Badly caught wave

2 days until we leave and finals season fever is kicking in big time on the telly, in every cafe, supermarket checkout queues, playgrounds, you name it.

Final Countdown

BTW - That's 7 days to go before we head for Singapore - merde!

Farewells

OMG - Hear we are everything packed, leaving the house we've lived in for the last 18 months, heading off for a serviced apartment for the last few days.

Despite the 3 weeks of dead heating in the middle of winter, the Melbourne experience of Possum jumping up and down on the roof, and realising that open plan although conceptually nice isn't really practical, I've really enjoyed staying here.

Milford Sound

Another early start, this is becoming a nasty holiday habit. Our journey progresses in the dark and even when the sun rises it is difficult to see through banks of fog swirling and collecting in low lying hamlets. We pass in and out of these pockets of eeriness; at their edges they seem to melt away as I look out through the car window.

The worst of the visibility is just before Te Anua whose inhabitants live next to another picturesque lake. We will return here this evening. But it is after this that the scenery really becomes dramatic again. Now the mists clear and the sun shines brightly on dense dark green rainforest covering the mountains slopes which jut against the roadside. I struggle to see any gaps in the trees. A particularly awesome spot is called Knobby’s Flats (Kiwis seem to share the Aussies way of naming things). We fight through the coaches of tourists all trying to capture the same shot: humans in the foreground and Knobby’s in the back.

The next stop is the mirror lakes, no prize for guessing where they derive their names from, though the water is so still it is actually hard to distinguish at times what is real and what is reflected.

There are lots of places to stop and take photos of the rugged beauty: sharp angular rises, spiky jags, serried ranks with no regimentation, narrow passes, mountain peaks swaddled like babies in white blankets, slopes heavy with snow to the point of avalanche, dry riverbeds with big icy boulders and frosted sparkle in the early morning sunshine. Shortly before the Homer Tunnel, the last obstacle before Milford Sound we stop at a beautiful spot. It is so peaceful; all you can hear are the calls of parrots from the rainforest as you gaze at the back of the peaks that are building up towards Milford Sound.

After we drive through the tunnel the vistas open up. There is a Maori legend which tells of a great warrior that uses his giant green axe to carve out the Sounds along Fordland and as time goes on his skill increases, finally he reaches Milford Sound where his true mastery is unveiled. I believe it at this point. Wow.

Milford Sound should actually be called a Fjord and not a Sound. Fjords are valleys produced by glaciation, forming steep vertical cliffs extending deep under water whilst a Sound is formed when the sea floods a river valley. Whatever the technical jargon the result is unforgettable. I began missing it the day after our visit.

We board a boat, the Milford Mariner, a crusty sailor’s choice for sure and maybe named because Albatrosses can be sighted from the decks if you are lucky. The voyage takes place in glorious sunshine; we are very lucky: this place receives seven metres of rainfall a year. I think we are lucky for many reasons, as we sail close to the cliffs edges and I peer down through the waters to the rock below before catching sight of the waterfalls like rainbow veils; I feel as if I could reach out and lift them up. The pot of gold lies in the beauty of this arresting place.

Even the wildlife lines up for our perusal, fur seals basking on the rocks. I see a bird swimming underwater towards us before realising it is a seal cork screwing under the surface. Then as we exit the mouth of the Fjord and the Tasman Sea opens out, we see a pod of dolphins. The girls giggle and run either side of the deck to watch these glorious mammals’ shapes as they swim under our boat. ‘Bottle nosed dolphins’, one of the crews tell us as we watch the dolphins play in the sunshine, jumping out of the water but too quick for our camera.

I can see turquoise waters as the boat turns around, they are overlying small sandbanks as the cliffs veer to the left. The sheer scale of the land makes it difficult to comprehend what we see. We are told the Stirling Falls we pass on our return are three times the size of Niagara but next to their neighbouring peak they shrink. We take lots of photos of Mitre Peak as we return and you can see why it gets its name, closely resembling a Bishops’ hat. This stunning sight is actually a set of five peaks but it appears as one as it reaches just over a mile up into the pale blue sky.

We stay the night at Te Anau but rather than take a break, we grab some fish and chips and head out in darkness again by boat, this time across Te Anau’s lake (the second biggest in NZ) in search of the glow worm colony. This colony was mentioned in Maori legend but only rediscovered in the 1900’s.

We walk through some great caves. I can’t think of ever having seen such active caves before with shrieking, swirling waters from Lake Orbell above penetrating the rock to roar crystal clear in whirlpools around us. I stare at this pliable water that must be as hard as diamond to have carved its way through solid rock forming these shapes and openings.

We reach the glow worm colony by canoe and in pitch darkness these little starts twinkle above our heads. As I stare I can see they don’t twinkle on and off and but shimmer and shake as the tiny creatures that make these pearls of light move back and forth. We are told to stay quiet not to ruin anyone’s enjoyment of the magic and for once my kids do not need reminding so carried away are they by these sights.

Skiing Treble Cone

We have only ever skied the Three Valleys in France and so we are curious and a little daunted by the Treble Cone ski fields, leaving our Lake Wanaka apartments, Monday morning. We have chosen TC because it’s described as NZ’s largest ski area and good for intermediate skiers which we believe ourselves to be: hahahaha.

Armed with my new ski boots which haven’t seen my feet since the day I bought them, we begin the twisty mountain drive up to base camp; I sight a bird of prey adjacent to the entrance sign, photogenically consuming road kill like a vulture from a spaghetti Western. Is it an omen I ask myself or is that just a particularly spooky horror film from the 1970’s?

We navigate the hairpin bends and I notice Caitlin’s gaze is glued to the steep fall offs. Before long she is demanding, ‘Slow down Daddy you are driving too fast.’

She doesn’t seem too amused when I devilishly say,

“Wait until it snows.’ The awesome views help to build the excitement.

At the top we shuffle the kids into ski school, watch for awhile to assure ourselves they look happy and then climb into our boots. We ski feverishly but expertly all day long in the sunshine and deep snow ... ah. Alas not, my new boots prove useless as it becomes clear I won’t be able to ski in them; the clue for this is the large heart wrenching sobs as I negotiate the run back down to base.

However, a quick rental later and the spring has once again returned to my step even if the blood still hadn’t made its way past my original boot line. We are now both able to admire Lake Wanaka far below cradled by snow free mountains, a lovely contrast to the crisp white snow at our backs.

My happiness does not last long however as we soon discover the resort to be a little scary, not in an Omen way. It is hard to work out where the runs start and end and the grading system has obviously been done on a different mountain, maybe one on the moon. We find ourselves quickly out of our depths on ungroomed slopes, ending up on steep half pipes I’m sure were built for Olympic snowboarding and from time to time on rocks and grass: they hadn’t had any snow for awhile. I seem to struggle more than Grant who as usual when he is better at me in something seems full of the joys of spring.

‘Oh it’s just like skiing in Scotland’ as he lurches his way down a particularly difficult slope. It is at this point that my fingers begin to inexplicably swell and do not finish until they resemble two packs of Wall’s giant pork sausages; I sadly display them to my husband.

‘Ooh look you’ve got man fingers,’ he laughs as he ricochets off the nearest rock. He is lucky I’m having trouble getting down the slope to ‘join’ him.

Things continue not to go well for me as we attempt the ‘fast ‘chair lift. Unlike France with its helpful traffic lights to tell you when to go or indeed barriers that stop those of us that don’t concentrate on holiday, here you must watch for your moment; then estimate where to stand on a faint red line whose words of warning are blurred under the thick ice.

The result is a spectacular Nil Point as I try to sit on the chair lift and miss, just catching the edge. I immediately imagine my body dangling by my fat sausage fingers from the chair’s restraining bar miles over the slopes and consequently throw myself off to the side somewhat like a an Indiana Jones move. When I sit up, Grant has followed suit leaving me to wonder:

A) Does he think I knew something?

B) Is he trying to steal my limelight?

c) Does he think this is how you ride the lifts NZ style with a ritualised first throw?

Mortified, I attempt standing on the ice and keeping my face out of view, manoeuvre myself back to position. I can’t bring myself to try again for at least another 5 minutes or until all the witnesses have ridden away out of sight.

Sustenance is required. Grant volunteers to fetch food from the only cafe located on the mountainside. As I save our places in the sun on the decking outside he turns,

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ll have the soup of the day.’

‘But you don’t know what it is.’

‘Surprise me.’

I wait nestled in amongst the other skiers and wonder,’ Why are they all so advanced and not just in age but ability too? We have witnessed: people jumping from cliffs, tracking down gullies with small exquisite jump turns , zooming down steep mogul fields and idiots carrying skis miles beyond the end of chair lifts so they can go God knows wear. Where are the frigging beginners, you know, the bunch of gross motor challenged individuals you see with knees stapled together, tottering down slopes as if in heels. Where are they? Even the kids look like Franz bloody Klammer as they fly past me on double tipped skis and I ask G,

‘Is that child wearing a nappy?’

Still there is local wildlife to look at, what the ... that is the fattest pair of parrots I have ever seen. I find out later they are Keas. What are they eating up here - the beginner skiers? As Grant arrives back with my soup of the day, a blood coloured froth he tries to convince me is Beetroot soup, I know deep down they are not eating the cafe food. What are the other extreme skiers eating- oh yes they are attached to I/v drips of adrenaline.

Still the kids are having a great time. Ski school’s so quiet that they’ve had one on one tuition. Caitlin started with two other kids but they were quickly moved up -I think one of them was the Franz Klammer from before and her confidence is a little squashed. Ciara however loves it.

Overnight we have ten centimetres of snow; the area looks even more beautiful for it. Of course the runs are even more difficult and despite my requests to warm up gently on an easy green Grant sets off for an unbashed , unfamiliar slope with a bad name. Let’s just say this long eared white rodent is not wearing a smile. Half way down the slope I switch into fighting mode, bringing up old grievances imagined or real and pelting them like snowballs onto G’s back. I think both of us are relieved to get to the bottom but for different reasons. I refuse at this point to travel any further until we have had hot chocolate, hoping it might loosen some of the tightness in my tired, overwrought and I have now decided ageing body. I have to say that once we had warmed up properly, a few easy runs later, everything is better and we enjoy the day especially as I pass the ‘falling over’ reins to grant who struggles to stay upright in the powder conditions. We giggle and play on the back bowl in deep snow where one twitch sends you in a different direction. We find some reasonable slopes and even drop in on some half pipes. No one is on them again; they have all gone heli-skiing: a helicopter transports you to an isolated mountain with virgin snow that no one in their right mind would ski and picks you up again at the bottom. Helicopter pilot = perfect job for a serial killer with a sense of humour.

By day 3 we are all improving and finding our way around. Ciara does her first green run, Caitlin is parallel turning and we are managing some pretty technical stuff with a smile on our faces. Quite sad that today is our last day of skiing.

We finish up and drive back to Queenstown admiring its Lake Wakapi even more in the sunshine, turquoise waters with real waves – their cause a mystery: this is not a sea fed lake. Bring on Milford Sound tomorrow.

The Kiwi Adventure Begins

The Kiwi Adventure Begins

Early morning start; how I love those 4.30 am alarms. Ciara awakes with a smile and as much excitement as a toddler on their first true Christmas; Caitlin more like a vampire, ‘Turn off the light it burns.’

A short ride to the airport and some good British humour gets us safely through border control, no easy process in these Antipodean countries where any traveller is viewed as a potential illegal immigrant and your pockets, potential sources of orange peel or apple core; death con eight on their biohazard scale.

Melbourne international departure lounge is somewhat small and the choice of eating outlets limited; no Dunkin Donuts to keep the kids satisfied; no large quantities of wholesome healthy Bircher muesli to keep my health conscious tendencies at bay still at least the aroma of properly roasted coffee beans true Melbournian style rouses me from my lingering languor or could it be the alarms drilling into my ears: those devices they seem to hand out these days to let customers know their drinks are ready. Gone are the days of quietly waiting on one side or god forbid someone delivering paid chattels to your table.

I still seem to have an odd ache in my left butt cheek whose exact point of greatest discomfort I still can’t pinpoint and whose cause remains a mystery even as I write this. ‘Please don’t let it be old age’ I complain to Grant; not the first time these thoughts come into my head during our break.

The flight into Queenstown is stunning. As soon as we cross New Zealand’s coast I see snow laden mountains peaks whose cliffs run down to the sea, I’ve never seen anything the same. I quickly understand why NZ is called ‘The Island of The Long white cloud’. I assume it is something to do with the sheer quantity of mountain ranges and valleys which trap the water and create these eerie extended rolls of whiteness which hang like puppets on strings and so enthral me time and time again.

We land safely in Queenstown, a process I would not like to repeat at night and in fact no one does as Grant advises me that night flights are way too difficult to navigate through the mountains. The town itself wedges into the base of these monsters but its edges are calmed by the immense Lake Wakatipu.

The town is bustling but in a laid back relaxing way; there are a lot of people, cars and shops but no one seems in a great hurry. We are soon on the road to Lake Wanaka, a name that must be pronounced with care although I am advised that Maoris have a lot of fun with the wavering their nomenclature causes.

The curving road we traverse leaves me queasy and eventually I resort to driving only realising as I take the wheel that I have never driven an automatic before. I still enjoy all the alpine scenery; there is little traffic on the road and I really don’t think I could get bored of these crushed velvet green and brown mountain sides. I have seen so little of this type of terrain since coming to Oz. As we arrive in Lake Wanaka I can see the ski range mountains lift up in the distance and a sense of excitement begins to hum inside: I have not skied for two and a half years and have missed it. Everything today has seemed magical even the cows whose deep russet hides positively glow, seem unreal. I can’t wait for tomorrow.