Around The World In 80 Waves

Having travelled the length of Arthur’s Pass there was still plenty of the Southern Alps left  to cross.

Pushing on I was delighted to stumble across Lake Pearson, which is as good a title for any lake that I can think of. I had to stop to enjoy the view and see what wildlife I could spot. 

The lake itself is hourglass shaped and in all honesty if somebody were to name a lake after me (unlikely) I would want it to be one somewhere as beautiful as this.

There wasn’t a breath of wind on the day I was there and the view was amazing.

I couldn’t resist stopping once more at the top of the next hill to look back at it.

You have to say it is in quite a pretty spot.

Well done to the Pearson concerned, for whatever your achievements were to merit such an honour.

I’m not going any further south on this trip so I head eastwards towards Christchurch, which entails crossing the Southern Alps. The van and I are climbing steep hills almost as soon as we leave the coast.

The route through the mountains I am taking is known as Arthur’s Pass and the scenery is simply epic. 

Using this road you can access many of New Zealand’s ski ranges.

Stopping for my first ever ski in the southern hemisphere would be very tempting but time is against me and I need to push on.

It seems that around every turn in the road the mountains are even more majestic that the last ones. 

It had to take a picture whilst travelling the length of this particular valley. After all I am in New Zealand, which is known as the land of the long white cloud to the local Maoris, and this cloud must have been five miles long.

It was hard driving and only a few days previously the entire area had been covered in snow. The campervan hire company had even equipped me with snow chains to traverse this road, but I was grateful not to need them.

The route across the island takes several hours but I loved it and once more am reminded of the rugged beauty of back home in North Wales.

The mountains here are are very similar to those in Snowdonia back at home, and were used as the location for Mordor in the recent Peter Jackson Lord of the Rings trilogy.

I’m a bit gutted not to be heading any further south. Apart from missing out on seeing the action sports favourite of Queenstown which is where bungy jumping was invented, I also miss out on seeing the beautiful Milford Sound that you see here.

I was also looking forward to getting down to Invercargill, which is the southern most city in the world. I was keen to do some exploring there and in particular look into the exploits of  Herbert James “Burt” Munro.

Burt Munro was New Zealand motorcycle racer, famous for setting an under-1,000 cc world record, at Bonneville in 1967 that still stands today.

In itself you might think that too extraordinary but Burt was 68 at the time and riding the 47-year-old machine you see here!

He had worked in his garden shed for years to highly modify a 1920 Indian motorcycle that he had bought in the year it was made.

Having already set several New Zealand speed records when most people would be settling into their retirement he travelled to compete at the Bonneville Salt Flats, and during his ten visits to the salt flats he set three world records.

The World’s Fastest Indian starring Anthony Hopkins is quite a charming film which tells his tale and is certainly worth checking out.

I can’t go surfing so decide to treat myself to a fry up as small compensation. I had scored all the supplies the previous evening and was looking forward to a royal feast.

I’m not getting many breaks at the moment though and the gas bottle in my campervan runs out of gas before the sausages have even got the slightest bit brown. Heartbreaking.

This then leaves me running around the campsite with a frying pan full of hot (but quickly cooling) oil and assorted fry up loveliness.

It costs me a rasher of bacon but one of the other vans is willing to let me finish my breakfast on their stove.

Once more all is well with the world.

I’m on the road again soon after my hearty feast and heading south in search of the road towards Arthur’s Pass.

Almost straight away I have to take my huge van through this bridge, which reminds me of something out of a Kubrick film. It was a snug fit and I’m not sure photography was in the best interest of my van whilst crossing, but we made it intact.

After the sun goes down I drive down the coast road in the darkness towards Greymouth. I had originally thought I would reach that point by lunchtime today, but in fact don’t get there until about 8pm.

It is quite clear the Romans never conquered this part of the world because the roads seem to follow every twist, turn and undulation in the geography and at times progress can be painfully slow. 

There was supposed to be some sort of coastal blow-hole to my right as I drove south, but it was pitch black and I just wanted to settle in for the night so pressed on until I got to Greymouth.

Mining and whaling were responsible for the growth of the town and there were a few museums to educate anybody interested in such things, but I was shattered and couldn’t wait to get to the camp site alongside the beach. 

After setting up the van for the evening I turned in fairly quickly. I assumed the waves I then heard all night were as bad as the ones I had seen at Tauranga Bay just up the coast so didn’t have much hope of a surf in the morning. However I was pleasantly surprised to see this when I went for my surf check in the morning.

My time on South Island is really limited though and because I was without a board it made more sense to push on rather than spend half a day trying to lay my hands on one. Due to the distances involved and the limited progress that the roads allow it is also prudent not to push on any further south, instead crossing the island via Arthur’s Pass towards Christchurch.

Apart from the obvious candidate pictured here I have been amazed at how many funky birds there are here in New Zealand. (The Kiwi itself is somewhat elusive due to being nocturnal.)

In particular I have been stunned by how many birds of prey I am seeing everywhere over both islands.

This handsome bird is an Australasian Harrier and it seems like I barely go a mile without seeing one of them casting a hungry eye over the ground beneath them.

There are plenty of opportunities for seeing them disappearing with a kill too.

There are also loads of New Zealand Falcons too.

You cant help being impressed by them each time you see them soaring above you in the sky.

West of Newport is Cape Foulwind, which was named by Captain Cook who certainly got about a bit – there was a bay named after him in Tahiti too. It was so named because he had so much bother getting his sail boat close to shore due to the unfavourable weather.

Just south of the Cape is Tauranga Bay which is one of the more famous breaks in New Zealand, so it was somewhere I was keen to check out. However when I got there it was completely blown out.

If I had been in possession of a board of my own I might have paddled out to bag the break, but to hire one and join the few intrepid souls who were already in the water would just have been a waste of money because it was little better than a mess of white water.

Instead I headed back to the Cape to check out the seal colony there.

On the tip of the cape was this lovely sign to inform me I was over 16,000 kilometres away from the UK.

I stuck around there to watch the sun go down but was having trouble spotting any seals. Once it was getting dark I headed back to the van but took note of another opportunity for me to get close to some seals later on my travels that one of the locals had shared with me while I was there.

The van I have been equipped with is quickly appearing to be the runt of the litter.

Apart from the lack of a bed in a campervan when I was given the vehicle, I haven’t got the TV to work once regardless of where I try to tune it in, the microwave is not working properly and the electric cable only seems to connect the van to the mains when left lying at 67 degree angle relative to a 256 degree tilt of the van itself, whilst facing into a 35 mph wind!

I filled the fridge back in Raglan but the first load of contents all flew out like depth charges landing on the floor of the campervan when I went around a pretty tame corner back on North Island resulting the sort of floor omelette that nobody would want to eat.

At first I though I hadn’t shut it properly but it turns out the catch for the fridge door is broken and I end up having to wedge the door shut with one of my big bags put length ways across the middle of the galley kitchen. I would have repaired it with gaff tape straight away but it had been confiscated by my airline back in Panama, and my bodge only works until the bag moves due to any significant change in the vehicles inclination.

It is easy enough to source gaff tape here though and I re arm myself with some, which I use straight away to fashion a tape ‘handle’  that I can open and close, then seal the door with. It is all a bit A-Team but it works. 

Sadly it isn’t the only time I need the tape on the van, but I only discover that one of the other cupboard locks is also faulty once the entire contents of the crockery cupboard have slid to one side and forced the cupboard open as I turn a corner in the mountains, only to then fall to their demise on the floor of the van.

Every single item had been obliterated and I couldn’t have done a better job if I had smashed the lot with a bat. The aggravation of having to meticulously clean everything in the van once more because a wet surfer’s bare feet do not mix especially well with broken glass is the last thing I needed. I was shattered before arriving in New Zealand and didn’t have much energy to spare by this time.

Further lost time limits my exploring here, and I have had enough. None of it is the fault of the poor sod from the campervan company who answers the phone but he gets both barrels from me before I waste more time looking for a crockery shop. Not happy!

After leaving the pub in Picton I spent the night in the car park of the monument to the Wairau Affray in 1843, which sounds as though it was only a little worse that your average Saturday night in Cardiff.

However there is not a great deal of written history for the islands of New Zealand so it gets a mention in all the guide books, its own plaque and based on what I have seen elsewhere here it is surprising it doesn’t have a museum to celebrate it.

After a few pictures of the stunning scenery and a quick coffee prepared on the stove and I am on my way to see how far down the west coast I can make it today. I start along the coast road towards Nelson. (So many of the towns and cities here are named after heroes of Victorian Great Britain.)

Everywhere you look the scenery is breath taking and it actually reminds me so much of North Wales. The flora may be different but the texture and colours remind me so much of home even if things are much bigger in scale here on the South Island.

I am driving for most of the day soaking in all the amazing scenery crossing forests, fjords, rivers and mountain ranges.

There are so many twists and turns in the roads, so you can tell that the Romans never made it out this way.

It does mean however that progress across the island is pretty slow.

How could you mind though when everywhere you drive through looks like this though?

I wouldn’t mind having a motorbike to play with on these winding roads.

After what I paid for the campervan on the ferry that will just have to wait for another adventure here. 

Having driven to Wellington I make a short pit stop on the waterfront there to look around, before heading for the Interislander Car Ferry. I drive up to the terminal building and ask for a ticket for myself and the van which is expensive enough at $230, but am them horrified when I am asked to pay 50% more just as I am boarding.

I am told it is because my van is so big, but am feeling more than a bit aggrieved because the original lady saw the vehicle and told me what it would cost. Every time of late that I use somebody else’s transport I seem to be getting shafted right at the last minute when it is too late for me to do anything about it, but the perfect timing to pisas me off right through the voyage.

I don’t find this latest experience any more appetising than any of the recent financial rapings I have had to endure from airline companies as I cross Cook Strait.

It like many other places I have visited on this trip are named after or by Captain Cook. There was a bay named after him in Tahiti too!

I get my first experience of the passion of the locals for rugby on the boat because the first of the three test matches against France is being shown on board.

It seems that all the passengers are in the bar for the game, second guessing the referee’s parentage and cheering every point scored by the victorious All Blacks.

Watching the game at night means I can’t see the beautiful Marlborough sound which the boat travelled through on its way to Picton, but I got this picture of the harbour the following day to give you a flavour.

The Lions game is on afterwards in the pubs in town and after a few beers talking to rugby fans I am finally feeling like I am part of this Lions tour even if I have not quite made it to Australia yet.