New pad shaping up well, following remodelling and deep clean of the front deck and back yard, and initial testing with a (themeless) house drink up. The Devon St place is shared with the entertaining Dan and Ben, both holders of outstanding government jobs, keen sports participants and fans, and also purveyors of above average conversation. Key features of the place are a goat track entrance, hair-pin bend alternative entrance, rugby watching room, sea view (just) and yoghurt maker.
A further local feature is the close proximity to the Pacific ring of fire. This made its presence felt at 2am last Friday morning, with a window and bed rattling earthquake of 5.2R. More than enough to coax one from one's deep slumber, but fortunately we did not have to take cover in the doorways (just the duvets). Still, a good chance for an early morning house meeting.
Getting to know the new NZer housemates has been hunky dory / choice / sweet as, with blues nights, pre-work singalongs over porridge, driving lessons for Dan, water blasting, roast dinners and dancing in dry ice filled rooms.
May breaks silence over wine tasting debacle
So, as a debut to this blog I thought I would share in this tale… By now we are at our 5th wine tasting, yes a little tipsy but still managing to portray the image of people who aren’t completely ignorant when it comes to tasting wine. Reener pulls off a nice description including forest fruits, Ben checks out the price of a case and following tasting the whites on offer, Dooner declares to the room that the next wine is particularly clear. The wine aficionado does not even try to suppress her smile as she tells him he is drinking water, to cleanse the palate! A classic moment in our wine tasting day. This strangely occurred in the same tasting room where Joe a year or so earlier ask what the red grape in the rose was.
Alpine banter and old faces - 13/7/09
After a week of snow, scrabble, walks, runs and the gangster underworld of Christchurch, there was a faint glimmer of a stupid thought of upping the stakes and perhaps strapping ones wrist, and maybe getting some skis, and possibly taking it steady down a mountain run or two. Emily wasn't convinced. Fortunately a man named Jim arrived from Devon (via Sydney) and promoted the idea for some ski-field fun sufficiently.
In reality, not any more dangerous than the icy walking through avalanche zones, the ski boots fit, and it was somewhat (poor analogy) like riding a bike, despite being dressed like 'Goose' off of 'Top Gun'. Emily took like a (further poor analogy) duck to water, and soon the thrillseeker ditched the learner slopes for intermediate territory. The slopes weren't near as daunting as the drives in and out of Mt Hutt and Mt Dobson, with locals tales of cars careering off the mountain road. High gear, snow chains and keep up the speed we kept telling ourselves. And the Pulsar pulled through.
Beers and Bands with the Fran, Jim, Melbournians Meg and Nel, birthday present Claire and the ladies from Japan. Frances of Devon is keen for craft. And learning of the extended version of the bayeaux tapestry made from knitting machine parts worked up the Speights thirst in Geraldine. Up to the Burkes Pass is shrouded in heavy fog, but the pass serves as a boundary into a new world with snow covered plains leading to mountains and lakes, and the clearness of the light making gazing at the scenery disctinctly hazardous.
Typically touristy photos at Lake Tekapo precedes the famous Duncombe sausage hot-pot in the van. The unsealed road home conceals the 7.8 earthquake off Invercargill, which we should have felt. NZ is now a foot closer to Australia. The engine driven lifts and presence of only two other cars on arrival at Mt Dobson made for an charmed start on the mountain. Sunshine, snow and out of control children, with Emily on the intermediate slopes, and the rest of us tackling the natural halfpipe before back to Lake Tekapo for snowtubing and spa. Pretty fair day.
More people of note include the excellent New Zealander at Hampden fuel station, the annoying child of the year (so far) monopolising the jam night with a talentless racket, and the car rental lady with a skirt made of ties for letting us off of chipping the headlight with stone. Chur. Meals of note include a nice slab of Trumpeter in coriander, coconut and chilli courtesy of Fleur, and Jim's highly worthy van scran emporium. Choice.
In reality, not any more dangerous than the icy walking through avalanche zones, the ski boots fit, and it was somewhat (poor analogy) like riding a bike, despite being dressed like 'Goose' off of 'Top Gun'. Emily took like a (further poor analogy) duck to water, and soon the thrillseeker ditched the learner slopes for intermediate territory. The slopes weren't near as daunting as the drives in and out of Mt Hutt and Mt Dobson, with locals tales of cars careering off the mountain road. High gear, snow chains and keep up the speed we kept telling ourselves. And the Pulsar pulled through.
Beers and Bands with the Fran, Jim, Melbournians Meg and Nel, birthday present Claire and the ladies from Japan. Frances of Devon is keen for craft. And learning of the extended version of the bayeaux tapestry made from knitting machine parts worked up the Speights thirst in Geraldine. Up to the Burkes Pass is shrouded in heavy fog, but the pass serves as a boundary into a new world with snow covered plains leading to mountains and lakes, and the clearness of the light making gazing at the scenery disctinctly hazardous.
Typically touristy photos at Lake Tekapo precedes the famous Duncombe sausage hot-pot in the van. The unsealed road home conceals the 7.8 earthquake off Invercargill, which we should have felt. NZ is now a foot closer to Australia. The engine driven lifts and presence of only two other cars on arrival at Mt Dobson made for an charmed start on the mountain. Sunshine, snow and out of control children, with Emily on the intermediate slopes, and the rest of us tackling the natural halfpipe before back to Lake Tekapo for snowtubing and spa. Pretty fair day.
More people of note include the excellent New Zealander at Hampden fuel station, the annoying child of the year (so far) monopolising the jam night with a talentless racket, and the car rental lady with a skirt made of ties for letting us off of chipping the headlight with stone. Chur. Meals of note include a nice slab of Trumpeter in coriander, coconut and chilli courtesy of Fleur, and Jim's highly worthy van scran emporium. Choice.
Notes on the popular culture of Aotearoa - 23/8/09
The New Zealand love of rugby is world renowned, and at times seems all consuming. Not least when Emily (continuing to surprise in her embracing the local culture) commented during week 2 of the NPC rugby "their backs aren't running very good lines". And that is whilst the Living channel is readily available too!
Great enjoyment was brought by overhearing Craig David's "Seven Days". The joy in the knowledge that I had managed to distance myself from hearing or even thinking of the south coast crooner in a good six-months. The joy of realising that respite is possible, and that exposure to the discography of Robbie Williams is similarly avoidable. Unfortunately Crowded House and Ronan Keating are less well discouraged.
Themed parties. Never been to as many. Fake Tatts n Hats, Outrageous Fortune.....
Adverts for sheep drench. As an alternative to hours of high profile, celebrity tit/arse showing adverts aiming to extract my cash in return for an overpriced mascara / car / magazine / insurance company / bank, adverts for sheep drench (and similar) and Weet-bix are two-a-penny. Almost tempted to combine them.
The search for creative genius continues amongst NZ's vast array of derivative musical acts.
There is a light however, and a recent blues night (gold coin entry) raised the bar considerably.
Otago V Southland NPC rugby: "They've got numbers out wide.......unfortunately they're low numbers"
Great enjoyment was brought by overhearing Craig David's "Seven Days". The joy in the knowledge that I had managed to distance myself from hearing or even thinking of the south coast crooner in a good six-months. The joy of realising that respite is possible, and that exposure to the discography of Robbie Williams is similarly avoidable. Unfortunately Crowded House and Ronan Keating are less well discouraged.
Themed parties. Never been to as many. Fake Tatts n Hats, Outrageous Fortune.....
Adverts for sheep drench. As an alternative to hours of high profile, celebrity tit/arse showing adverts aiming to extract my cash in return for an overpriced mascara / car / magazine / insurance company / bank, adverts for sheep drench (and similar) and Weet-bix are two-a-penny. Almost tempted to combine them.
The search for creative genius continues amongst NZ's vast array of derivative musical acts.
There is a light however, and a recent blues night (gold coin entry) raised the bar considerably.
Otago V Southland NPC rugby: "They've got numbers out wide.......unfortunately they're low numbers"
More about dreams - 6/7/09
About time I rekindled my diary writing for assistance of future recollection. Recently remembering a vivid dream I once had, I flew (in the dream) to Canada and hiked across snow covered back-country for what seemed like several days (unlikely), without food (obviously unlikely). The landscape was pristine untouched apline loveliness, and like any good dream it probably included choice music, and a dozen of my favourite things.
The reason for my recalling this was the most recent school holidays (which I persuade current bean counting employers to let me take off) which were partially spent in pristine untouched alpine loveliness. Staying in a hut called for maximum cold weather resilience (38F on arrival), and some fetching merino long john sartorial elegance. A 20-30cm snow dump preceded a gruelling hike into Temple Basin to gaze at the snowboarding masses (ridiculously quiet NZ ski-fields!). I consider the hire options and risk of re-breaking the wrist. Emily glares.
Knee-high, arse-high then chest-high (the snow!), but well worth braving for a hike up the Bealey Valley riverbed, traipsing carefully in the avalanche areas. Punchbowl Falls for snow man (woman) making and Waimakereri river crossings burnt us out. Cajun, bluegrass, and marshmallows; cheese, wine and chocolate; curry, steak and scrabble helped build us back up.
Akaroa on the Banks peninsula makes for entirely more serene holiday making (sweet place). Which is alright for some. The itch got the writer though. A run to a rather high 600m and shin destroying canter down the other side to Le Bons Bay culminated in a half marathon, low sugar levels, and a well scratched itch.
It also provided Emily the chance to pit her wits against the volcanic local geography, eeeeeeeking her way around twisting, steep, edgeless, unsealed roads. With the runner back in the driving seat, a road to Port Levy looks inviting, soon turns unsealed and winds up to 600m (ice free of charge). It is relieving to find someone else using the road at the top. A pleasant old chap stopping for a flask of mild hot drink no doubt. He assures me the road down the other side is navigable before venturing in the opposite direction. The last thing I notice is his number plate - 'BOTHER'. We drive on sheepishly, fortunately with no bother at all.
The reason for my recalling this was the most recent school holidays (which I persuade current bean counting employers to let me take off) which were partially spent in pristine untouched alpine loveliness. Staying in a hut called for maximum cold weather resilience (38F on arrival), and some fetching merino long john sartorial elegance. A 20-30cm snow dump preceded a gruelling hike into Temple Basin to gaze at the snowboarding masses (ridiculously quiet NZ ski-fields!). I consider the hire options and risk of re-breaking the wrist. Emily glares.
Knee-high, arse-high then chest-high (the snow!), but well worth braving for a hike up the Bealey Valley riverbed, traipsing carefully in the avalanche areas. Punchbowl Falls for snow man (woman) making and Waimakereri river crossings burnt us out. Cajun, bluegrass, and marshmallows; cheese, wine and chocolate; curry, steak and scrabble helped build us back up.
Akaroa on the Banks peninsula makes for entirely more serene holiday making (sweet place). Which is alright for some. The itch got the writer though. A run to a rather high 600m and shin destroying canter down the other side to Le Bons Bay culminated in a half marathon, low sugar levels, and a well scratched itch.
It also provided Emily the chance to pit her wits against the volcanic local geography, eeeeeeeking her way around twisting, steep, edgeless, unsealed roads. With the runner back in the driving seat, a road to Port Levy looks inviting, soon turns unsealed and winds up to 600m (ice free of charge). It is relieving to find someone else using the road at the top. A pleasant old chap stopping for a flask of mild hot drink no doubt. He assures me the road down the other side is navigable before venturing in the opposite direction. The last thing I notice is his number plate - 'BOTHER'. We drive on sheepishly, fortunately with no bother at all.
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