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Published: January 23rd 2007
The South Island: Bloody Sandflies
Lake Hawea: Not a bad spot for lunch!Tuesday 16th January to Thursday 18th January 2007.
We didn't push north from Queenstown until 11am having spent an hour looking around the picuresque but essentially tourist hotspot town and whilst Marg had called her hubby, daughter and sister which had undoubtedly put a spring in her step as well as succeeding in banishing the upset stomach from which she'd been suffering the previous night and purchased another couple of postcards I got up to date with my e mails. If you haven't received one of Marg's postcards by the time you read this then you must be out of favour, I've taken the mickey mercilessly and told her when she's been thinking of something to write "just copy the other ones, they'll never know" but she's always blatantly snubbed the idea completely.
We had two options on our route to the west coast, go 'over the top' on the minor road or stick to the main highway and clock up an extra 50kms. We decided on the former. As we left Queenstown I pulled into a service station but the cars waiting at the pumps forced me to pull straight out again and half an hour later I
The South Island: Bloody Sandflies
Steady as she goes; Walking the plank at blue pools. was seriously worried we were going to pay for my impatience, something that although being addressed is still existing strong. Road maps should come with attached photographs of the terrain you are likely to encounter, the first twenty minutes were up a forty five degree incline around more hairpin bends and I barely got above third gear. The tank was less than a quarter full and a road sign showed Wanaka, the nearest place of any significance to be 53kms away. I didn't tell mum for a while but with visions building in my mind of us both huddled around a small fire on the mountainside throughout the night I just had to. Fortunately forty of the next fifty three were all downhill and we made the lakeside town of Wanaka with juice to spare.
We chose another deserted spot at the side of Lake Hawea for lunch and mid afternoon saw a sign saying 'Blue Pools'. We had no idea what it meant but were due a break so pulled in. The sign said ten minute walk so we set off through the thick woods where Marg again nipped into the undergrowth and eventually came across a large
rope bridge like the kind you'd see on 'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here' with a fierce river running below. As we started crossing movement was minimal but I still said to Margy "don't look down" recalling her escapade with the Harbour Bridge in Auckland. We were ten metres from the end when all of a sudden even I started to fret. I turned to see two teenagers on the other side of the river holding onto the ropes and swinging themselves frantically like cowboys at a rodeo presumably unaware what their actions were doing to our end and we were both relieved to eventually feel the ground beneath our feet. Little bleeders. The crossing back thankfully went without alarm.
When we finally hit the west coast and The Tasman Sea the views were again awesome. Throughout the afternoon´s journey Marg had serenaded me with a medley of songs from the old musicals, 'Guys'n'Dolls' which in parts I was able to duet on, 'Calamity Jane', 'South Pacific' you name it, it got an airing whilst all I could retort with was the occsional offering from the book of heavy metal.
Although I'd only been driving for
four and a half hours the twists and turns had again taken their toll so when the curtains had come down on Marg's musical extravaganza I put my ipod on and catastrophe struck. It wouldn't work. I pulled in and tried anything and everything but it appeared to be jammed. I was absolutely distraught though I don't think Marg realised just how shattered I was. Sitting 8 hours on a bus in South America just wouldn't be the same.
We had hoped to find a motel in Jacob's River but there was nothing there but three houses, two farms and surprise surprise another river then all of a sudden we saw a sign 'Motel'. We were literally miles from anywhere, so far that in reception it even sold various foods. We purchased a pack of pasta, a sauce and checked in. The accommodation was fifty metres from the farmhouse, several prefab terraced huts of which only one other was occupied and the sun was still shining. Marg stated on more than one occasion how lovely it was but I got a feeling that was just relief at having stopped for the day, it reminded me in smell and decour
of the caravan on Angelsey we used to holiday at in the sixties and early seventies. We sat outside in the sun, she climbed a tree for a photograph and we drank some wine. I took in the last couple of hours rays from the warm sun and the only thing putting a dampener on things was the presence of the tiniest insects I've ever seen, small black things that caused an irritation when they landed but which, unlike mosquitoes or normal house flies were a doddle to swat and flick. It didn't even occur to me the trouble the little bleeders would cause us both for the next three or four days.
After our pasta we went out for a little drive. We could hear the ocean from our digs and pulled down the first track that metioned the word 'beach'. A narrow, winding stoney path through the dense woodland eventually brought us to large clearing with about five battered old mobile homes, a couple of ramshackle wooden sheds and a few beaten up trucks
very reminiscent of a scene from 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre'. We were just about to get out and climb the small bank to the
The South Island: Bloody Sandflies
69 years, 364 days and she´s climbing bloody trees ! beach when we were suddenly surrounded by two snarling, snapping large dogs attempting to take chunks out of our tyres. We turned the car and fled before any shotgun wielding rednecks emerged from the caravans, a lucky escape. We drove a little further, found the ocean but the little black things hadn´t even started desert and still weren't satisfied so we returned home and unbelievably, for me at least, were sound asleep by 10.15.
HAPPY 70th BIRTHDAY MARG !
We both woke early and I wished Marg many happy returns from my bed and we were on the road for 8.15am with our first intended stop, the mightily impressive glasier at Franz Joseph just half an hour away. Time was again against us so rather than take a time consuming guided tour we headed off down a path from the car park with a sign that promised an impressive view of the glacier. After ten minutes the path ended abruptly with two planks of wood and a rope blocking our route. A sign said ´danger´ but all we could see was a huge wide dry river bed with a couple of streams flowing through. How could that be
dangerous ? In the background was the glacier, an absolute huge slab of ice coming from between two mountains. After five minutes of deliberation and should we or shouldn't we's Marg said ´sod it´, took the plunge and proceeded, with great agility, to manouvre herself through the barrier. Now the only obstacle that remained was the stream. Marg, obviously excited by the rebelness she'd just found within nipped into the bushes unbuttoning her jeans on the way whilst I assessed our easiest way across. I crossed alone and when Marg returned she told me to go on and that she´d wait for me there so I walked up the river bed for a closer look. The glacier was majestic, especially when the sun poked through the cloud and lit it up like a sky blue lantern and when I turned after five minutes there was a trail of rebel lemming sightseers who'd all followed Marg's lead and who were following me up the creek.
We had left the car park by 10.15 as masses of tourists were arriving and headed off. We'd timed it well and by lunchtime we'd reached the lovely seaside town Hoikitika. We bought lunch including
a small cake with a solitary candle from one of the town's 8 bakeries and ate it by the wild Tasman Sea then stood on the shore watching the breakers. The sun was cracking the flags again. Marg told me off for telling all and sundry it was her 70th birthday at every opportunity but I wanted everyone one to know, I was proud of her.
After three hours in Hoikitika we had another two hour slog up the coast to our final destination of Westport, an old mining town on the north west coast, but the spectacular rugged coastline made it seem like half that. We arrived at 5pm, stopped off at The New World Supermarket to buy the birthday supper and then discovered a distinct shortage of accommodation. After another hour we finally found ourselves at a Holiday Park essentially used by motor homes but which also had some self contained units at Carters Beach, the best digs we´d found to date, large and clean and only a hundred metres from the roar of The Tasman.
We dined on lamb again and this time I´d thankfully discovered the secret to cook them without turning them to
The South Island: Bloody Sandflies
Margy evades the barrier at Franz Joseph. leather then Marg opened the cards that she´d bought with her from the UK. The messages inside a couple of them forced the tears to flow but only showed what people who know her think of her and when she´d dried her eyes and took her rollers out we took the short walk to the beach as the sun set behind us.
On our way back a guy jumped out of a parked car in front of us with the words "Äre you guys comet watch?"
"Beg your pardon" we replied.
He pointed to the skies at McNaughts Comet, not seen for over forty years and as clear as a bell in the sunset. What a present for your birthday.
I told Marg that we´d need to leave at 8am the following morning to make the 1.15pm ferry sailing back to Wellington and we were both awake at 5.45am, Marg at her usual time of waking and me because I felt like I was sleeping in a pepperpot. The sand flies were beginning to take their toll and every part of me was itching. I later counted thirty five red bites below my knees only. Marg
wasn´t really suffering and blamed it on her dead blood, words she´d regret the following day.
We were told it would be a four hour drive to Picton and after forty five minutes I was beginning to believe it. The road was another series of ascending and descending hairpin bends with treacherous drops off the side and no place for letting the concentration nor mind wander but after an hour the scenery thankfully changed to long straight stretches of road through wide plains banked by more mountains. We arrived at 11.30am and ate lunch in the harbour.
The crossing was totally different to the first one five days earlier. The sun was shining and the ocean a completely different colour. I went up onto the top deck after an hour or so and other than a few stretched out snoozing backpackers was alone. All of a sudden something caught my eye. It was a pod of dolphins, twenty or more, swimming and leaping alongside the ship. I felt like rushing to tell Marg but she was four decks down and even considered waking the sleeping travellers but didn´t. I just stood and watched. After a couple of minutes
the hooter to herald an announcement came over the tannoy followed by "if anyone is interested there is a pod of dolphins on the starboard side". Spoilsports. Fortunately, they were just beginning to disappear into the distance anyway but within seconds I was engulfed by hundreds of snapping punters all seeking that special snap to brag about back home. A small French woman barged into me, camera poised, without so much as an excuse me or apology and for a brief second I considered tossing her over the side but reneged and returned to Marg. She´d seen them too.
By this time the bites were even starting to irritate Marg´s dead blood and we both smellt like a rugby players jock strap as we were covered in Tiger Balm to relieve the itching. We returnd to Nomads, our digs from the first night in Welly and explored the City before returning for our free grub, wine and a spot of laundry.
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Lakes
I enjoyed both of these journals.The photos look good and I can just make out Frodo in the distance.You're looking better too so your Mum must have been feeding you.Keep on truckin'