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.
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.
Winter whatnots - 27/6/09
Characters
Joe and Irene, imminent departure of the Devonian and the Canadian, so many a catch-up for hearty walks, brisk drinks and stiff meals. Anj the birthday girl, whose BYO dinner contributed to Emily's shame, along with Larry (and her Norwegians) and seemingly half of Ireland who live in Welly. Newtown parties with Suzy Mojito, Ben's work-blondes and dancing to Blondie (for Em) and the Smiths (for Rob) at Atomic. International Pot Luck at Sayaka's, the writer's hesitance at 'hanging' with a gaggle of teachers was destabilised by an abundance of delicious international scran. Film-making at the 48hour film festival (more teachers!), and seeing it on the big screen in Wellywood.
Dooner's Dream
A very strange dream in the cold room. A sizeable group (including Dray, GLE, Owe and Spudboy) had travelled to NZ for a visit. We ran into them in town, where their jetlag had manifested itself in the form of two black eyes each. Curious. Rundle was also in town with the marines, and along with Sven we all went to a gig. It was spectacular, particularly since the audience sat on a large revolving roundabout and the band played on a circular stage all around the audience. What could this all mean?
Things otherwise, a bit of work (woah!), and watching of the Lions once a week....what a second test! Organising the next and subseqent rounds of galavanting. House parties in Wellington usually involve costumes or stupid themes. Fortunately they have taken a back seat of late in favour of drinks and conversation type events. Including White Russians, and brunette Kiwis.
Joe and Irene, imminent departure of the Devonian and the Canadian, so many a catch-up for hearty walks, brisk drinks and stiff meals. Anj the birthday girl, whose BYO dinner contributed to Emily's shame, along with Larry (and her Norwegians) and seemingly half of Ireland who live in Welly. Newtown parties with Suzy Mojito, Ben's work-blondes and dancing to Blondie (for Em) and the Smiths (for Rob) at Atomic. International Pot Luck at Sayaka's, the writer's hesitance at 'hanging' with a gaggle of teachers was destabilised by an abundance of delicious international scran. Film-making at the 48hour film festival (more teachers!), and seeing it on the big screen in Wellywood.
Dooner's Dream
A very strange dream in the cold room. A sizeable group (including Dray, GLE, Owe and Spudboy) had travelled to NZ for a visit. We ran into them in town, where their jetlag had manifested itself in the form of two black eyes each. Curious. Rundle was also in town with the marines, and along with Sven we all went to a gig. It was spectacular, particularly since the audience sat on a large revolving roundabout and the band played on a circular stage all around the audience. What could this all mean?
Things otherwise, a bit of work (woah!), and watching of the Lions once a week....what a second test! Organising the next and subseqent rounds of galavanting. House parties in Wellington usually involve costumes or stupid themes. Fortunately they have taken a back seat of late in favour of drinks and conversation type events. Including White Russians, and brunette Kiwis.
Bones, thugs and harmonies - 23/6/09
Been a bit of a while what what, so a potential flurry, of tale if not excitement.
Firstly, the wrist.....is out of cast. This is good, although doesn't mean it is healed, more that I can be trusted. Answers on the reality of a complete heal will be in a postcard next week, following CT scan. Instead - a splint, and a ridiculously weak wrist after 12 weeks stationary. And the skin was delightful. Like old parmesan. All clean now mind.
Some of the spare time has been employed in writing, recording and producing some drinking songs, of which bootlegs are circulating (and reportedly being danced and cried to). Further time has been spent at wild parties with young people and loud music, watching rugby (les bleus, the ABs and the Lions), and being generally amused by Emily's anti-social pub culture. Emily had a drinking problem the other week, when she was asked to leave a Wellington Irish bar for pouring Emer a glass of her own wine brought in after a BYO meal. Disgraceful behaviour, and I naturally sided with the bouncer who was quite polite (and built like a brick shithouse, as is usual for local doormen). Oh the shame of it (she repeated).
Firstly, the wrist.....is out of cast. This is good, although doesn't mean it is healed, more that I can be trusted. Answers on the reality of a complete heal will be in a postcard next week, following CT scan. Instead - a splint, and a ridiculously weak wrist after 12 weeks stationary. And the skin was delightful. Like old parmesan. All clean now mind.
Some of the spare time has been employed in writing, recording and producing some drinking songs, of which bootlegs are circulating (and reportedly being danced and cried to). Further time has been spent at wild parties with young people and loud music, watching rugby (les bleus, the ABs and the Lions), and being generally amused by Emily's anti-social pub culture. Emily had a drinking problem the other week, when she was asked to leave a Wellington Irish bar for pouring Emer a glass of her own wine brought in after a BYO meal. Disgraceful behaviour, and I naturally sided with the bouncer who was quite polite (and built like a brick shithouse, as is usual for local doormen). Oh the shame of it (she repeated).
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