Hallgarth Farm

I should have written this from Nelson or Wanaka. With tears in my eyes from the beauty of the place. Or from Queenstown having survived the rafting, riding the crescendo of a wonderful holiday. Or on my last afternoon, lying on the grass in Hagley Park, watching the ducks watching me. I shouldn’t leave thank you letters for when I get home, it cuts you up just when you’re down. And this is the most important one, cause in lots of ways meeting you turned my holiday round.

Both Sue and Pete were ever so kind. My last hitch of the day into Wellington was a dream lift, a young guy who took me up to the Lookout and then on a tour of Wellington pointing out the landmarks. He’d grown up in San Francisco, London, and Tokyo amongst other places and was wonderfully convincing about how on a clear day the view of Wellington harbour was world class. I met Ray and Margaret (do you know, in the back of my mind there’s something I found out that I was going to tell them, but I can’t quite remember …) and then wandered around Wellington for a few hours before meeting Sue at Greta Point. It was a good evening, her flatmates were all very friendly and interesting, (ah, thanks to Ants for the contact lens stuff, sorry about that!) I took a walk around Haitaitai that evening and fell in love with Wellington which I never thought a city could do to me. (Though Sue had warned me that Anthony would sell me Wellington in half an hour). Then the next morning Sue gave me a lift to the ferry for the marvelous crossing to the South Island. It was very calm, and just a light mist over the hills in the Marlborough Sounds.

I hitched to Nelson on the scenic road, despite my book saying it was virtually impossible. The first people were only going a few miles but took me down to their bach, for coffee and biscuits and a look around. Totally deserted, a little bay in the bush with the cicadas on overtime, and a jetty out into the clear blue sounds. Then took me a few miles further to where there was a small motor camp. After an hour five cars had passed, and I was beginning to wonder if the book was right. But the old guy who’d been working on his boat outside his house quite near me, suddenly appeared though we hadn’t spoken, with a tray of coffee and fruit cake for me. There is something about coffee and fruit cake that puts a different perception on humanity. I’d only just finished it when a car came, and stopped and took me all the way to the Youth Hostel door at Nelson. Where it was raining.

I’d come to Nelson, which was out of my way for one simple reason. Because of it’s reputation for sun. And typically it was the only rain I saw in New Zealand. If you discount the mountain mist south of Turangi. And I decided to belt down to Christchurch to try and pick up my lift to the south that I’d been offered. Courtesy of a great old timer in a truck pulling a candy floss caravan pulling a small trailer I made it to Blenheim and then got one long lift to Christchurch. But when I phoned Simon’s mother, the dreadful Merle, as I was inclined to call her, she told me there wasn’t room. I eventually met this dragon, down at Wanaka, and took my revenge by arguing with her about our royal family to whom she seemed to think the world should scrape their knees, and other liberal topics. I don’t think she approved of me much, decidedly mutual.

So I hitched out of Christchurch and wound up, slightly unexpectedly in Mt Cook. Which was a definite highpoint, (no pun intended). It was crystal clear, and a beautiful hostel. I climbed up the tourist track to the Mueller hut and back, including a swim in Sealy Tarn. Floating on one’s back in the tarn looking up at the snow covered mountains! And then sunbathing, at 4000ft. The girl I went with was from Auckland having moved out from England two years ago, and she almost persuaded me that Auckland wouldn’t be so bad, but everyone else that I met were more than convincing the other way.

By the time I reached Mt Cook though, I was feeling very relaxed. Somewhere along the way, I’d made the decision that I’d like to move to NZ. And if they don’t let us in, then at least visit again, so I wasn’t too bothered about charging around trying to fit everything in, and I just enjoyed soaking up the sun and the mountains. And dreaming about the Abel Tasman and the Routeburn and Milford Sound tracks. Just for starters. As Pete said in Christchurch, those are just the tourist ones. It was slowly dawning on me that the South Island is really just one big adventure playground, and Pete’s enthusiasm for it was very infectious. After Mt Cook and before seeing him, I’d had a couple of days in Wanaka and one in Queenstown where I managed to stay in the raft, which put me definitely in the minority.

Pete turned out to have just got a car, and both picked me up in Christchurch and took me on a tour of the nearby bays and for a late evening walk on the coast. I have been sworn to secrecy regarding restarting the car, but I should maybe send him ‘Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance’, which I read, ten years too late, on the plane trip home. The plane trip home to Thatcher’s Britain. Which has been surprisingly warm, and sunny! The mildest winter for years. And a pleasant surprise to find that BBC radio had accepted the sad little story I’d sent them, which should bring a tear to the eye of one or two listeners some time in the future. Then, to celebrate my return, one of our bowed and crumbly barn walls fell down the next day. Just in case I was wondering what to do with myself. Luckily, having read Zen, I’ve decided to make a virtue out of the problem, and put a door in etc. Or maybe it was visiting NZ, not just Zen.

The queues at the NZ and Aussie embassies, (the Aus is an unavoidable safety net I hope we won’t need) suggest that mine is not a unique idea, and the television news gives ample reason why. The Brits may produce the best comedy in the world, but the farce going on as we dismantle all that was good in our society is fairly tragic. And will leave a much worse legacy than similar developments in NZ, I think. But who knows.

Thank you very much for your hospitality, we old farmers appreciate these things. Like gin, and port, and delicious salads. And beautiful houses, and attractive gardens. And company. These things matter most. I hope your world is as you would wish it.

Oh, and there are trees in Palmerston North.