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.
