The U-bend


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Oceania » New Zealand » South Island
December 1st 2011
Published: December 3rd 2011
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“The most mischievous animal here is the small black sandfly which are exceedingly numerous and are so troublesome that they exceed everything of the kind I ever met with, wherever they light they cause swelling and such an intolerable itching that it is not possible to refrain from scratching and at last ends in ulcers like the small pox. The almost continual rain may be reckoned another inconvenience attending this bay”.

So said the eminent Captain James Cook of the South Island’s Fiordland and, frankly, who are we to disagree. Not that we’d want to – he’s hit the nail on the head. Everyone around us looks like a drowned rat, covered in welts. But more of this later – first, our journey here.

We drove from Lake Tekapo to Queenstown, from where we will travel a u-bend route round the mountains to Milford Sound in the Fiordland region, and then back again before heading to Wanaka. This is the south west of the South Island.

Queenstown is a busy, touristy town. Up until now we have been struck by how a country of such natural beauty can have remained so unspoilt and peaceful. Queenstown seems an exception, the town sprawling along the shores of Lake Wakatipu, contained only by the surrounding mountains. But it’s popular for a reason – although busy it's still beautiful and it's world renowned for it's status as a natural playground. It’s the destination for adrenaline junkees and thrill seekers – ski fields, high octane rivers, planes, jetboats, bikes, walks – and a buzzing, resort-like town for nightime entertainment. It is the birthplace of the bunjy jump. We visit the bridge that was the site of the first ever bunjy jump and find it still to have a conveyor belt of lemmings ready to leap. We’re both tempted, though Kate’s secretly relieved that her pregnancy rules her out. Iv’s secretly relieved that Kate’s pregnancy rules her out too, as it would be unfair if he were to jump and she couldn’t.

We drive on to Queenstown and park up at an over-priced but well-equipped campsite. There we consider our options. Whatever we do, we know it’s going to be an expensive time here. Kate goes off in search of a cashpoint and is very diligent about it, checking all the clothing/surfing/snowboarding shops in case they have an ATM, before striking on the idea of going to one of the many highstreet banks.

And then the rain starts. And it rains, and it rains, and it rains. The Niagara falls would be underwhleming in comparison to this. We’re confined to the van all night and much of the next day, until we make a break for the cinema. It’s nice to have a down day and we resign ourselves to enjoying it. We use the time to book ahead, reserving a pitch at Milford Lodge – the only accommodation at our next destination of Milford Sound.

The first half of the drive to Milford takes us to Te Anau, where we stock up on fuel and supplies. We have been forewarned that the drive on from there on is long, with little in the way of facilities. The drive is, in fact, immense. The 120km winding road takes us deep into Eglington Valley. We’re surrounded by towering, tree-clad cliffs, down which wispy waterfalls trace a path like droplets on a window pane. Their spindly journeys sometimes merge to form cascades and, finally, rivers. The spray of the cascades respond with beautiful rainbows which add new colours to what is otherwise a canvas of greens.

Boris is a bit asthmatic on NZ’s hills, and despite feeding him oil to soothe his wheezes he’s still spluttering up the steepest gradients. The road would be pretty brutal for any car, and we’re a bit worried that Boris might not make it. But just as we fear that he’s done for, we reach the crest of the climb and the entrance to the Homer tunnel. The tunnel - a 1200m, one-in-ten gradient hollow through the mountain – is the gateway to Milford Sound. It’s dark, steep and narrow, so makes for an interesting journey, but soon opens up for a final descent down to the Cleddau River.

After a few more photo stops we finally make it to the lodge. It is just beginning to rain as we emerge from the van – but it’s not the rain which sends us skuttling back in, but rather the swarm of sandfly that are lying in wait for us, poised to attack. We swatting the air with tea towels as we retreat into the van and slam the doors shut. Even so, a plague of sandlfy have managed to enter the van, the majority of which are busily munching on our skin. We have not come across this type of fly before. They look small and harmless but they bite and we and are surprised by the itchiness that follows their bite.

Early the next day we’re picked up by the guides who will be taking us kayaking on the fiord (Milford Sound was actually named incorrectly. It is not a ‘sound’ – a river valley – but rather a drowned glacial valley, making it a fiord. You’d have thought that the region being called Fiordland was quite a significant clue for the naming party…). It’s only once the guides take us out on the water that we find some relief from the sandflies. We’re not sure whether they’re put off by the water or the sight of the funky, stripy longjohns we’re wearing on our bottom halves. We’ve introduced ourselves to our fellow kayakers, through a mixture of pleasantries and the Milford wave – a wave/swat across the face which is accompanied by a curse under the breath. We’re in a group of eight, and paired off in four kayaks.

We soon find ourselves in the middle of the fiord. The rain has resulted in a heavy mist which parts to make way for the odd rainbow. The steep mountains have almost sheer cliffsides, which are nevertheless caked in bush. We learn that a hardy tree needs only a narrow crack in the rock through which to burrow its roots, and that all the adjacent trees will just grip on to the burrower. Occasionally, this precarious existance can be wrenched loose, triggering an immense ‘tree avalanche’ which can leave the cliffsides bear until the next clump of trees find a foothold.

Dotted around the cliffs are huge waterfalls which crash water into the fiord, enticing kayakers to come ever-closer in a game of dare. The fiord also has its own version of chicken, where kayakers have to cross particular channels of the fiord without getting squashed by one of the big sightseeing cruisers. The wake of the cruisers provide for some fun too – catch them head-on at pace and you get some air under your kayak; catch them side on and you might be taking an early bath. We’re both keen to avoid capsizing as it’s bitterly cold, and the immense shadows of the mountains combined with the rainy mist turn the waters a mysterious grey. We have no idea what lurks at the 300 metre depths of the fiord (beyond hypothermia and probably sandflies), and are happy enough to enjoy what we see on the surface, which includes a seal, the odd penguin, and many stories of discovery. After about four hours on the water, we eventually paddle back to shore, well spent and ready for warm food. We hand back our gear, including the funky longjohns, and leg it back to the van before we’re munched by the flies.

A five hour drive takes us back to Queenstown, where we will spend another day and a half. The first is spent in the wineries, which are interspresed with the parched grasslands of Central Otago. This is one of the few pockets of the world where Pinot Noir grapes can grow – it’s the world’s southern most wine producing region, enjoying sunny, dry summers and crisp winters. But the delicate, thin-skinned grapes also need much expert care and attention. The production costs are large (a single french oak barrel costs a grand and a half), and that’s reflected in the price of the wine. Many of the samples are young and need cellaring for a number of years – we don't really have the refined pallates needed to distinguish a wine that will be a blockbuster in five years time, so only a couple of bottles go into Iv’s notebook this time. We nevertheless enjoy talking to the vineyard folk and appreciate the countryside. Kate has a hunger attack at Mount Difficulty winery and we treat ourselves to a lunchtime platter, before we head back to the campsite for an early night.

Our final morning in Queenstown is chilled – we find a cafe with free wifi (a rarity in these parts, so every seat is taken by someone with a laptop). A couple of hours later we're both hungry and have a hankering for a burger. We ask around for recommendations. The response is unanimous – Ferger Burger. Locals are proud of the the tail of the Irish Rugby Team’s visit to Queenstown. Brian O’Driscoll reportedly enjoyed a 4am ferger burger so much that he returned for a breakfast burger a couple of hours later. We’re assured that we won’t need to eat for a week if we take on the ‘Big Al’ burger. We head straight there.

The place is heaving, the aromas are great, and our mouths are watering. A plaque on the wall celebrates the current record for the fastest time taken to complete a Big Al – 2 mins and 41 seconds. We begin to question how big this burger can really when we clock the next item adorning the wall: a framed letter from a local physician describing the double dislocation of the jaw a patient suffered in trying to eat a Big Al. We take our chosen burgers (not the Big Als) down to the lakeside, and tackle them in silence. The silence remains for much of the two hour drive we then make to Wanaka, save perhaps for the odd contented groan and false declaration that we’ll never do that again. Kate’s bubby bump has trebled in size, and Iv thinks he’s going to be having twins himself.

We find Wanaka to be equally beautiful. It has its own lake, and we pull in to admire the views. We’ve been invited to stay a night with a couple we met earlier this year in Tignes – they emigrated from the UK after their season in Tignes, had a little girl a few months later, and are happily settling into the laid back way of life that Wanaka has to offer. It's great to see them and catch up.

An enjoyable walk along the lakeside the next morning is a precursor to the day’s main attraction – a nerd fix at Wanaka’s very own ‘Puzzleworld”. With Iv very excited, and Kate cringing slightly, we ask for two adult tickets to the Mystery Maze and Magical Illusion Tour. “No, no children”, we assure the receptionist, “just us”. Kate’s cringing turns into painful toe-curling as Iv bounds around the maze ahead of her, barging children out of the way and, on reaching any of the four towers that need to be conquered before exiting, standing proudly atop of them smiling in a nah-nah-nee-nah-nah way at the perplexed mazers below. He stops his stopwatch at the exit, and is slightly disappointed not to be presented with a certificate.

The illusion tour has the usual collection – a hollogram wall, a hall of following faces and a tilted room. The perspective room gives the impression of being a square box but stand in one corner and you appear as a giant ogre, stand in another and you appear as a little hobbit. Must have been the inspiration to Peter Jackson for locating Lord of the Rings here in NZ.

The exit of the tour leads into a foyer filled with tables, with each table filled in turn with an array of logic problems, mind benders and brain teasers. Kate makes a run for the door, claiming the need for one of her ‘pregnancy naps’, leaving Iv to nerd out. Kate’s pretending to still be asleep when Iv makes it to the van an hour later, regaling how few moves it took him to transfer concentric circles from one peg to another, and of how he managed to release the key from the seemingly intractable knot of ropes. Without an audience, there’s nothing for it but for Iv to start our drive to the West Coast, daydreaming as he does so of the future glory of being crowned world puzzle champion. Kate peeks through one eye at her grinning chaffeur, wondering how she came to marry such a geek. We both have a moment when we seriously hope that none of this makes it on to the blog...

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