And on the Seventh Day........

God created the wetsuit. Neoprene is king if you intend surfing in NZ's South Island, perhaps even more essential than an actual surfboard. As for the surf itself, 1 day of fair to reasonable waves. While the surf hasn't been the stuff on magazine covers, uniqueness of the two sessions made up for it, at least partially. I've never surfed before with a backdrop of snow capped mountains as I did in Kaikoura and the water itself is a weird milky colour I assume has something to do with the black sand. Surfing in Hickory Bay also involved a beautiful 1 klm trudge through verdant farmland out onto a magnificent black sand beach backed by 700 metre cliffs and farmland dotted with sheep. Rather than look out to sea, my eyes kept wandering in reverse to those magnificent backdrops.

Finding surf down here involves searching in between the weather extremities. On the South Island the weather changes like, well changes like the weather. For most of the drive towards Christchurch along Highway 1, the poor campervan was buffeted by a warm gale force NW wind. Turn off the highway onto the Banks Peninsula, about 30 klms south of Christchurch and from clear skies we are now faced with a looming Armageddon. The blackest of skies engulfs us 5 minutes in and the car is pummelled from the opposite direction, along with driving rain and oh oh - here comes the hail.

This storm hung in for a day or so but if you are going to have to live through this type of tempest, then Akaroa on the Banks Peninsula is not a bad place to do it. The peninsula itself is spectacularly dramatic and the name was a wee gift from good ol Capn James Cook to his faithful botanist.

Now if Dunedin was all things Scot, then Akaroa is its French equivalent. Back in the mid 19th century, the French sent an official convoy down this way to set up a little Francophile enclave where there was already a French whaling community in operation. Unfortunately for the Frogs, they were about 3 weeks late again and on arrival there was a big juicy Union Jack flapping in the wind and a couple of Brits clutching a copy of the treaty of Waitangi. A good old fashioned French gazumping. However, there was no way les gars from up north were turning back so they decided to settle anyway, begrudgingly under British rule. The legacy of this is the cutesiest little village this side of the Pyrenees. Business and street names echo all things French and the elegance of the architecture and town planning rammed home my conviction that the Antipodies were colonised by the wrong nation.

The weather eventually drove us off the South Island across the Cook Strait and into Windy Wellington for another taste of NZ urban life. Wellington probably isn't on most people's top 10 must see cities before they die but there were enough activities to keep our interest for a day, including the Te Papa Museum which is quality from head to toe.

We happened into Wellington on a Friday which coincided with the Waratahs playing the Brumbies. An enquiry or 2 and we were informed of the local pub 2 blocks away. Visions of an old stone edifice with open log fire surrounded by gentlemen sipping brandy and wearing tweed jackets with leather elbow patches politely viewing the rugby with a gentle "hip rah" or 2 were shattered by the reality of a Wellington local drinking establishment. This place had to be the movie set for "Once were Warriors". I fully expected Jake the Muss to come storming through the front door and start cracking a few heads. We didn't stay long, oddly enough, but Penny did get a kick out the Maori karaoke contest. The experience also allowed us to claim that we had immersed ourselves into the earthy side of NZ's rank and file populace - THE REAL NZ.

So we are now into the bowels of the North Island and hoping for some warmer weather, water and maybe just a few waves before a trek or 2 in the centre of the island.

CIAO

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