August 16th to 22nd - Swanky Suites > Savage Seas

They called it a ‘once in a lifetime’ event; we call it routine. Yes, there was snow falling in Wellington (and even a little in Auckland), yes these cities are at sea level and yes it was all more than a bit out of the ordinary but while we Canadians got over it in a matter of seconds, it clearly was a bigger deal to New Zealanders. My old housemate Elspeth would always laugh at how the kiwi news programs love to dwell on the most inconsequential happenings around the country and then proceed to repeat them ad nauseum as if doing so will increase their worthiness to air. Two fine examples being the penguin that washed up on the Kapiti Coast which was needlessly named ‘Happy Feet’ and the scandalous scandal concerning the price of the All Blacks jersey on the local market (which saw some die-hards burning Adidas flags in the streets). This just goes to confirm that life moves a bit slower down here and that even people as nuts for rugby as kiwis can only stomach so many reports on the upcoming World Cup. Anyway, back to my tale of whimsy and wonder. The last you heard from our intrepid hero he was stuck in Wellington by a certain weather phenomenon that had the country in an uproar. Streets were barricaded and shops closed for business meaning we were essentially stuck indoors while we waited for the seas to calm. Jaclyn knitted and I wrote joke tunes on the guitar and before we knew it two whole days had passed and we were still no closer to the South Island than before. We decided to make a push on the Wednesday morning even though we called the ferry company who could only offer us something vaguely resembling an answer in response to our inquiries about the safety of a Cook Strait crossing. We left our van waiting in the queue to stock up on supplies for the journey and my umbrella blew itself inside out. A little side note here; for those of you that don’t know, kiwis love their pies. I’m not talking about apple or blueberry or the kind you find cooling on the windowsill of Grandma’s house but those of the mini, on-the-go and filled with savoury filling variety. It would be sacrilegious for a corner store (or ‘dairy’ as they’re known colloquially) to not have a hot box of heated shelves full of little meat pies. I mention this because I, along with Jaclyn, have fallen in love with this particular convenience, especially the butter chicken ones. If ever you get a chance to experience some kiwiana, you’ll be directed to either the standard meat pies or the bacon and egg, but trust me, in this every changing multi-cultural society of ours, butter chicken pies are the wave of the future. So we have our pies and we have our ferry tickets and we’re sitting in the van waiting for the go ahead. The strange thing is…it doesn’t come. We get requested to wait inside the terminal before a judgement call can be made because on what one dock worker reports as ‘8 meter swells’. Now I’m no sea salt but even I know that an 8m wave must be bloody dangerous so, speaking as someone who gets seasick on a waterbed, I’m thrilled at the prospect of postponing the crossing for another day. After an hour delay we are herded onto the boat where we are made to wait another 4 hours. Luckily (or, as some, myself included, would say, unluckily) for us they were kind enough to screen free Disney movies so we passed the time watching such Lindsay Lohan gems as Herbie Fully Loaded. Don’t watch it, Herbie wins, Lohan kisses the love interest, it’s appalling. I think the bigwigs at Bluebridge Ferries eventually realize that it’s mostly freight workers on board so they decide to say ‘best of luck’ to the general public and we go and attempt the crossing. The next 4 hours can be summarized as me lying on a bench much too small for my large frame, sweating and cursing Poseidon and all other sea deities I can remember, passing in and out of some nauseated existence some might call consciousness. All the while the ship (and a mighty large one at that) is getting tossed around like a rag doll by waves the size of apartment buildings. The greatest achievement of the evening wasn’t that we made it across but that I don’t vomit all over the poop deck. After recuperating in the port town of Picton we set off on the Queen Charlotte track. Even if I hadn’t been subjected to the nightmare that was the Lake Waikeramoana Great Walk I still would’ve looked favorably enough on this walk to include it in the top 5 highlights of my trip. For many miles after passing the Cook Strait before reaching Picton, one finds themselves in the Marlborough Sounds. A sound being identical to a fjord except that it is not glacial in origin. These fingers of land extend out from the mainland in all directions, some breaking off into sizeable islands but all sharing in one awesome commonality; private, secluded and picturesque bays. There are so many individual bays in the sounds that people who have built holiday homes on their shores have been able to apply their family names to them. We were taken by water taxi to the start of the walk at a particular bay in what is known as Ship Cove and the driver pointed out ‘Smith Bay’ and ‘Johnson Bay’, named solely for the family smart enough to have built a house there first. The best part is, being as there are so many, there is no overcrowding and so there exists this fascinating little community interspersed around the Sounds that get their goods and mail by boat and can enjoy solitude while still having a keen sense of camaraderie with the like-minded fellows about the waterways. It only cost us an extra $10 or so per night to stay at proper lodges as opposed to Department of Conservation huts but we had no idea what to expect since we knew they were only accessible by water. Let’s just use the metaphor of my head exploding to describe the accommodation. I mean this in the best way possible. Our first stop was the anti-Shining; a 120 person remote lodge where we were the only guests and as such, were upgraded to a luxury suite. Whereas our first night on the Great Walk we came perilously close to hypothermia, this go round we came perilously close to relaxing ourselves to death. The suite had two couches, a semi stocked fridge, one of the fanciest beds I’ve ever slept in (complete with electric blankets) and a shower the size of my house back in Edmonton. We felt like such rich playboys that we indulged on a dinner of Blue Cod and pumpkin with an apple and rhubarb crumble for dessert which cost as much as the room itself! The common room even had a piano and since there was no one else there to be annoyed by our musical indulgences we indulged away until we could indulge no more. This trend of excellent accommodation continued; we were always the only ones there and we always had million dollar views. The walk had its share of beautiful views as well and I would go so far as giving it 10 out of 10 were it not for one incident. It was the last evening of the walk and we were relaxing on the couch, watching TV and eating dinner at the same time. I had just finished my main course and fancied a bit of the dessert I’d packed myself; a lovely tin of rice pudding. Seeing as we were the only ones there and being that I am a filthy male I saw no reason why I shouldn’t lick the excess sauce off the lid of the tin. In my state of uber-relaxation I somehow managed to slice a significant piece of my tongue off on the razor sharp lid. I ran to the bathroom and immediately applied pressure while pinching off the wound with many layers of toilet paper. As this was the end of my tongue I still had the ability to communicate somewhat and I tried to explain the situation to Jaclyn. Now they say that laughter is the best medicine but I’m inclined to disagree because when Jaclyn sat there laughing at me it wasn’t as if I suddenly got a spring in my step. She did inform me that the tongue heals the fastest out of all body parts so in saying so she put my mind at ease and did her part (I suppose). Within an hour it had stopped bleeding and I was back to eating my supremely average rice pudding. Those 4 days of walking flew by and we have now moved on to Blenheim aka wine country. As this is getting a bit on the long side I shall end it here for now and fill you in on our wine adventures another time. 1 week to go; that’s both liberating and terrifying.