Mother country

I am back in Australia, honest! Proof of this are the shorts adorning my waist, the flat white on my desk and the gorgeous melodies of magpies lurking outside ready to peck my eyes out. Yet still the European adventures linger on, and the feeling of being at home away from home away from home.

Plymouth won’t win any prizes for Britain’s most beautiful city, but it is my home town and I’m happy that way. Mostly thanks to its geography and history there is a lot to love about Plymouth, despite clusters of concrete dreariness and chavvy hang outs. Somehow I felt an air of greater positivity in Plymouth this year, which is perplexing given years of council cutbacks and the potential cliff edge that we all know weighs upon the near future. Perhaps this is what a good summer yields.

The Hoe, how I relish seeing Plymouth’s Hoe, especially on fine evenings as families gather for picnics, friends congregate for frisbee, and old fogies stare out to sea behind the protection of their car windscreens. I love the sense of community, the fraternity, this contented coming together in public spaces…from the ridiculous music coming out of the devices of yoof splayed out on the grass to the flasks of tea being enjoyed by elders within the comfort of a Nissan Micra.

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Many people are out enjoying Plymouth’s classic circular amble, milling their way through the historic Barbican before rising up along the foreshore and taking in vistas of Plymouth Sound from The Promenade. The Barbican is a reliable go-to to wile away an hour, to seek out food and drink and to perhaps even discover a good coffee…eventually. A salty air of old sea-dogs and staggering drunks, intertwined with fancy foods and crumbly fudge.

And what of the sights and experiences within half an hour or so? Well, on three sides there is Cornwall, Dartmoor, and the South Hams respectively on your doorstep. All national park or areas of outstanding natural beauty, designated or otherwise.

Probably the most pleasing way to cross the frontier west into Cornwall is on the tiny passenger ferry from Cremyll to Mount Edgecumbe. Here, the rather expansive country park offers everything from rampant rhododendrons to tumbledown towers. A shoreline of seaweed and pebbles is fractured by swathes of woodland meandering down to the waterside, while formal lawns and regimented flower beds are dotted with Romanesque statues and Georgian hidey-holes. This is a place of childhood summers, an escape accessible to all Plymothians, as long as the ferry price doesn’t continue to escalate.

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Trips to Cornwall require a river crossing of one way or another, producing a deliberate period of transition between the city and its exterior. Travelling to the South Hams provides no such moment; one minute you are navigating parked cars and speed cameras, the next, you are in the rolling green ambrosia characteristic of this part of the world. Longer drives lead to jewels such as Bantham, Hope and Salcombe and, of course, a little closer sits the timeless charm of Noss Mayo. Closer still – practically a Plymouth suburb – is Wembury, where many a local will pop out for a National Trust delicacy and stroll upon the beach. Better still – as I discovered – you can park up towards Wembury Point and head along the coast to Heybrook Bay for a pint.

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It’s a blessing to have these places on your doorstep but if there is one clear antidote to the drab post-war concrete jungle, overloaded roads, and profusion of Janners grunting something like “Fook, I’m goowun down Demnport un gonna smassh iz fookin fayce in” it is the rugged expanse of Dartmoor National Park. The higher parts are open and barren, bruised by the weather, the shattered granite tors tumbling down amongst bracken towards fast-flowing streams. But there is also a tamer side to Dartmoor, replete with an abundance of countryside charm, cute villages and human enterprise.

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ply06It is from these hills, from this sponge in the middle of Devon, that the waters which give Plymouth its name first spring. The River Plym here is a far cry from the sludgy and stinky tidal estuary meeting Plymouth Sound. Clear and rapid, tumbling over boulders and pooling on bends, the river descends into dense valleys packed green with mosses, ferns and leafy trees. Plymbridge Woods is but a short descent through a dark, narrow lane from industrial estates and Asda superstores, yet it is another world away.

 

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ply09So, to the north, to the east, to the west there are pleasures easy to reach. Should you have a boat or a longing for Brittany, the south also offers much. And slap bang in the middle, Plymouth. My home that still feels mostly like home while existing slightly distant. It’s funny how things you took for granted, things that you didn’t notice when you were younger now trigger a fond, sometimes joyous sensation. And that extends from leafy green woods and cobbled quays to the family comforts of laundry fairies and roast dinners. Home, still.

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Food & Drink Great Britain Green Bogey

Frictionless

When I get back to Australia I know I will get the question along the lines of “how are things in Britain these days then?” It’s a subtle way of probing what the actual bloody hell is going on with all that nonsensical Tory schoolboy jostling otherwise known as the British Exit from the European Union. And I guess I’ll answer something along the lines of “well, everyone is pretty much fed up of hearing about it all the time”. Because, you know, what better way to deal with impending doom than pretending it isn’t happening (see, for example, Climate Change).

Still, let’s not get all Project Fear with needless stuff like evidence and statistics and what not. Britain will be fine, because Britain is great and we can be great again because we are Britain, which is just great. So goes the leading argument for leaving. Which is bizarre when you think about it, because it relies on untainted optimism. SINCE WHEN HAVE THE BRITISH BEEN OPTIMISTIC?!!!

Anyway, it’s all great, because being great, I’m sure I will still be able to travel without much friction to Europe on my Great British passport which is changing colour because we can change its colour, wow! I can’t believe I was ever sceptical.

Yes, frictionless travel to Europe. People will continue to queue to get on the plane even though they have an assigned seat and the inbound flight hasn’t even landed yet. The size of hand luggage will continue to take the piss and be contorted into overhead lockers without any regard for anyone else. Buses will continue to transport people from the terminal to a plane twenty metres away, just to add an extra half hour on this seamless journey. And we’ll all get to France with Easyjet scratchcards and no intention at all to even consider speaking French. Nothing will change.

Ah, France. I got there eventually. Actually Switzerland, but then followed by a frictionless border crossing (okay, some speed bumps) to France. And, just for a change, Ville-la-Grand, where my brother and his family have recently moved. It’s a lovely spot, fringed by woodland and the park and bike paths and a slope to the markets and a decent walk to schools and the cheese shop also known as the supermarket. And from one supermarket you can even see Mont Blanc and other assorted mountains on a fine day. It’s grand.

The weather wasn’t very continental on the first day there. Bloody Europe, I should’ve stayed at home. With murk, drizzle and rainy spells it was much like Great Britain, but we still managed to head out for a couple of hours and not gaze sombrely out to sea from a car park eating soggy cheese and pickle sandwiches. While a downpour hammered on the car roof in the car park, it quickly passed, and we were able to amble around the pretty lakeside village of Nernier in the dry. C’est la vie.

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fra02The next day was a more promising affair, with clouds breaking and a touch more warmth back in the air. And so into the Alps, for a destination that was as much about a lunch opportunity as it was scenic nourishment. The Cascade du Rouget plunges down from the mountains, fed by snow melt and discarded Evian. Today, at the end of a long hot summer, it was a relative trickle but an impressive sight nonetheless. Liquid oozing at the mercy of gravity, the annual fondue went down pretty well too.

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fra04The nearby flowery towns of Sixt-Fer-a-Cheval and Samoens provided a touch of post-lunch ambling, ticking down time until the bakeries re-opened. They were relatively quiet on this weekday in September, a palpable air of towns that are winding down from the summer and slowly putting in place preparations for winter. Jigsaw wood piles, puffed up bodywarmers, freshly greased raclette machines. All the essentials of an Alpine winter.

But let’s not put away those Decathlon shorts and tops and sporty sandals just yet. For there are glorious end-of-summer days in which to revel. Blue skies and temperatures nudging the thirties and – finally – a taste of this legendary heatwave of 2018. Until I depart the EU and face the chilly murk of Bristol Airport of course. Great.

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Time for countryside ambles across borders, the sun dappling through the trees of brookside meanders and lighting the fields around. Busy gardens glow amongst shuttered windows and wooden beams, while rows of vines and apple red orchards are bursting for harvest. Lingering lunches alfresco provide a pause to enjoy the fruits of the summer or, more typically, the cheesy potato-bacon-salad combos. And an urge to try to counteract the heftiness of fromage propels me to borrow a bike and cycle to Switzerland and back.

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The final day in France – and very likely my last day in Europe before Britain decides it is better off without it – was surely a reminder that the motherland will always be inferior in the weather stakes. Attention turning to the BBC forecast, mutterings along the lines of 17 degrees and cloud looking “not too bad” for next week show how quickly I adjust; my expectations lower and tolerance of shorts wearing does too.

But an evening flight provides ample time to soak summer up while it lasts, so why not catch a train to Evian to do more than just drink expensive water? I came here last year, from across the lake in Lausanne, and was reasonably enamoured by its character and ambience. Today, a chance to take Mum and a useful local French speaker to enjoy its lakeside ambles and distant views of higher, craggier Alpine peaks.

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Evian’s not the most exciting of places but possesses requisite continental charm. Of course, the plastic-polluting water bottle company is a dominant theme and I believe there are spas in which you can bathe in the minerals extracted from unicorn sweat filtered through kryptonite. The actual source of water is there for all – including many a local restaurant owner and German coach party – to top up bottles. And the free funicular is a little treat for Portillo fans and youth orchestras from Wessex alike.

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Basking in such glorious weather it seems a shame to be departing. The mountains so clear that they literally beckon your name and urge you towards their valleys and peaks. But it turns out we have to leave, not because the alleged genius that is Boris says so, but because there is an Easyjet ticket which has my name on it. A ticket that also has a seat allocated, making the spectacle of hundreds of people queuing at the gate even before the plane is there even more preposterous. In an era of pure preposterousness, this takes the tea and biscuit.

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Europe Food & Drink Green Bogey Photography

Making moments – 3

Queensland. Beautiful one day, perfect the next. So they say. Which just goes to show how much you can trust those unscrupulous Queenslanders! Full of holes and overexaggerated boastfulness, it’s a kind of fake showiness that you’d associated with a white shoe laden Gold Coast property developer. And while it’s a catch cry urging the rest of Australia and the world to visit, I suspect there’s a bit of self-reflective reassurance going on, trying to quell lingering self-doubt about whether this really is some kind of chosen land.

C1aAnyway, lest I offend several friends, family, prospective employers and the rest of their state, Queensland can be beautiful and at times might be equated with some form of perfection. However, the humidity is frequently disgusting and – on this occasion at least – the marooaaans easily trounced the blues in the rainfall stakes. Meanwhile, the growth of South East Queensland is rapidly turning the area into one very long Gold Coast-Brisbane-Sunshine Coast conglomeration where it seems obligatory to buy an oversized property and a Toyota Hilux. Here, the only koala left is a giant fake blue mascot sitting around watching far too many swimming events.

Thankfully, Queensland is big and there is still space to escape for koalas and tourists alike. Indeed there are, not too far away, spots that remain beautiful which can provide some near perfect moments…

How many waterfalls in Springbrook National Park?

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There are a couple of incredible things about Springbrook National Park. The first is just how close it is to the Gold Coast, which is visible from several vantage points along the plateau. This offers a stark depiction of contrast; among fragrant gums and chirping birds, rolling wilderness journeys to meet suburban sprawl and the jagged teeth of waterfront high rise. Like a pristine glacier delivering its scruffy jumble of terminal moraine.

The second incredible thing is just how many waterfalls plunge off the escarpment here, to the extent that you might just encounter a touch of waterfall fatigue. This can especially be the case if you have travelled up the Waterfall Way and stopped off at Natural Bridge after crossing into Queensland via the beautiful back road. Then there’s lookouts at Purling Brook Falls and Goomoolahra Falls and that’s before you’ve even started walking down a little below the cliff edge.

What other falls could we possible fall for? Well, how about a pair of falls that together plunge into a tropical pool that you can also walk behind? This has to be the waterfall sightseers nirvana? Surely, these Twin Falls represent the climatic conclusion of our waterfall odyssey, a place in which it was easy to linger and fill up a memory card in awe. A place that you’re a bit reluctant to leave, thoughts tempered only by the prospect of some more waterfalls further along the track. And a view or two back to the Gold Coast.

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A golden hour on the Noosa Everglades

The Queensland rain was setting in the further north that Dad and I travelled. Among other delights, this heralded the joy of packing up wet camping gear which was barely drying out in the car as we steered through torrential downpours towards Noosaville. Queensland was far from beautiful, and very far from perfect for embarking on a cruise up the Noosa River and paddle upon the Everglades.

C4I think if miracles exist then we had one, for there was around one hour of dry, relatively sunny weather on that day which had seemed totally implausible earlier on. An hour that coincided with our allotted time in a canoe, gently zig-zagging with the meanders of the water towards Harry’s Hut. While the surrounds were a bit samey and somewhat nondescript (in a jungly, swampy wilderness kind of way), it was an hour of calm, of peace, of harmony with the environment. And above all, recognition of sheer bloody luck.

For as the snags were sizzled and steaks seared, another downpour heralded a return to the norm. And the less fortunate group of backpackers on the tour (some of whom seemed to be mouthier and more deserving of a drenching) were allotted our canoes for the return trip. It turns out that passing them under the cover of the cruise boat was – in itself – a moment that I’ll remember for a while too!

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Destination reached in Cooloola Cove

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After a week of traversing a tiny part of Australia there was relief in reaching Cooloola Cove: a spot to dry everything out and discover covers for ride on lawnmowers; a chance to check the car and change tyres; a soft bed under a proper roof; and, above all, the welcome and comfort from family armed with cheese and wine and no tiramisu.

These were relatively sedate days that were much needed, still dodging showers on land that was new to my feet. And perhaps it was Inskip Point – where the storm clouds just kept out to sea – that offered the greatest bliss on our tour of the area.

C6Just a hefty stone’s throw from the tip of Fraser Island, the soft sand delights the toes more than it does tyres. The rugged natural detritus of storms and tides offers a little intrigue and entertainment. The comings and goings of the ferry – and the potential for vehicles to get bogged down on Fraser – offer even more. Dark shadows intersperse with brilliant sunshine, grey waters become blue, brown sands less brown. Fatigue becomes contentment, and moments to remember form. Moments that are beautiful, even perfect. Damn you Queensland!

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Australia Driving Green Bogey Photography Walking

Making moments – 2

The recent trip north with Dad through New South Wales was blessed with a lack of weather. By that I mean it was astonishingly unremarkable – no cyclones, storms or cool changes – just day after day of largely cloudless skies and warm to hot temperatures. Nominally it was autumn, but there was nothing in the landscape to signify as much.

Nonetheless, we did confront moisture in the clammy, salty air of the coast. Enough to encourage all the bitey insects and make putting up a tent in the afternoon an ordeal in sweatiness. It’s a contrast to the arid air of Canberra and – for all the allure of golden sand and the sapphire ocean – it’s not one I’m entirely comfortable with. Leaving South West Rocks and heading north, I was also tiring of the Pacific Highway; like autumn a misnomer that never fringes the sea. And so, nearing the junction for Coffs Harbour, a road that they’ve called The Waterfall Way acts as that final magnet dragging a metal box on wheels upwards and inland…

Drying out all the way to Armidale

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Apart from a parade of rather lovely waterfalls, one of the more interesting things about The Waterfall Way is the transition in the climate and landscape, from that of lush and moist coastal forest to dry tablelands of eucalyptus and swaying, golden grass. This transition is starkly realised between two memorable spots around fifty kilometres apart.

Dorrigo National Park is all World Heritage Area Ancient Rainforests of Gondwana and at times you feel like you are walking within prehistory. A jumbled canopy of tall trees and filtered sunlight seeps down to an understorey of verdant palms, giant ferns and distorted woody vines. Numerous birds chirrup and chatter largely unseen, apart from the ubiquitous bush turkeys.

Somewhere through the forest, the sound of rushing water becomes magnified and you turn the corner to be confronted with Crystal Shower Falls. A graceful veil plunging into a dark round pool, it is a scene to invigorate the senses, a climax which the rest of the Wonga Walk finds difficult to eclipse. Organic hipster-tended cake picked up earlier in Bellingen provides some relief, before the highlight of a resident lace monitor and final view, in which this most gorgeous of forests sweeps down the escarpment towards that humid, distant ocean.

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B2Up the road at Ebor Falls, situated within Guy Fawkes River National Park, we have reached a land of rugged gorges and wild rivers, decorated with millions of eucalypts and a million more golden everlasting daisies. Indeed, green becomes more golden with the drop in rainfall. The smells and sounds are more familiar: that earthy aridity mixed with the fresh minty essence of the gums; the friendly chirp of a pair of rosellas; the chatter of an old guy named Bert to his wife Sandra. “Well, isn’t that grand.” And indeed, it sure is. It sure is.

Joining the easternmost club in Byron Bay

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Our break inland provided something of a reprieve, spending a night in relative luxury at a campground with ablutions in Armidale, taking in some random fireworks and heading on the next day through the pleasant, rolling landscape of northern New England. It’s no England and no Scotland either, despite what Glen Innes and the numerous signs to Ben Lomond may allude to.

After Tenterfield, we were heading back to the coast as we had a date with a pool in Byron Bay. My first and only visit to Byron was in 2000 and I can’t remember much about it. I suspect plenty had changed since then, even in the tint of my hair. It seems in 2018 there are still lots of fresh-faced backpackers and guys possessing a battered van and guitar desperately seeking their attention. But there are also lots of families and older couples and – even occasionally – a father and son walking up a hill. With fancy beachside cafes and a leisurely parade of SUVs and boogie boards, Byron 2018 struck me as a Sydney Middle Harbour suburb transported north.

What hasn’t changed is the lighthouse at Cape Byron and the much-vaunted most easterly point in mainland Australia. It’s a walk – which I think has been upgraded and much more trodden since 2000 – that has its ups and downs (and bush turkeys), but the views up top are ample reward. And while the lighthouse and ocean and craggy lush hinterland of volcanic remains capture attention it is perhaps the sweeping arc of sand that is Tallow Beach that captures the heart. And captures the very spirit of what Byron is still all about.

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The date with the pool

Okay, so we had camped for four nights on the trot with varying levels of comfort. We had washed in the sea and cooked in the dark. We had valiantly but unsuccessfully zipped zips to keep out the bitey bugs. My own swag mattress is undoubtedly becoming thinner, on a declining trajectory that correlates with my own ageing. Camping may just be starting to lose its appeal.

In this context if I am cataloguing memorable moments then nothing can be more striking than a proper bed, a proper shower, the creature comforts plus of a B&B in Byron. A beautiful, modern, strikingly clean setting with its pool as the piece-de-resistance. Clean water that shimmers in the afternoon light, that soothes the skin, that offers a backdrop for Facetime calls to a dank, sub-zero France. If being back on the coast is like this I could – we could – happily get used to it.

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Australia Driving Green Bogey Photography Walking

Sound

The town of Te Anau has one of the most unexpectedly elongated high streets perhaps anywhere in New Zealand. Plonked in the remote southwest corner of the country, it possesses two supermarkets, three petrol stations, at least four places where you can buy pizza, several pubs, numerous cafes and restaurants, something resembling a department store and more shops selling sheep key rings than you can shake a shepherd’s crook at.

The reason for this is – principally – Milford Sound, with Te Anau handily positioned as a coffee / lunch / afternoon tea / dinner stop on very full day excursions from Queenstown, or as a closer base from which to discover Fiordland. And while most trippers and trampers understandably head for the hills, Te Anau has a certain charm that is worth a linger. Despite the throughflow of visitors, it seems a lot quieter and subdued than Queenstown or Wanaka. The countryside around is greener and lusher, and its lakeside situation with views across to snow-capped peaks is divine.

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Lest Te Anau get a little too busy we stayed a tad out of town in a log cabin wedged into the side of a hill. This was the Barnyard Backpackers complex, and while it retained a style of basic but comfortable accommodation, I was struck by how different staying in hostels is these days. Mostly this is down to the internet and its ability to transport you away from the here and now. So while I may have played shithead accompanied with a bottle of cheap wine with a group of randoms twenty years ago, nowadays it’s all about WhatsApp calls home and squinting solitarily into a small screen. Something I did with limited success thanks to all the bandwidth being taken up by WhatsApp calls to Germany! Still, at least here you can just look up and soak in the views.

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From Te Anau, the inevitable stream of people and cars converging on Milford Sound benefits from a little strategising; a calculation involving the avoidance of peak coach tour times, maximum weather and reflection opportunities, and which of the plethora of boat trips to pick. But really it’s just luck and we got pretty lucky. Striking out early via a coffee stop at the Sandfly Café, dawn light gradually infiltrated the Eglinton Valley, the sunlight and early mist rising from the river serving to accentuate its majesty.

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The calm of morning also meant that Mirror Lakes were actually mirror-like, reflecting the glowing mountains, and observed by just a smattering of early day-trippers like us.

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NZc04The sunny start changed around The Divide as we headed into the clouds and prospects for a clear cruise on the sound were diminished. It was the kind of weather I expected, typical of this area which is famed for being the wettest spot in New Zealand[1]. But emerging into and out of the Homer Tunnel there were breaks, mountain tops could be seen, and the winding road down to the water remained largely clear. Sure, it was not the rare blue sky day that you see in the advertising, but the pinnacle of Mitre Peak emerged, the tide was in, and there was ample time for relaxation and reflection before hitting the water.

This was to be my third visit to Milford Sound and each time has offered different conditions. The first visit was one of those wet affairs that delivered little visibility, only compensated by numerous spectacular waterfalls plunging from the heavens; second time around gave some blue sky, a brisk breeze and significant glare; and today was without doubt the most placid I had seen it, clear, calm under a high level white sky. Seasickness would not be a problem.

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And so the obligatory cruise, which is a very pleasant experience but one which somehow you are fairly content to finish after two hours. Up to the Tasman Sea and back, taking in waterfalls, forests and seal-dotted rocks, neck-craned constantly to fathom the height of the precipitous mountains that encircle the fiord. The scale is hard to comprehend and harder to capture, but a steady stream of sightseeing planes and choppers looking the size of seagulls against the cliffs provided a persistent sense of perspective. All washed down by a ‘glacial facial’.

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Our cruise finished at 12:30, meaning we had time to pause along the road back to Te Anau. What was an empty coach park (containing at least 40 bays) when we set off on the boat was now crammed, and the tide receding and breeze rising had scuppered any iconic Mitre Peak reflections for the masses. Strategy or luck, it ran out briefly at The Chasm, where we lingered long for a car park and failed to find a delightful glade for lunch. But further stops along the highway offered more opportunity to delight, to take in waterfalls, peaks and pristine river valleys.

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Back in the Eglinton Valley – where it had all really started this morning – the warm sun was once again shining and the day did its very best to resemble an idyll. I was more than happy to linger here, to wallow in the golden grasses beside jade waters, while Dad wallowed in a little fishing time. And even if the trout don’t bite so much here, surely in such a setting netting doesn’t matter.

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It turns out the better (aka easier haha!) fishing spots are closer to Te Anau. A prime spot to dump Dad and take the hire car for a bit of an explore, down south of Te Anau to Manapouri. If Te Anau had a serene calm about it, Manapouri was decidedly comatose. But I mean that in a good way, the lake wild and rugged, visitors few and far between and mostly heading toward or coming back from trips to Doubtful Sound. Doubtless there are trout here too, on the edge of the world.

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With this little foray, three hours and five fish had passed and we joined up to dine on takeaway pizza in the car overlooking Lake Te Anau. The breeze was up, the weather closing in a little, the car rocking. Omens of the mostly fine post-cyclone weather that we had enjoyed in the last few days coming to an end. It was looking as if rain might just visit us again, transforming Milford Sound to a funnel of waterfalls and blowing us back towards our final stop, Queenstown.

 

[1] The day after our visit, Milford Sound received over 30 centimetres (not millimetres!) of rain

Driving Green Bogey Photography

100% pure

As well as death and taxes, a certainty in life is that there will be numerous #inspo quotes along the lines of needing to pass through storms to truly appreciate the sunshine or some such. Share if you agree, I bet five of my friends don’t have the courage to pass on and receive a lucky leprechaun candy crush bonus if you click like. But once you’ve done that just put that phone down and – on Thursday 22nd February in a small pocket of New Zealand around the town of Wanaka – look up and be in awe with the world.

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Inspiration is easy in the Matukituki valley, where a gravel road is criss-crossed by swollen fords and peppered with fields of sheep and – just for a touch of variety and confounding every single cliché – cows. Mountaintops are iced with luminescent fresh snow and numerous cascades stagger down the sheer sided slopes with gravity. The sky is blue, the air incrementally warming up, and the storm has passed to leave a (la la la) slice of heaven.

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I discovered this valley on a bigger trip in 2013, when conditions were benign, and a hire car could comfortably take the gravel road to Raspberry Creek in Mount Aspiring National Park without too much undue alarm. In our infinite wisdom this time around, Dad and I opted to book a shuttle bus following the rains of ex-tropical cyclone Gita, dropping us off at the trailhead for the Rob Roy Glacier walk. It was a memorable tramp back in 2013, and today it was possible that it became even better. The fresh snow helped, as did the cooler weather. And an early start meant we had beaten most of the parade of walkers getting increasingly sweaty as the day progressed.

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I think I may be a little bit in love with this valley. This is no doubt helped by the fact that it is a valley and thus offers very placid walking; so little effort for such great reward. But following the swing bridge across the river there is climbing on the cards, through the fragrant freshness of Beech forest, cool and dark and tantalising with the sound of water and glimpses of snow from Rob Roy Glacier above.

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NZb06In some ways the end of the track is something of an anti-climax, but only because the entire journey getting there has been as, if not more, enjoyable. Terminating close to the glacier, yet another waterfall for company, it is an ideal sandwich stop, a platform from which to take photos that cannot capture the all-round panorama of ice and snow and forest and water under big blue sunny skies. Dad and I two insignificant specks of unintentionally coordinated orange that have passed through the storm and into the light.

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Barely after 3 o’clock back in Wanaka and the day had given so much. Ice cream added more and a drive returning up alongside Lake Hawea and Lake Wanaka offered a chance to see spectacle in a far more appealing light. The sombre grey of past days transformed into vivid blues and greens radiating from these gargantuan lakes, fringed by the ridges and spires of mountain peaks still dusted with snow. Each lookout understandably dense with caravans and coaches and cars and cameras and selfie sticks.

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NZb08Lake Wanaka eventually ends and narrows into the valley of the Makarora River. Just past the township of Makarora another popular stop for caravans and coaches and cars and cameras are the jade pools of Blue Pools. With a gentle walk through a forest overflowing with hobbit hiding holes, two swing bridges and stony beaches suitable for building thousands of stupid piles of rocks that might look good in a picture but disturb the natural ecosystem, this is a busy spot. But yet again, as so many times in New Zealand, you can forgive the constant flow of people given the sheer beauty of the place, cognisant that you are just another nobody adding to the crowd anyhow. And with people comes stone-skimming fandom and plenty of fresh blood for the delightful sand flies that are in even greater abundance.

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Like sand flies feasting on a French backpacker, we were gorging on this incredible day, soaking up every ray of sunshine with the joy that follows two days of rain. Driving back to Wanaka, as the sun finally slunk behind mountains, we forced down some fush and chups by the lake before revisiting That Wanaka Tree under more benign conditions than before. A crowd was once again gathered to look at a tree, tripods precariously submersed in the lake to capture identical pictures, and selfies a popular pastime as ever. Maybe drones were barred (I noticed signs indicating as much in some places), which was helpful in order to hear the surreal sounds of a pianist serenading a tree, and selling CDs in the process. Cash might just grow on trees after all.

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NZb12Happily, the sunshine continued into the next day and it was good to finally see our Lake Hawea surroundings in a golden light. What comforted with cosiness during the storm also shone with charm in the summer sun. To me, Lake Hawea proved a good alternative to Wanaka, barely down the road but without the crowds and providing much more space. Indeed, under such big blue skies it was a shame to leave, to miss out on sitting in the garden, foraging in the greenhouse, rubbing the cat’s belly on the grass. But there was time for one last amble down to the lake shore, to the blue and green and gold and white of just another amazing little corner of this country. And time then to move on to yet another one.

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Green Bogey Photography Walking

A storm is coming

Awakening in Christchurch, sunlight streams through the gaps in the curtains as an occasional bird chirps softly from outside; a mellow, unremarkable suburbia from which to launch into the rugged South Island of New Zealand. Decked in shorts and sandals (lacking giveaway tourist socks), the air is warm and mood euphoric as my Dad and I hit the road south and west. A mood soon undermined by the unremitting boredom of a long drawn out trawl through the tractor lands of the Canterbury Plains. At Geraldine it is grey and chilly, the coffee and slice warming but rose gardens subdued. There is foreboding here.

Drizzle peps up a touch until we emerge into something a little brighter over Burkes Pass, sunlight accentuated golden by the open tussock country and craggy hills. Motorhomes, campers and APEX rental cars mill their way inconsistently over the landscape until that first tap of the brakes and last-minute swerve associated with being hit in the face by New Zealand. The glacial blue hues of Lake Tekapo.

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It’s understandably bustling but there is enough room to spare, a quick photo stop extended by the allure of the lake and a cursory sandwich for lunch expanded by the allure of the pies. And like many others, we finally drag ourselves away only to be hit by something even more remarkable down the road as Lake Pukaki comes into sight. A very popular roadside stop is earmarked by haphazard parking manoeuvres and irritating drones, but the view up the lake makes it a fair price to pay. Somewhere up there will be Aoraki, Mount Cook, and we’ll try and get a little closer.

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The fair weather lingers practically all the way to Mount Cook village, disappearing almost simultaneously with us crossing into the national park. Still, despite the odds and weather forecast it is largely dry, the darkest clouds sticking to the mountaintops closing in from three sides. There is a gloom, there is a chill, but we can at least walk along the valley of the Hooker, like many, many others less prepared for the change in the weather. With glacial lakes, swing bridges, a raging river, big rocks and open highland it is a bracing walk into New Zealand, a far cry from that Christchurch suburbia this morning. And while Aoraki decided to stick behind the clouds throughout, there was plenty of outdoors to embrace, and a developing downwind gale to take us back to the car.

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NZa06It was a noisy night in a house on the outskirts of Twizel. Not because of hoons doing burn outs or rampaging feral possums, but the iconic sound of raindrops on a tin roof. Many Australians go misty-eyed when you mention the sound of raindrops on a tin roof, as if in some kind of messed-up ballad by Banjo Patterson accompanied by dreadful Lamingtons, but I don’t see the appeal. How the fricking heck do you sleep? Turns out this rain may or may not have been associated with cyclone Gita, or ex-cyclone Gita, or whatever was heading our way for 48 hours or more…

And so I guess it was a good day to be in a car, driving across to Wanaka and a little way further to Lake Hawea. A good day to pick up red wine and a lump of pork to cook roast dinner. A good day to find yourself in a charming cottage with a log fire and a feline visitor. A good day to try and resist going stir-crazy.

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I think I awoke in the night as the rain stopped but I figure I must have been dreaming. Sure, there were times when it became slightly more like drizzle, but it never really ceased. Still, we both couldn’t sit in for a whole day even with a cat for company, and waterproofs and fleeces were invented for days like this. Days that reach a high of nine degrees Celsius in summer, days that warrant hot coffee and newspapers in Wanaka, days that can be salvaged with a walk in only moderately spitting precipitation up to a small lake.

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Possible benefits of this incessant wetness were a dispersal of crowds – at least away from the towns and shops, the bolstering of waterfalls, and – possibly – a coating of fresh snow higher up. While the latter was impossible to detect in the unending shroud of cloud, the waterfalls were in proliferation.

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NZa10Generally, I prefer waterfalls to crowds of tourists, but the crowds of tourists can provide useful guidance on the location of scenic stops. Like a tree on Lake Wanaka – That Wanaka Tree – which probably has its own Twitter account and features on every second Instagram post with the hashtag newzealand. We join a semicircle of tourists taking pictures of the tree, with the tree, around the tree, through other trees to the tree and generally marvel at the tree, which is a very pleasant, photogenic tree. And frankly, you can’t ask much more from a tree. Other than it to grow money…which it may have done given its ubiquity on the internet.

NZa11More waterfalls were spotted on a drive to the northern side of Lake Hawea late in the day. A stop for some Dad fishing which yielded a stop in the rain. Briefly the sun even emerged albeit a touch watery like everything else around. But for the first time in a long time the windscreen wipers on the car could be set to zero. And as we parked up following a peaceful drive back home, without a fire or cat in sight, the sky miraculously fired up red, to the shepherd’s – and tourist’s – delight. Perhaps the storm had come, and gone.

Driving Green Bogey Photography