The Wild West Coast

A night in Wellington saw me introduced to more of my not-in-laws (out-laws?) as we spent time with Skene's uncles and their families. There was no time to see more of the city though as we boarded the early ferry for the South Island. It's billed as one of the world's most scenic ferry journeys and it's certainly much more picturesque than Dover to Calais!

We experienced an unusually calm crossing in the Cook Strait before entering Queen Charlotte Sound. The hillsides lining the sound looked deserted and mysterious and it was only at the last minute that we saw Picton, our destination, emerge. I made a much better job of getting the campervan off the ferry than I had done reversing it on and we were pleased to have finally made it to the South Island.

Throughout my time in Auckland, I had been taken aback to hear North Islanders insist that I make time to visit the South Island. There seemed to be no north-south divide and northerners appeared to accept, without ill-will, that the South Island - or "the mainland" as it's known locally - was the far superior part of New Zealand. I had enjoyed the North Island immensely and had found myself gazing out onto many beautiful landscapes - Great Barrier Island, the Coromandel Peninsula, Tongariro National Park, to name but a few - and so I wondered how it could possibly be bettered.

On the other hand, I had heard that Picton had little to offer. So I was pleasantly surprised to find a warm welcome from the port. The sun was shining and the war memorial sparkled under its Christmas tinsel! More green-lipped mussels awaited me on the waterfront and we celebrated the arrival of summer (prematurely, it would turn out) with an ice cream sold from the hull of a boat! We took a short walk to a deserted cove and admired the Sounds from sea-level.

Our next port of call was Blenheim, a small town in the heart of Marlborough's wine producing region. There we visited Skene's granny who took us down to the Bowls Club for a few drinks. I was relieved not to have to reveal my lack of skills on the green - I wasn't quite cool enough for that.

After a second comfortable night spent in a proper bed, we headed for Nelson, past vineyards and gentle rolling hills. Nelson is fast developing a name for itself as a cultural centre and the modernist cathedral showed that it had a legitimate claim to that title. The cathedral was completed in 1965 and although it has a fairly conventional interior, its open tower and stone construction sets it apart from many of the typical New Zealand churches, which tend to be quaint and wooden.

We drove out of town to the World of Wearable Art. The 2004 awards ceremony had been held shortly after my arrival in New Zealand and was my first clue as to the creativity and artistic inspiration which is coming to the fore in this tiny nation. I loved the elaborate outfits, designed and crafted by students, housewives and fashionistas, and was desparate to try one on. The materials used - from wired beads to lego - captured my imagination and I was itching to have a go. Skene was particularly taken by the Bizarre Bra category.

Next door, we found a collection of Collectable Cars - a strange bedfellow. We tried out the cars though, enjoying sitting in the driver's seat of vehicles so much cooler than our own. It was with a few regrets that we returned to the campervan.

The next stage of our trip took us west into the goldfields. The rain started long before we reached Murchison. We sat shivering through our lunch, debating whether or not to call in at Buller Gorge for gold-panning and a go on NZ's longest swingbridge. In the end we decided to go for it for fear that we would do nothing else that day. We pulled on our waterproofs and boldly entered the downpour.

The swingbridge was moderately terrifying - constructed of cable, wire and planks, it stretches 110 metres, high above the Buller Gorge. Seeing as there was no-one else around, I swung it backwards and forwards, panicking Skene. Safe on the far bank, we set off into the wilderness. We found a wide variety of native trees and ferns including both red and white pines. There were many reminders of the area's past scattered around the woodland - mine shafts and earthquake scars from the 1929 disaster showed how the landscape had dominated the town's history.

Back at the bridge, we had the opportunity to try our hand at gold panning - or "fossicking". Under the supervision of a real-life gold miner, we sloshed, sieved and sluiced the silt dredged up from the Buller River over an old enamel bath until the sandflies became too much to bear! I walked away with a vial featuring several mini-nuggets together with details of which banks would pay me good money for my gold! It is supposed to be some of the purest gold in the world but I don't think I would get much for my crumbs...

We took a tandem flight out of the park on their comet line - at 160 metres across the Gorge, it was NZ's first commercial long distance flying fox. It was exhilirating but not too frightening, allowing us to work up to our big adventures.

We hit the coast at Westport, a coal-mining town with a working colliery. As one would expect, it wasn't terribly picturesque so we didn't linger long, turning north instead for the delightfully-named Cape Foulwind. The headland was named by Captain Cook in 1770 when heavy weather almost resulted in his ship founding on the treacherous rocks nearby.

I cannot imagine that the weather which Cook experienced was any worse than that which we found on stepping out of the campervan. As we walked along the short path to the seal-colony viewing platform, the wind lashed our faces, covering us in sea spray. I could hardly look over the edge of the cliff to see the seals for all the stinging spume that was lashing the coast. We stayed long enough to establish that there were indeed seals with pups and that they were really quite adorable. We then dashed back to the car park where we found a pair of weka hiding underneath our van. Skene tried to make friends with one which promptly bit the hand that didn't feed it!

We drove south down the Tasman coast to reach Punakaiki and the famous pancake rocks. There were numerous pillars made of the flat layers of rock and the grey of the rock with the grey of the sky made for an eerie landscape. The blowholes were dramatic and alarming as the sea pounded the cliffs whilst the nikau palms added an exotic feel. There were no seals to be seen but an arctic teal colony thrived on one of the distant pillars - a long way from home.

We spent the night in Greymouth - grey by name and nature - before moving further down the coast to Hokitika. Our route took us across many glacial streams, spanned by one-lane bridges shared with the railway. I was relieved never to see a train.

We stopped in Hokitika to check our e mail but found ourselves there for several hours. We joined coachloads of tourists in visiting the jade galleries. The shops displayed case after case after case of intricate jewellry, traditional clubs and hideous statutes of horses clearly destined for the Far East. Most remarkable - and ugly - was a greenstone replica of the America's Cup worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. We watched master craftsmen (and women) at work and discovered that most of them were local and had fallen into the trade after work in related fields such as graphic design fell away.

Returning to the street, we discovered that the Christmas Parade was due to begin. Groups from all sectors of society were participating - pub regulars had dressed up as pioneers and paraded on horseback, the fire brigade showed off their collection of historic engines, the local primary school dressed up as ferns and kiwis and a brassband set the pace. The highlight for us was a cage full of fairies pulled behind a four by four. It was a wonderful insight into small town life and my first real experience of a summer Christmas. We tried a local delicacy as we waited for the streets to clear sufficiently for us to retrieve our camper. Whitebait sammies are fishy omelettes sandwiched between two slices of white bread. Skene was keen but I wasn't so sure.

After lunch, we turned inland towards the glaciers and the adrenalin-fuelled part of our trip.

Tongariro National Park

The mud bath had relaxed me somewhat, but having spent the night lying awake listening to the rain drum on the campervan roof, I was ready for a little luxury! And so I was relieved to be heading down to Whakapapa Village, where we would be checking into The Grand Chateau, the North Island's best hotel, for two nights of rest and recuperation. The mini-break was a farewell present from the partners at Meredith Connell. I hadn't felt that I'd deserved it at the time but after a week with the "hunk of jeap" that was our transport...

Our journey took us past Lake Taupo - the huge expanse of water in the centre of the North Island. Legend has it that the South Island is Maui's canoe and the North Island is the fish which Maui is attempting to haul on board. If that's the case, then Lake Taupo is the whole left by the fish hook. By sheer chance, we spotted a sign for the Huka Falls and turned off to visit New Zealand's most visited natural attraction. The falls mark the junction of the Waikato River and the Lake and are phenomenally powerful with 220,000 litres of water tumbling over the cliff-edge every second! I wasn't in the least bit tempted by the jet boat ride which stopped just short of the base of the falls. Skene and I debated whether or not it would be possible to paddle over the falls in a kayak. We decided not and so I was amazed to discover later that two foolhardy antipodeans had indeed attempted it - and survived!

From the edge of the lake, we caught our first glimpse of the mountains of Tongariro National Park - and an idea as to the height our van would have to climb to reach our destination. We coaxed it up the steep slopes towards the snow and were rewarded with a rainbow from a viewing point close to the top. As night fell and sleet began, our hotel emerged, mirage-like, on the horizon.

Once we'd checked in, shivering from the freezing temperatures outside, we were told by the reception staff that we were welcome to pull our van up to the front door to unload. We did so, a little embarassed but glad to be heading for somewhere cosy.

Our room was perfect! It occupied a corner on the second floor and we were disappointed that we would have to wait until dawn to see the views. The bed was huge - I could hardly reach the bedside light from my side of the bed - and the bathroom was clad in marble. I turned on the television to find "White Christmas" showing - very appropriate, given the wintry weather. We enjoyed a steaming hot bath before dressing for dinner and descending to the dining room.

The hotel was completed in 1929 and continues to display the opulence typical of that era. It reminded me not a little of the Overlook Hotel in Kubrick's The Shining, with the snow silently falling outside and the bar dominated by chandeliers, drapes and a roaring fire. Fortunately, more Japanese tourists broke the spell as they mocked our attempts at snooker. Dinner was traditional and Skene enjoyed some local wine before we retired to our room, exhausted by our day's travelling.

The advice from the reception staff's the previous night had been not to attempt the Tongariro Crossing as we had intended. It was to have been our only experience of New Zealand's Great Walks but when the sun rose to reveal, outside our window, the full majesty of Mount Tongariro, intermittently shrouded in heavy clouds, I was relieved not to have to set off to conquer the snow-capped peak. Without crampons and an ice axe, and the requisite knowledge, it would have been a foolish and dangerous undertaking.

Instead, we wrapped ourselves up in our thermals, enjoyed a hearty breakfast and set off on some shorter walks. The first path took us to the Taranaki Falls across heathland which wouldn't have looked out of place in Scotland. The second route led us to the unusual Silica Rapids, coloured by minerals, through beech forests reminiscent of The Last Samurai. The weather had lifted by the afternoon, affording us consistent and intimidating views of three volcanic peaks: Mounts Tongariro, Ruapehu and Ngaruahoe.

We refreshed our tired feet in the spooky underground sauna and plunge pool before another delicious dinner. More fish - perhaps my healthiest and tastiest diet ever!

The next morning, we were sad to leave but pleased to be heading down to the South Island. We pulled up to the front door again, to reclaim our baggage. My heart sank as the campervan refused to respond to the ignition once we were ready to set off. A porter and a handyman leapt to our assistance! One pushed whilst the other made sure I put the van into neutral for it to roll down the hill. A jump start was out of the question, given that the vehicle was automatic, but we were assured that a solution would be provided.

It wasn't. Once we were safely out of the way in the lower car park, we were abandoned! It all became too much for me and a few tears were shed. How would we possibly complete the rest of the journey like this?! Eventually, after much swearing and praying, the engine spluttered into life and I revved it up the hill and through the highlands until we were on the road to Wellington.

Hell on Earth

Having visited the world's worst angora rabbit farm in Waitomo, we drove cross-country for Rotorua. We stopped halfway at the largest totara tree on record, near Pureora. Local Maori tribes used the totaras for their canoes, whilst their more northern counterparts used the kauri. This totara, the Pouakani, could have accommodated many sea-faring warriors.

On arriving in Rotorua, famous for its geothermal activity, we headed to the Maori Arts and Cultural Centre at Te Whakarewarewa, to learn more about the history of the area and the Maoris who made it their home. We discovered that many wars had been fought over the region. Maoris treasured the magical properties of the land and found many practical uses for the geysers and hot spots - making hangis (cooking holes) and kumura pits (to store sweet potato tubers over the winter), which would harness the geothermal energy, and building their homes over warm patches of earth for primitive underfloor heating. The town is now popular with tourists - hence its nickname Roto-Vegas - and I was expecting it to be one of the highlights of the trip.

At the Maori Arts and Cultural Centre we visited the carving workshops where young Maori men learn the skills which their ancestors used to create elaborately carved canoes, marae (meeting houses) and ornamental objects. Elsewhere in the centre, we saw intricate jewellry being fashioned from pounamu (greenstone or jade) and were shown how flax is woven to create clothing and mats. Traditional feather raincloaks and other similar items were on display and we were also lucky enough to see a welcoming haka being performed for a group of Japanese tourists by Maoris in traditional dress. They were pretty frightening and I was more than happy to stay off the grass when I was told to do so.

We moved away from the cultural centre to explore the geysers and mud pools. The whole landscape seemed to be steaming and the rock beneath our feet was warm to the touch. Mud pools bubbled and plopped and we were lost in a cloud of sulphuric vapour as we crossed over a piping hot stream. We waited for an hour to see the Pohutu Geyser, next to the Prince of Wales Feathers, only to realise that it had been active when we'd first arrived before fading away! It was impressive nonetheless.

After a hard day's sightseeing, we decided that we deserved an evening in the Polynesian Spa, on the shores of the lake. The hot mineral bathing experience involved a variety of pools and a whole heap of Japanese tourists. The pools are fed from a Radium spring and are diluted with cold water to bring them down to bearable temperatures. We started off at 38 degrees and gradually transferred to the hotter pools at 39, 40 and 41 degrees.

The first pool reminded me of the pictures of Roman Baths which we were shown on childhood trips to Ribchester. It was large and rectangular with water up to my chest. I remembered from our trip to the Coromandel that I would be unable to swim more than half a length with the water so warm and so I lazed around at the edge.

It was soon time to step outside, to undertake the next bathing stage. I didn't shiver for long as I descended into the first of the Priest Pools, named in honour of Father Maloney, a 19th century visitor who found his arthritis much-aided by the waters.

Once I'd acclimatised, Skene whisked me along to the 40 degree pool, right on the edge of the lake. We waited for the coach-load of Japanese tourists to move on before we took up the prime positions overlooking the water. I was surprised, as I gazed out, across a landscape cloudy from both the weather and the geothermal activity, at how gentle the hills were - not what I would have expected from such a volcanic region.

The final pool held the ultimate challenge. Not the steamy water at 41 degrees but the cold showers next to it! Once several elderly tourists had dipped their heads under the icy flow, Skene followed suit and acquitted himself well. I wasn't tempted and knew that my subsequent teeth chattering, for hours afterwards, would be too much for Skene to bear.

Once we'd showered and rid ourselves of the sulphurous deposits, we went into town. Dinner was tasty - more enormous green-lipped mussels and fresh fish - but there were few signs of a rowdy nightlife, even though it was Saturday. We eventually found a pub where we were required to remove our raincoats before stepping over the threshold. Hoods - whether of the gore-tex variety or not! - were not allowed. Inside I drank more lousy kiwi cider and Skene and I wondered whether the half-hearted partying going on around us counted as "lively" by New Zealand standards.

The next day, we visited Hell's Gate Thermal Reserve, one of few Maori-owned and run tourist enterprises in the region. It was made famous by George Bernard Shaw who swore to change his ways when he saw a glimpse of his future in the satanic and volcanic landscape. The place was deserted, despite the Park's brave claims that it was better in the rain, and our only companions were haughty peacocks. On our tour we found a 1.8 metre high mud volcano, mineral pools of all different colours and the highest hot waterfall in the Southern Hemisphere.

We then retired to the WaiOra spa - a series of mud pools named after the Maori warrior ancestor who looks after them. The mud was diluted and so we dipped our hands into the reserves at the bottom of the bath, to slather ourselves with the dermatologically-friendly earth. Once our allotted time was up, we were bullied into the cold showers by the Maori guide. Apparently, our experience would have been incomplete without the sudden chill which served to stimulate our circulation. The final stage was a relaxing mineral bath which we shared with the children of some of the staff as they enjoyed a lazy Sunday.

Waitomo Caves

Before setting off for NZ, I asked lots of people for their recommendation as to the one sight which we shouldn't miss. Most people decided on the glow-worm caves in Waitomo. I was slightly baffled by this but felt that I shouldn't fly in the face of popular opinion and so we headed through Huntly (N.Z.'s Springfield), Hamilton (home to the Southern Hemisphere's largest Mormon Temple) and King Country (where the Maori Queen lives) to Waitomo, a town which was built solely to service the many tourists wanting to visit the caves.

There are a number of companies offering trips down the caves so Skene and I opted for the one which sounded the most-adventurous - Rap, Raft n' Rock. We were picked up from our campsite after lunch and taken along a bumpy road to a shed in the middle of nowhere. Wetsuits and wellingtons were dished out and we were sent off to get changed. It was to be the first of many daft outfits during our tour and a far cry from the elegant ensemble which the Queen had worn on her trip to Waitomo on New Year's Eve 1953 - white high-heeled sandals, floral tea dress and pill-box hat.

When we emerged, we were provided with helmets and lamps and harnesses and loaded back into the 4WD. More pot-holed roads took us to a second smaller shack where we disembarked. A short walk across a field led us to a hole in the ground which was rigged up with abseiling gear. When it came to my turn, I was reluctant to step off the platform into the abyss but once over the edge, I had no problems with the 27-metre free-fall abseil into the cave.

I was surprised at how quickly we had grown to trust our guides, despite my initial reluctance to step off the edge. When a third guide, whom we had not met previously, descended the rope and announced that he would take us upstream into the cave system, we all seemed uncomfortable and hesitant. But with a final glance towards the light we accepted our tubes and trudged upstream.

Beyond the reach of daylight, we were led to a river beach and told to turn off our lamps. Immediately, we were struck by the number of glowworms inhabiting the roof and walls of the cave - many more pinpricks of light than even the marvellous night skies which we had seen in the Far North. A loud bang from our guide brought out even more glowworms as the vibrations made them believe that dinner was approaching... The worms are in fact the larvae of fungus gnats and glow to attract their prey to mucus covered strings which act as traps. I was relieved that we were admiring them from a distance.

We drifted downstream on our tubes, walking down small waterfalls, until we had passed beyond our point of entry and into a more extensive cave system. There were more glowworms to be seen as well as stalactites and stalacmites and harvestmen and cave weta. At one stage, we clambered through narrow passageways and down cliff faces, my first experience of proper caving. Twigs and branches wedged in the roof showed how high the water can be in times of flood...

Finally, we began the arduous journey upstream, carrying our tubes and stumbling through river. When we emerged into daylight, we roped up and climbed a 20 metre rock face back to the surface - in our wellington boots! I was cold, wet and tired but exhilarated - our journey beneath the earth had been well worth a bit of discomfort!

The Far North

Northland was the first area of New Zealand to be settled - by both Maori and European explorers. It has an extensive history and significant spiritual relevance as well as being a favourite holiday spot for locals. It seemed appropriate that our visit to this region would come at the start of our tour and so provide some sort of introduction for our journey through the rest of the country.

The Treaty of Waitangi created the nation of New Zealand when it was signed in 1840 by Maori chiefs and representatives of the British sovereign. It remains a bone of contention amongst Maori and Pakeha alike and seemingly the cause of nearly all current and past land disputes. The house where the agreement was reached has been preserved and was gifted to the nation in 1932 by the then Governor General.

In 1840, the house was occupied by the first "British Resident to New Zealand" who played a significant role in negotiating the treaty. The house was small (just two rooms originally) but comfortable though the gun battles which raged around it must have made life very difficult for the first inhabitants.

The Treaty Grounds were also the focus for the centenary celebrations which involved the building of a traditional Maori meeting house and a huge war canoe. Many of the trees around the Treaty House were planted by British aristocrats to mark the anniversary. The colonial-centric Waitangi Day celebrations have angered Maoris ever since.

Across the bay from Waitangi lies an island which was one of New Zealand's first European settlements. Russell has come a very long way from its days as "the Hellhole of the Pacific" when it was a lawless and bawdy port frequented by whalers. There are a number of elegant white timber buildings dating back to colonial times including the nation's oldest church (which is pitted with musket ball holes) and pub (which burnt down twice). We enjoyed a drink or two on the sunny verandah, looking out across the Bay, counting the sails.

Kerikeri, in the Bay of Islands, is home to New Zealand's oldest wooden and stone buildings. The wooden Kemp House was built by one of the first missionaries, James Kemp, in 1821 and survived the decade's musket wars. It housed a Maori school in later years and was successful in converting a number of local chiefs to Christianity. Next door, the Stone Store dates back to 1832 and was used to supply the mission's settlements in the area before being sold on as a shop. It is a big square building, sturdy enough to withstand both military attacks and floods.

The area's potential, with its river providing food and transport links, was obvious to both Maori and Pakeha settlers and Kerikeri is also significant as the site of an ancient Maori pa (fortified village). The foundations of the village are still clearly visible and the reconstruction of a kainga (unfortified village) on the opposite river bank gives some clues as to the buildings which would have made up the settlement.

As well as being home to Maori tribes and missionaries, Northland welcomed Dalmatian immigrants from 1885 onwards. The Dalmatians primarily earned a living from gum-digging - extracting gum from the roots of ancient kauri trees. On our travels, we visited a park which had been excavated by an enthusiastic local farmer to reveal the deep pits originally dug to reach the precious kauri gum, which is similar to amber. The gumdiggers' village had been recreated to illustrate the hardship which the residents endured whilst sending much of their income home, to the dismay of local European settlers.

We finally found a living kauri tree close to Warkworth. There are few giant kauris which survived European logging - the tall, straight trees with no branches below the crown, were ideal for ships' masts and building. The magnificent McKinney Kauri is over 800 years old and has a girth of 7.62 m. Far too big to hug. The first branch is at 11.89 metres. Far too tall to climb.

Trees still have an important role to play in Northland and the logging industry thrives. Logging trucks, stacked high with pine logs, thundered down the road as we travelled up State Highway 1 towards Cape Reinga. As well as providing valuable timber, the Aupouri Forest also protects the dunes which are the main feature of the landscape around Kaitaia.

At the very tip of Northland lies Cape Reinga, where the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean meet. The day we visited, the sea was calm and the watery meeting point barely discernible. It was easy to see though how the area would be hazardous to shipping and a much-photographed lighthouse takes pride of place on the point and is New Zealand's most northerly. The point is of spiritual significance to Maori who named the place "Te Rerenga Wairua" - literally the "Leaving Place of the Soul". Cape Reinga is believed to be the point at which the souls of Maori deceased leave Aotearoa (New Zealand) to embark on their journey to Hawaiiki, the mythical Polynesian homeland.

The tide was out as we left Tapotupotu Bay, a sheltered spot where we'd stopped for lunch. The coach was therefore able to turn off State Highway 1 on our return trip and down the Te Paki Stream. There was a quick stop for sand-tobogganning which was marginally less terrifying than the sand-boarding which had been on offer in Fiji. And then we hit the beach!

90 Mile Beach (actually closer to 90 kilometres long) is officially designated as a State Highway and as such is subject to all the usual rules of the road - including a 100 kph speed limit! It is, however, quite treacherous, with quicksand, fast tides and crazy drivers. We had an uneventful journey though, admiring the views, marvelling at how the Hole in the Rock had moved from the Bay of Islands to 90 Mile Beach and listening to our driver singing traditional Maori songs.