, they were sent on warm-up runs round the area or, in the case of late-comers from one school who had forgotten essential kit, made to jump into the water by way of a good-natured reprimand. Most had a sock tied around one knee like a bandage, presumably to prevent bruising against the boat though this gave the impression of each team being mostly comprised of walking wounded. Out on the water, the dragonboaters jostled for space with more serious-looking peers who had headed out from a neighbouring boatshed on single or double sculls. All of this activity was overseen by a number of safety boats carrying lifesavers and coaches with bull horns but there were others busy elsewhere in the harbour. Attracted by a large cluster of onlookers, I wandered over to find a team of New Zealand Navy divers tugging and hauling an inflatable salvage buoy towards the rocky harbour’s edge. It transpired that they were cleaning up the harbour – though it has been officially denied this was prompted by Prince Charles’ visit next week – and their catch comprised a rusting chassis complete with wheels, which was duly placed on a trailer for removal. This was then surrounded by men who all enjoyed a heated debate over exactly what model of vehicle the hulk was before entering the harbour. As this cleanup was taking place, helicopters from the small dockside heliport spiralled above us whilst transpacific jets slide along an invisible bannister into the city’s airport beyond the hills, the pilots making short work of Wellington’s famous ever-present wind.

The weekend’s local Dominion Post newspaper reports that Americans and Europeans working on kiwi Peter Jackson’s remake of King Kong are raving about Wellington and the surrounding countryside, just as Sir Ian McEllern and others working on Jackson’s Lord Of The Rings trilogy did before them. Sadly and almost inevitably, they compare it with California and Hawaii, though to my mind and many others, I think that to do so is to ignore the unique feel of ‘differentness’ there is about Wellington. With a strong showing of public art around the area and carved tablets of poetry dotted here and there, not to mention the Te Papa museum, events centre and the many bars and restaurants, it is easy to see how the city’s waterfront captures not only peoples’ imagination, but their hearts too.

Auckland to Wellington by road

To anyone used to the motorways of Britain, the Interstate Highways of the U.S. or the autobahn of Germany, New Zealand’s State Highway 1 might come as a bit of a surprise. In around 660 kilometres, it takes you from one thrusting urban streetscape to another, via bland suburbia, through rolling farmlands, river-worn valleys and even a stretch of tundra desert. However, whilst one is more than prepared for the landscape to change frequently on such a road trip, what is less common is for the road itself to change to a significant degree. Yet, in the space of eight hours, I and my fellow southbound motorists drove along everything from multi-lane expressways of smooth asphalt to dust and gravel.

Leaving Auckland on the Southern Motorway is pretty much like leaving any other city by road with traffic lights, filter lanes and fumes soon giving way to the synchronised lane surfing and whine of tyre noise of high speed trunk roads. This very recognisable system bore me as far as Mercer before the Southern Motorway metamorphosed into the State Highway 1 as I would know it until I reached Mana, 25 kilometres north of Wellington. For the vast majority of the journey SH1, as it is known, consists of one lane and a wide driveable shoulder in each direction, supplemented by slow vehicle and overtaking lane combinations every now and then. In my vast experience of exactly one southbound trip, this set up proved to be more than adequate, allowing me to make reasonable time without getting stuck behind too many road trains and slower cars. This is probably just as well given that, as of last weekend, the NZ Police can now endorse drivers’ licences with ‘demerit’ points for 32 offences, ranging from the usual speeding and traffic signal offences to the seemingly rather pedantic ‘driving too far out from the left hand kerb’ crime. I was periodically reminded to curb any such enthusiasms by passing those getting ‘nicked’ at the roadside, including a coach driver whose charges watched his admonishment from the comfort of their air-conditioned seat while he squirmed. Secondly, a good few Kiwi friends had warned of, how shall we put this, a certain relaxed attitude to car safety and sloppy driving and this was borne out in the Government’s blunt and often graphic road safety posters along the route.

Long stretches through gorgeous rolling farmland and pine plantations made for easy driving with lovely views across the fertile meadows to the hills and ranges beyond and reminded me of my travels through rural Virginia and Maryland in the U.S. In a landscape so pastoral, one is lulled into by the bucolic charm, so much so that the odd rare industrial structure like the Huntly Power Station and the geothermal works north of Taupo hit you like a slap in the face. Conversely, it is perhaps ironic that the grain silos and barn-like farm machinery dealerships dotted along the route only seem to reinforce the American analogy. If any further confirmation were needed, it is readily available in the form of the signs welcoming you to each town along the route. When town elders have gone to the trouble of ensuring that you know that you entering the ‘Peanut Capital of New Zealand’ or that their dot on the map is ‘Hometown, N.Z.’, it seems churlish to do anything but take them at their word. This I had to do as my tight time schedule left me no time to stop and take in the sights or explore the wonders promised by signs pointing away from the highway. Whilst I cursed my lack of time, I also knew that if I kept focused on the matters at hand and the prime reason for this trip, there’d be time enough for such things in the future.

After dropping down into Taupo and skirting it’s eastern shore whilst taking in the view, I passed through Turangi and the road started to climb again, taking me into the Tongariro National Park. Those who have seen Peter Jackson’s Lord Of The Rings trilogy would be more than familiar with the view west as you take the Desert Road south from Rangipo. Mount Ngauruho, with it’s snow filled gulleys and cloud-obscured peak is instantly recognisable as Mount Doom and the land on it’s northern slopes as the Plains Of Gogoroth. As I followed a lumbering logging truck up the the switchbacks and onto the plateau, I passed men working on rebuilding the washed-out road over the aptly named, pampas-covered Black Swamp. As I crested the rise, it became clear why the Desert Road is so named. Having passed large gates and a road open/closed/diversion information board back near Rangipo, I was puzzled until I saw the Rangipo Desert. This desert is not of the sand dune Arabian type so beloved by Lawrence but more akin to the vast steppes of Russia or windblown tundra of Iceland. Although this fifty kilometre stretch was without habitation, it was far from deserted as I found out when, driving cautious through a dust cloud, I almost ran over a young lad sitting in a patio chair in the road. The dust made the ‘stop/go’ lollipop in his hand pretty redundant and he waved me on without so much as a glance in the direction I assumed his opposite number was located. Proceeding with some care, I drove on past more guys fixing the road and continued on my way south through the bleak but beguiling landscape. Further on, I spotted the more usual fast moving and camouflaged inhabitants of the desert, namely the armoured divisions of the New Zealand Army, who were about their business far beyond the ‘Do not stray more than 20m form the highway’ signs that keeps Joe Public on the straight and narrow. The army also makes up the majority of the population of Waiouru, the first town settlement south of the desert. Pulling into the gas station to fill up the car, pick the flies from my teeth and answer nature’s call, I felt like a character in a road movie and all that was missing was the tumbleweed. Waiting in line for the fuel pump, I cleaned the windscreen with the squeegee provided and looked down the road towards the Army Museum. Turning back, I was approached by a woman whose reddened face testified that she’d known many hot, windy days and cold desert nights. After filling the tank, she preceded to clean the windscreen and I joked that maybe she thought this Pom hadn’t done a good job first time. She smiled, flushed an even deeper red and we shared a good laugh and a few words before I paid and moved on.

From here on, SH1 is slowly but surely drawn south west towards the coast across flat wide lands which were under grain, crops or pasture. After a dogleg through the wonderfully named Bulls and turning south again at Sanson, a Brit could be mistaken for thinking that the Romans had been here, as the road runs in an almost straight line down to Levin. Foxton, some two-thirds of the way down this stretch, is the home town of Kiwi friends back in the UK and, whilst I was unable to swing east to see their family in Palmerston North, I did stop at the most fine and supremely clean public toilets there by way of homage. Another Kiwi colleague had issued a very clear warning about the heat haze and mirage that occurs on these undulating straight roads. Driving towards the sun, it was easy to see how folks could pull out into the opposite lane to overtake only to have a vehicle suddenly spring from a shimmering patch of silver straight into a head-on collision. Content to take my place in a small convoy of cars, I continued towards the capital, trying to ignore the tempting signs indicating that warm beaches and inviting water lay just a few kilometres to my west. That said, nothing prepared me for the sudden arrival of the Tasman Sea’s vast expanse on my right hand side as I passed the last buildings of Paekakariki at the top end of Pukerua Bay. From here, it was just 20 kilometres until the Johnsonville Porirua Motorway that would draw me, past the superbly-named Colonial Knob, through the suburbs that nestle in the valleys north of Wellington. This changed into the Wellington Urban Motorway without my noticing and, within minutes, my exit ramp spat me down into the narrow streets of the district of Thorndon. Here, I pulled slowly to a halt at the kerb to rub my tired eyes and reach for the city map whilst, outside the car, the famous Wellington wind lifted the skirt of a passing pedestrian in a saucy salute of welcome.

Auckland

Sunday morning arrived promising a hot day and, after spending the previous evening at the Lantern Festival with thousands of Chinese, Europeans, Maori and tourists, I was ready for a quieter day with a few less folks for company. Having called ahead the previous day, I had arranged to spend the day in the company of Steve and Rita, parents of a friend and colleague with whom I work in London.

After Steve collected me from the motel, we took a drive out through the east of the city to the lovely new home they had only just moved into a few days prior. There, whilst taking in the view from their dining room window, we chatted about work and employment prospects before moving onto the more important matters of rugby and beer. Looking out across the trees and rooftops of the neighbourhood and the blue waters of Okahu Bay, we could see the North Shore and the tip of the Sky Tower above the CBD. Having discussed the relative merits of the Northern and Southern hemisphere style of play and painfully agreed that England were far from showing anything like their world championship form, we commenced a tour of Auckland’s suburbs, circling the city in a slow clockwise fashion. When you’re new in town and needing to get up to speed quickly, it is hard to beat local knowledge and Steve, as a local resident and businessman, knew his stuff. From the respective merits and earthquake resistance of the varying building methods to local schools and shopping areas, all were covered in detail, giving me a solid grounding in what each area has to offer. However, the afternoon wasn’t all hard facts and data, with Steve pointing out some of the more swanky multi-million dollar homes around the city, throwing in nuggets of local history and folklore for good measure. During our drive, I notched up a notable ‘first’ when I was introduced to that pinnacle of Kiwi cuisine, the pie. Long held as a surefire hangover cure and staple of the hardworking Kiwi, the steak pie I chose proved to be as tasty and satisfying as any I’ve had – and perhaps, just maybe, a bit more besides. Towards the end of our circular tour, we took a run north, out to the fruit and vegetable farms beyond Greenhithe and North Harbour. Steve, with a fervour bordering on the evangelical, was keen for me to experience the taste of the freshly picked local produce and pulling into a roadside farm shops, he questioned farmers closely about the provenance of the produce on sale. At one stop, hearing what I first thought to be a South African twang in the farmer’s voice, I asked where he was from. “I’m a Kiwi, mate” he said, adding after a well timed pause “but I came here from Croatia 30 years ago.” He went on to explain that, by skipping school to go out to work instead, he never had his original accent schooled out of him and had managed to retain a fair degree of the old country in his voice. After discussing the intricacies of an eggplant recipe passed to him by a Turkish migrant worker and the marlin poaching exploits of a Croatian friend of mine, we departed with fresh eggplant, tomatoes and corn on the cob with which to make a Sunday supper.

Back at the house, I met Steve’s wife, Rita, who had just returned home from work. After a couple of cold beers to take the edge off our thirst and unable to convince Rita to join us, we ambled down the hill passed a packed bowls tournament and an equally well-attended touch rugby competition to Okahu Bay for my first swim in the Pacific. Warning Steve that exposing my pale European flesh had been known to cause children and women to scream in horror, we piled our shirts and towels on our shoes and waded out through the gloriously warm shallows until we were able to dive in and swim amongst the moored yachts and families kayaking back and forth. Most of the bays here cater well for those seeking respite and relaxation in the evenings and weekends, with tree-shaded grass, clean showers and toilets and picnic tables for those choosing to dine al fresco. Watching families having their evening meals and few ‘cold ones’ whilst watching local biathletes compete nearby, it is hard not to be seduced by it all and imagine that life here is always like this. That said, the Kiwis seem far more geared up for such things and although New Zealand has very low unemployment at this time and an increasingly energetic economy, one senses that here, the ‘work to live, don’t live to work’ ethos is well and truly engrained in the national psyche.

After a slow uphill tramp during which we both puffed and panted in an effort to convince ourselves that we had exercised extensively and deserved more beer, we rejoined Rita to settle on the deck in the warm afternoon sun. The talk ranged from work to families to why we’re considering emigration and back again, taking in a small modicum of politics and religion for good measure along the way. Showing off pictures of the family I have left back home made me feel a little sad that I wasn’t able to share this with them but also served as a reminder that this trip wasn’t about sightseeing and I should cherish the weekends because weekdays were all about finding employment opportunities to pursue. We ate a lovely roast chicken supper in the dining room with the view I had admired earlier. As we talked and laughed, the sun slowly set, gradually turning the scudding white clouds numberless shades of red and pink before disappearing to leave the lights across the bay twinkling and the tip of the Sky Tower peeking between the trees on the crest of the next ridge. After supper, we settled down in the living room to watch Billy Connolly’s World Tour Of New Zealand on television. I have to admit there is something slightly off-balance about watching a humourous travelogue about a country you are currently travelling in, having seen it previously whilst planning the very same trip. It was good to find that Connolly’s risque observations of the Kiwis and their islands seemed equally funny to the ‘natives’ as to us Poms and was a fine way to round off a great day and relaxing evening.

On the way back to my modest motel, we drove along Paritai Drive which seems to be the Auckland equivalent of Bel Air with some truly opulent houses, complete with security gates, illuminated steps and walkways though, it has to be said, mostly dark uninhabited windows gazing unblinkingly over the bay. Having taken in every conceivable type of house and home on our round-city tour, I settled down for the night wondering whether there was a nice, affordable, well-located home somewhere that had our name on it. If there was, it would mean relocating a family of six and all their worldly goods halfway round the world and, in order for that to happen, the hunt for a job and a visa needed to resume first thing in the morning.